[Dalemain] And In My Blood and Home It Triggers Itself In My Thoughts (Nath)

It had been several weeks since Farren had met the young Slytherin who fancied herself a political radical in Hogsmeade. The meeting had gone quite differently than she’d planned or expected. A moronic fan letter regarding a fake and who had fake died had set off a whole scenario Farren had neither expected nor handled well. In retrospect she thought she should have shut the girl down, squashed her into the ground on the spot. Instead she’d made a charity project out of her.

Since then she’d spent a great deal of time thinking about what she intended or wanted to do with the girl. The child was stupidly passionate about blood politics, a topic which was as taboo as was possible these days. One that wasn’t lost on those that once championed it, but instead was pushed from the forefront of their minds. Someone like Nat, while most likely harmless, could draw unneeded attention to them all. Ren was not exactly well connected with the remaining living Death Eaters. Of course she was close to the Malfoy family, the Nott family, and others she’d attended school with or grew up with but they were all so committed to not going to jail, like herself, the idea of organizing into any kind of resistance was inconceivable.

Worried about their own survival the well to do, once politically dominant families of old were reduced to mere  fledgling financial tycoons teetering on the edges of authority when they’d once commanded it so easily. Protecting their assets and lives were the only things on their minds these days. Farren had made an appeal to other young heirs like herself and though nothing was formal or finalized she felt they were all working towards an understanding of mutual protection, support, and allegiance in the face of the new government and economy hell bent on destroying them.

Though her creamy flesh was clear of any Dark Mark and though she’d never killed in the name of The Cause it was the war and the aftermath of that had made Farren a woman. She was no economist or political scientist but she was a survivor. She was cunning and sharp witted and she knew how to protect herself as well as any veteran living still today. The last four years had taken her from a naive Hogwarts student and socialite to the top of a crumbling society and to the deepest depths of human struggle.

Young and foolish the girl Nathalie wanted to meet a warrior for The Cause that didn’t exist. She idolized a man who was a work of fiction and fetishized a movement that was dead in the water. The young Slytherin wanted to be a part of an anarchy that had died with Albus Dumbledore those years ago. It was a waste of flesh to let her wander around the world saying idiotic things and committing atrocities in the name of The Cause when The Cause was in no way shape or form what she thought it was.

Farren supposed if she left her be the girl would become just another lost pureblood toiling aimlessly in the Dark Arts thinking she’s going to have her talents recognized and snatched up for the second, or maybe third coming of some Pureblood movement. It was naive and truly stupid but Farren had her own hare brained ideas at that age, though they hurt only herself.

The new way to power was a softer one. Like ivy overtaking an old palace in the hills of England she knew so well. Creeping slowly, one tendril at a time up the walls, through the cracks, and window seams. Slowly encroaching on a fortress one whisp of green at a time until the next time you saw the place it was covered in a thick carpet of plush, twisting ivy. The new path to power was the road less taken by blood and cultural purists. Subtle take over by slowly encroaching on the weakest points in the establishment, building up slowly to encroach inch by inch until everything was touched by their hand.

Farren wasn’t quite sure yet what to do with the young extremist but she felt, it was her job to keep her moving in a direction that was more useful than not. Education was critical and perhaps there were others like this girl that the child knew. Maybe there was a small army of radicalized kids thinking there was another war to fight. She was no teacher nor politician but she knew they’d be best utilized in the halls of influential places than a battle field or dark alley.

Ten days prior to the start of Hogwarts spring holiday an owl had arrived in the morning post for one N. W. - Slytherin House. The heavy white paper was embossed with a family crest at the top of the page. At the bottom of the page, directly under the crest, were the embossed initials of the sender, “ F V A”. In the middle of the page in elegant, small calligraphy was the command:

Thursday, April 7
10AM
Floo Network Address: The Gatehouse at Dalemain

Farren had provided the student no details or clues as to what would be occurring on April the 7th. However if the girl had done the homework Farren gave her she’d be aware she’d been invited to the much fabled Abercrombie ancestral home and estate in Cumbria, Dalemain. The heiress had debated where to see the young girl next and had ultimately decided she was too lazy to bother meeting the girl somewhere so the brat would have the honor of coming to Dalemain. It would serve as another lesson in the child’s own insignificance.

Like all guests she’d arrive at the Gatehouse, a small fortification in the hills about two miles from the estate house. Dalemain was one of the first places heavily enchanted against apparition. Only those of Abercrombie blood or carrying a special family token could aparate in and out of the estate. Anyone else had to either arrive by Portkey or arrive at the Gatehouse and ride up to the house in a carriage or by other means. The only exceptions to this enchantment over the family’s home and immediate surrounding acreage had been people of true note. Nat would be brought through the grassy hills down to the house in the valley via carriage upon her arrival. The trip would provide her plenty of stunning views and about half an hour to think of how she should conduct herself and where she was.

The student would be whisked through the hills to the stately home nestled in a valley that sloped toward the beautiful lake below. Built over centuries as the infamous Abercrombie clan had grown and changed the main exterior of the house was constructed in the mid 1700s, an updated Georgian exterior and makeover to cover the original constructions from as early as 14th century and unify the multigenerational structures into one sprawling building of three wings and fourth detached building in the back. The scenery seemed fitting of the owner. More a country respite for a renegade on the run needed safety, beauty, and an element of the wild. The estate and it’s miles of land around it, including the lake, certainly made a grand impression from any viewpoint.

Guests were carefully monitored on the property. They all entered through the main entrance hall. Heavily latched wood doors pulled open into a grand multi-story foyer. Spectacular grey marble twin stair cases led from the second floor into the space that was lit from a high by a chandelier the size of a small horse and a massive window above the door. From the second floor wall directly across the from the door the four Abercrombie’s surveyed those that entered their storied home. The painting was obviously a few years old now but no amount of time could make the brood less striking. Decked in traditional finery, befit of kings and queens of old Spencer with his white hair and beard sat in a low, gilded chair; directly behind him stood Farren’s late mother. A tall wispy woman with a mess of dark voluminous hair and some great sadness in her dark eyes. To Grandfather’s right and the right of Victoria was Farren’s father, tall, hulking in his traditional finery he was stoic looking with his mousy coloring and a stony gaze. Farren, younger and softer than she was now was on the left. Standing just shy of her mother in height she had her father’s eyes and her mother’s dark hair and powerful stance. They all seemed to bear Farren’s signature look of bored indifference.

As startling as it was the portrait was not the most striking part of the space.  Under the chandelier was an elegant round white marble top table. A wreath of white flowers encircled the base of a glass dome. Under the glass dome, suspended in air, floating motionless were two things that were at once both alarming and somehow  perfectly placed here in their case. A delicate wand of nearly black wood with a silver handle, similar to Farren’s own, comprised of delicate silver vines and snakes balanced in the air next to a delicate Death Eater’s mask comprised of similar designs. The shrine had been erected shortly after the items’ owner had died on the floor beside the table. It was supposed to be temporary but two years later it was still there and no one had mentioned moving it. Not far from the table, another marker of the items’ owner had been laid out.

The grey marble of the floor was interrupted in one spot, a square of the floor had been replaced with a piece of black stone, the black stone was carved, elegant flowers and vines, a snake twisting through them, and a name in small letters, ‘Victoria’. The stone marked the spot where Farren’s mother had died the night of the siege on Hogwarts. The black stone laid into the floor where her blood had stained the original grey stone.

As stunning as it was the foyer was a very personal glimpse into the most recent tragedy to befall the family. The secretive family had delayed the news of Victoria’s death, publicly claiming she’d died in October, months after Hogwarts, of complications with her well documented mental illness. Anyone with a deeper knowledge of the family knew though that she’d died here in the foyer of her own home, rescued from the woods around Hogwarts by her husband who carried her unconscious body back to their home where she died in the arms of her husband and child. The home was so rarely open to anyone of the public they felt no need to hide the tragic incident most of the time. The Butler, head of the house staff, had offered to remove the table and the items in preparation for Nathalie’s visit but Farren had demanded they stay out. Another valuable lesson for the idiot girl.

Farren had planned to receive the girl in one of the large, formal parlors at the front of the house. Nathalie would be escorted up the stairs, past the family portrait, and into the first room. A spacious room with several large windows over looking the rolling landscape the space was handsomely appointed with a massive fireplace and traditional furnishings. Elegant rugs covered the wood floors and portraits of notable Abercrombie’s lined the walls from the chair rail to the picture molding. Unlike the entrance hall the room was devoid of anything remotely personal. Clearly it was a room reserved only for guests that were not close to the family.

Farren made her way to the parlor shortly before 10:30 where she would wait to receive her guest. Behind her was a small army of elves carrying item’s she’d prepared for the day if things went as she’d hoped. The first elf, her personal elf carried a large leather bound book that seemed to be bursting at the seams with newspaper clippings glued to it’s pages. The second elf was carrying a small stack of books. The third elf was carrying two large dress boxes. Marching into the room single file the elves set their items carefully on a table in the back between two of the windows and then quickly disappeared leaving their mistress alone in the room.

She took a glance around the room to inspect it though she knew it’d be perfectly fine. No one ever used this room. Farren in fact couldn’t remember the last time someone had not been received in the family’s personal rooms but the place was kept in top shape in the event it was needed. As she was home Farren had dressed considerably differently than the first time Nathalie had met her. Though her loose, gently wavy hair and simple dress seemed to give the air of easiness the traditional cut and Farren’s harsh features were enough to make her as daunting a figure as when she were cloaked in head to toe black. The simple dress was topped with an elegant Edwardian pearl and diamond bib choker and matching earrings, which to anyone else would be formal, but not Ren.

Glancing at a clock on the mantle she realized she had a few moments to spare before Nathalie’s arrival and she walked to the table where the elves had laid out the items. Gently she opened the worn leather cover of the book of newspaper clippings. It was packed to the seams with articles from various newspapers of both English and French language, their odd shaped articles sometimes folded to fit onto the page it was glued to, corners of article sticking out. Farren sighed heavily as she unfolded the news clipping on a random page. A moving black and white picture stared up at her, a young woman, thin, dark hair, blue eyes dressed in draping robes stared up at her. The headline screamed above the photo, “ABERCROMBIE JAILED FOR MURDER OF MUGGLE DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER AND HOUSE OF LORDS MEMBERS” Farren’s Grandmother and namesake, Farrah Eugenia Cora Black Abercrombie stared back at her from her newly appointed Azkaban cell of 1976. On the opposite page a photo of the same woman dressed in fine traditional robes smirking as she walked past the camera graced the page with the title above it, “ABERCROMBIE APPEAL GRANTED, ERRONEOUS MURDER CHARGES DROPPED, PROMUGGLE SUPPORTERS OUTRAGED”  Smirking to herself Farren closed the book as there was a sound of foot steps in the hallway. It would appear that the ignorant little fool had arrived to begin her lesson.

The carriage trundled slowly along the stony path; the narrow wooden wheels juddering against each and every uneven fissure in the ground. The leaf spring suspension provided scant relief to the figure that sat within, gazing out at the sloping meadows that swamped the lone carriage. Nathalie Wilkins peeked out from within the gloom of the little horse-driven vehicle, watching the springtime infused foliage as it passed by her window. At the front, a beautiful black horse provided the power; clip-clopping its way along, wearing an ornate black leather harness with silver ornaments; between horse and black-panelled carriage sat the coachman, himself dressed in a morning coat and top hat, carefully urging the animal along the trail.

As the vehicle descended yet another gentle slope, the breathtaking aspect of the Abercrombie ancestral home was revealed to Nathalie in all it's glory; a beautiful if somewhat severe seventeenth century mansion with a classical exterior. The sheer vastness of the home was astonishing to the blonde; countless windows littered it’s facade, reflecting brightly in the sunlight. She shifted forward in her seat and pressed closer to the window pane to take it all in; Nathalie was amazed that one family could own such an apparently boundless estate; the huge extra wings that stood proudly beside the central building made Nathalie wonder if it’s footprint was anything close to that of Hogwarts castle itself.

Nathalie thought back to the previous week, when on a bright Tuesday morning an elegant letter had been dive-bombed into her breakfast cereal by her friendly owl. Scowling, and ignoring the sniggers from her classmates who had apparently better trained birds to deliver their mail, she had wiped the milk off of the corner of the envelope with her napkin, expecting one of the psalms she frequently received from her mother, when the familiar elegant handwriting and ornate seal on the heavy dispatch registered with her. The blonde froze, staring at the letter. Glancing separately towards Conall and Basil, and ensuring they had returned to their conversation, Nathalie swiftly pocketed the mail within her school robes and pretended to go back to the hysterical headlines of The Daily Prophet. But her eyes glazed over as the text bled into a grey blur in front of her; she was unable to process any of it. Farren had made good on her word. And Nathalie suddenly lost her appetite.

Nathalie had attended her classes as usual that day, but her attention was as far away as it could be. The letter burned in the pocket of her robes. Finally, after dinner, she made excuses to her classmates about wanting to study alone in the library. There, in the same dark corner where she and Finn had had their little run-in, the Slytherin had sat in the obscurity and finally opened the letter.

So she was to visit Farren at Dalemain. The elegant witch had selected the following weekend, cleverly ensuring that it collided with the Easter break. Nathalie had originally been planning to spend it with her mother, but this meant a most necessary change to her plans.

However, the idea of sharing some time alone with Farren Abercrombie caused no small amount of terror to build in the pit of the blonde's stomach. Their interaction in Hogsmeade had disturbed the Slytherin. She had reached out for a reassuring hand in the darkness of modernity, but it had certainly not been accepted; at least not in the way she had envisaged. Rather she had been curtly rejected, shamed for her carelessness, and then informed of her unsuitability for any sort of pureblood wining and dining.

And as if that was what she had wanted. As if twirling around in a haute couture dress with an appropriately matched set of earrings was her goal. But, times had changed, hadn't they? That appeared to be Farren's point; well, what the blonde could make of it anyway - all that pureblood society could hope for now was to stabilise and protect itself from the insidious infection of the outsiders. Nathalie’s belief in a forceable solution to this (and as an extension; the belief of those who had fought on their side during the conflict) appeared not to be on the cards that Farren held.

So this would be her entry-point. She would go, despite her distaste for all the shallow embroidery of upper class pureblood life. Her own social position meant that it was highly unlikely she would ever experience a palace like the one she would attend, or wear the wonderful dresses like those that draped the figure of Farren; but she would need to find her place, her step on this hierarchy. And from this stratum, she would contribute. Or at the very least, observe the status-quo; which was until now hidden from her view by the veil of class.

—————

Nathalie had followed the instructions given to her by the elegant witch, to the letter. The four books provided by the Abercrombie heir had been ruthlessly digested in every moment of free time the student had had. She read them cover to cover, frequently sneaking out of her dormitory after midnight to sit alone by candlelight in the common room, scouring the old texts for their supposed wisdom.

Composition of a Lady was an archaic compendium from ages past, relating to the behaviour of females in polite wizarding society. Nathalie read it with her eyebrow near permanently cocked; to describe it as old-fashioned would not be doing it justice. Still, Nathalie devoured it, as requested. The Art of Magical Conversation was a tough one for the student to get through. The book described the importance of one having the ability to communicate eloquently and fluently with all strata of Wizarding society, and was filled with priceless nuggets of knowledge such as “Do not boast about your fluency with spells that induce nausea over afternoon tea, it is unseemly” and “If you really must deliver a curse in public, ensure that you use an Alveolar trill as much as possible”. A Lady Hosts was a book Nathalie had dreaded, seeing as it concerned the best way to host a magical dinner party; however she was pleased to discover that it was rather witty and well written; apart from the mudblood-friendly tone that seemed to hide in certain chapters, as Farren had forewarned. And once again, the blonde had made an attempt at A History of Magic’s Leading Families; this time managing to get to the final page. Perhaps it was the few extra years she had now clocked up, but this time she very nearly found the book interesting.

Pureblood Politics and History was found in Hogwart’s library easily enough; although the copy Nathalie borrowed had last been taken out in 1978. The book was interesting if somewhat academic, but several nuances relating to the bloodist movement were revealed to her for the first time. The final book in Farren’s list, The Origin of the Pureblood Doctrine, was quite the challenge for the student to procure. A detailed search of the library revealed nothing. Nathalie then asked Madam Pince; who had raised an eyebrow quizzically at the Slytherin before consulting her cabinet of index cards, and informing her that the book was in the restricted section, but was presently “unavailable for loan”. Nathalie asked if she could see it temporarily, on the fabricated premise that it was “required for a History of Magic project”; but she was still refused. The book apparently was considered off-limits to the student body nowadays.

Thankfully there was always a gullible boy to take advantage of. Some eyelash fluttering and play-acted idiocy later, and a sixth year Ravenclaw with a signed permission slip for the restricted section had agreed to sneak the book out for the Slytherin during his own foray into that heavily policed area. Nathalie had read the little tattered brown booklet in less than one day, and her unwitting accomplice had then returned it to it’s rightful place amongst the dusty shelves in the off-bounds section. The boy was bitterly disappointed when Nathalie ignored his further clumsy advances.

And before she considered herself completely prepared (could she ever be completely prepared for Farren?), the Thursday in question arrived.

Nathalie had dressed and breakfasted early, before packing a small case with several belongings. Farren had not stated the duration of her meeting at Dalemain, and so Nathalie pre-emptively filled a small case with some items, should an overnight stay be required.

The blonde made her way to Hogsmeade to begin her journey; dressed in a fitted black blouse, a narrow black skirt that fell to her knees, and some light grey robes. Her blonde hair was tied up severely at the rear of her head, If she had looked like she was attending an interview at Gringotts for their first meeting, she now looked like she was attending an interview at a nunnery.

—————

The carriage approached the front of the mansion, before slowing to a gentle halt. In the silence, the horse neighed and jostled under it's harness. The coachman descended from his perch, and swiftly opened the small wooden door, kicking down the little iron step from it's folded position against the running board of the carriage. Nathalie descended somewhat inelegantly; unfortunately there had been no instructions in Farren's little research library regarding the proper egress from a horse-drawn carriage, although Nathalie was sure Farren had mastered that skill herself over the years. The coachman, who Nathalie could see now was a short old man with a kindly face, smiled at the Slytherin before gesturing towards the wide steps that swept up to the heavy brown wooden double doors that marked the entrance way. He then spun on his heel, and busied himself with removing Nathalie's small piece of luggage from the rear of the carriage. The morning sunlight flooded the driveway with a near-white light; the alabaster facade and pristine Georgian windows upon the exterior of the home contrasting wildly with the intense green of the sweeping hills beyond. The fragrant and floral scents of springtime filled Nathalie's nostrils as she ascended the steps. The huge door on the right side opened before she reached the top, creaking upon it’s oversized brass hinges (polished to within an inch of their life), and a tall, thin man with slicked back grey hair and wearing a black morning coat and bow tie stood there; his severe face lined with deep creases.

"Welcome to Dalemain, Miss Wilkins. Please come inside.” His voice was sharp and metallic, like a fine blade blunting itself along a piece of cast iron. He did not smile as he spoke to the blonde. Nathalie presumed that he was the most senior butler. So that's what you look like when you spend a few years working for Farren, she thought to herself as she stepped through the threshold.

The entrance hall was perhaps bigger than her family home. Nathalie stood; rooted to the spot; dumbfounded as her retinas registered the sheer opulence before her; her jaw dropping as if in slow motion, her head lolling backwards as she took in the height of the room; the vastness of the bleached white ceilings with their ornate Stucco; the sheer volume of unused space. The chandelier that hung above her glittered unnaturally, like something from a children's fairy tale - it could not be real, it must have been enchanted to scintillate as it did above them. She did not notice the door being closed, nor the words of the butler as he spoke to her again. His second, slightly more abrupt attempt awoke the girl from her spell.

"Your robes, Madam." He gestured with open palms to Nathalie.
"Oh," she mumbled, unable to form cognizant sentences for the moment. She unclasped the grey robes, and adjusted her body as the gentleman swiftly and elegantly removed them from her person; like a man who had carried out the task of disrobing strangers hundreds of times before. He in turn handed the robes to an ancient house elf that had appeared out of nowhere; the elf taking the robes greedily and scuttling off down what appeared to be an infinitely long corridor.

"Please follow me, Miss Wilkins," and her new companion began to climb the huge, arcing marble staircase. Collecting herself, the blonde followed, head craning to take in all the extravagance.

At the the top of the stairs, taking centre stage in the middle of the mezzanine, was a heavy marble table upon which a peculiar item sat. Under glass, an elegant wand was displayed, rather similar to the one Farren had used when the pair had last met in Hogmeade. Next to this was a carefully exhibited white mask; fine tendrils decorating the pale surface. The hairs stood on the back of Nathalie’s arms as she gazed upon it. The distinctive masks worn by Death Eaters were rather infamous, although usually through the hearsay of witnesses to their actions rather than officially documented photography. Upon her own father’s return from Azkaban, during the short reign of the Dark Lord, Nathalie had found his own mask one sunny afternoon at her home, having taken a clandestine rummage through the new arrival’s belongings. She had held the bone white mask; expressionless; gaping black holes for eyes; small pursed colourless lips; a thick black satin ribbon to affix it to one’s head. She had not dared to wear it. The witch had trembled whilst holding her father’s own death eater veil. And now, staring at this one entombed under a glass dome, with presumably its former owner’s wand nearby, Nathalie felt the same feeling again. The face of the pureblood movement gazed back at her lifelessly.

Adjacent, the blonde witnessed the black stone set into the marble floor; appearing to be a moribund elegy to someone passed on; presumably the owner of the neighbouring regalia. Seeing this memorial, the Slytherin for the first time felt the extent of the Abercrombie’s devotion to the cause. Someone had seemingly not returned from the war.

Nathalie continued to examine the strange memorial, whilst the butler knocked on an impressive set of long white double doors, before entering and presumably checking that the madam of the residence was ready to receive her guest. He returned to the mezzanine, and gestured into the room.

"Miss Abercrombie will see you now."

"Thank you," replied Nathalie softly and with a short nod, before crossing the threshold.

The room appeared to be an exceptionally grand reception parlour, finely yet simply decorated. In the centre sat Farren Abercrombie, dressed somewhat less ornately than last time the couple had met, but in no way less elegantly. Nathalie wondered if this was what off-duty Farren looked like; still as collected and poised as ever, but slightly less corseted. Nevertheless, she still appeared fantastic, and equally as intimidating as before. Located at the rear of the room were the only items that seemed slightly misplaced in this otherwise immaculate if somewhat impersonal space; some misshapen books and several boxes.

Nathalie felt the butterflies gather in her stomach immediately upon the sight of Farren. She had felt that she had not made the most wonderful impression during their previous meeting; Farren having left with very much the upper hand. And now, deep in the older witch's lair, Nathalie had the uncomfortable belief that things were not going to get much better. However, one had to make sacrifices to reach one's goals. Farren was the only link she currently had to Pureblood society, and (as explained rather well by Miss Abercrombie), the remnants of the ideals of Kevan Taite.

Nathalie cleared her throat gently, and shifted slightly on the spot, raising her head and stretching to her full height.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Abercrombie. Thank you for your kind invitation to your home, and for taking the time to see me." Nathalie heard her own voice echo off the large walls and back to her own ears; she sounded bizarre as she attempted to be as polite and courteous as per the instructions in The Art of Magical Conversation, for when one encountered another witch of superior upbringing.

"Your home is very beautiful," she continued, trying and failing miserably to hide her growing nervousness as silence descended upon the couple; a silence only emphasised by the grand room she now stood in, and the stony countenance of the brunette seated directly opposite.

Farren dropped into a high wingback chair. Lazing almost casually, her back pressed into the corner, long legs crossed in front of her under her long, fluid skirt. The door was thrust open and her butler entered and quickly announced the girl had arrived. Moments later the blonde was walking into the parlor, eyes slightly agape, dressed like she'd been sent by some kind of cult to convert Farren to a faith where she read a holy text all day and kept her hair in neat plaits while abstaining from wearing color or anything that would suggest her body wasn't a square.

Though it took some effort to not recoil at her appearance Farren at least mustered a blank stare as the girl greeted her and thanked her for inviting her to the house. "Welcome to Dalemain," she said stiffly before rising from her chair. Not paying much attention to Nat she moved towards the small table in front of the middle window of the room. Clearly the girl was supposed to follow her. "I hope you're ready to take tea, it will be arriving momentarily," Farren said matter of factly as she gestured towards the chair at the end of the table facing the window. Farren took the opposite chair, the window behind her, the scenic hills of the estate framing her from Nathalie's view point.

As soon as both ladies were seated the doors of the parlor were opened again and a troop of house elves appeared toting fine china and silver to the table, setting up a full tea service on beautiful white china, elegantly painted with silver which matched the silver serving sets. A three tiered caddy with elegant plates of scones, sandwiches, and cakes was set in the center of the table.

The elves were impeccable, each wearing an identical black shift that seemed to be more starch than cotton they were so stiff and spotless.  The table was set so quickly and perfectly one might not notice them if you blinked twice in a row. Again the butler appeared, moving to the table only once the elves had departed.

"I do hope the journey wasn't too tedious," Farren commented simply though there was not hint in her tone that she actually cared either way. "You see the property has held this enchantment for a millennium. Only those with Abercrombie blood may travel magically in and out of the property - apart from the Gatehouse," she spoke as if this was some typical situation, cute trivia about a property so fortified by magic it literally read your genetic composition before allowing you to apparate within it's bounds.

As Farren spoke the butler served them both, pouring Farren's tea first the Nathalie's. "Anyone that is not blood must either use the Gatehouse as a point of entry or be awarded a special family token which allows them full access to the property. This is almost always reserved for spouses, non-blood relatives of importance, and essential family support staff that have earned the right to call Dalemain home."

The butler seemed to puff his chest out a bit more proudly as his mistress spoke, the pin on his lapel catching the light from the window. A small silver pin with what appeared to be a tiny glass vial in it's clasp. The content of the vial was deep crimson and appeared to be liquid. Farren noticed and almost smiled at him before he finished pouring Nat's tea and disappeared back to the doorway where he'd wait to be called again. The little transaction happened so quickly and Farren was onto the next thing before any real time was devoted to the subject.

As if it had previously memorized her preferences the tea set was making Farren's tea itself. The little elegant silver creamer was pouring just a spot of milk into the tea, a tiny spoon dropping one sugar cube in and the spoon beside her saucer set to work stirring her tea itself. Nathalie's utensils lay motionless before her, unaware of their user's preference.

"The land has been in our family since the 400s though the house was not built in any form until 1135 when the first permanent structure was created. Parts of that first structure still stand and are incorporated into the back wing of the house," she said almost dully as if a house that was 865 years old was nothing of real interest. "The oldest part of the home is the library. You may be aware that we own the largest private library in Britain and Ireland, possibly Western Europe," She said removing the spoon from her tea, setting it gently on the saucer before taking a careful sip. "The greatest scholars and wizards have all at some point used it, with special requests of course, books that even Hogwarts can't obtain or only houses a copy of our original."

"You see, the family did not intend to build some publishing empire, that is just a convenient business to have but not by any means the point of this family. The point of this family was to be learned men and back in the days only the most learned men could read and write. Even muggle kings some could not read and write, we could. All of us. Our men spanned the globe looking for other magical people, learning their ways, and recording them. While power lies in being naturally magically superior to other magical people true power come from access to knowledge of how to use that power," Farren said gently before taking another sip of her tea.

It was said so simply but perhaps was a rather profound statement about a family that the girl would know so little about. On the exterior facade the Abercrombies were a powerful family in that they controlled much of the written word in the wizarding world. The family had been at times political be it members of the family that served as Minister of Magic or were Death Eaters. They were undeniably well connected amongst powerful wizards and families and here Farren confirmed it wasn't a coincidence that these things were intertwined.

"It has not been easy to keep it together. Hogwarts founders wished to wring our collection dry. As various forms of magic have fallen in and out of style the powers that be, Elders Councils, Wizengamot, The Ministry, they have all sought to control what we have and whom can see it. We are stewards of this information and in the wrong hands it can create harm. Many feel we should not have the right to decide that for ourselves. Thus, protection is paramount to our survival. You must understand, in my world, in Kevan Taite's world, things are very rarely what they appear to be from the outside." Her tone was firm, but not harsh. The heiress didn't appear the least bit ruffled or even interested in what she was saying. It was all matter of fact, something she'd known, maybe inherently, since she was child.

Farren lifted her hand, ushering the butler back to the table. This time he appeared with a small stack of paper and a writing set which was sat beside Nathalie's place setting. Again he retreated to the doorway where he stood sentry. "Another layer of protection," Farren said, her tone ever so slightly bemused.

"A non-disclosure agreement. Stating that you will not discuss our meeting or subsequent meetings, if there are any, with anyone. You will not tell anyone where you have been, whom you have seen, what you have seen, nor who you were with. Anything I tell you or discuss with you is strictly off limits for outside discussion unless I instruct otherwise. No one will know that you have met me. No one will know what we discuss. No one will know where you have seen or met me. You will not record anything we discuss without my direction, in any fashion. You will not tell you friends about this, you will not tell your family about this. You will act as if this doesn't happen. As for the studying you're doing on top of your regular studies, you will prepare an excuse for this. My suggestion is you're working towards applying for a research grant from the Committee of Blood and Magical Purity. They offer research grants to scholars on the continent. It's very plausible."

Farren set her fork down and laid her hands on the table staring across it at Nathalie trying to discern her response from her expression. The grand room that engulfed them seemed a reasonable setting to undertake such an agreement. The non descript outer layer of a house that held great secrets. There was no reason to assume that this relationship would continue were she to not sign the agreement. It was quite clear that this three page contract was the first step to peeling back further layers. The heiress seemed as complicated as the house that shielded her from the world at large. Astute but distant, stern but nonchalant, and powerful but undeniably elegant.

"If you do not maintain the secrecy laid out within this document you will face the consequences also outlined within. First you will be sued for defamation if anything about me or things we have discussed leak to the press or public. After that all aide to your family from sympathetic benefactors will cease immediately. The home your mother resides in will be at risk for default without such support. Finally are you to break any portion of this agreement all opportunities in decent society shall be closed to you. Break this agreement and you will become the next great Rosaline Bane, swilling drinks with blood traitors and hawking potions from a grimy store front in Knockturn Alley," she arched her eyebrow as if it were a question as much a statement. "Is that the kind of life you want Nathalie?"

A moment of silence lingered in the room and Farren rose from her chair, the legs scraping across the bare wood floor. Standing at the head of the table for a moment Farren considered the young witch before walking to her side of the table, the silence of the room punctuated by the firm click of her heel against the floor. Standing over Nathalie on her right hand side Farren reached for the writing set picking up the quill, dipping it quickly in the ink, and holding it out of Nathalie to take. She then turned to the third page of the document where the girl's name was already copied down, waiting for a signature to seal the deal.

"Sign, or leave," Farren said darkly her hands on his hips watching for a moment before sliding her hand into her pocket. She pulled from her pocket an old photo of Dermod. It had been on file with the company, in the event they ever decided to publish under his real name they'd already have a head shot for the dust jacket of the book. He looked to be in his late 40s around the time this was taken. She could only imagine how horrible he looked now after the war.

"Then tell me everything you know about this man and who sent you here," she said reaching over, pushing Nathalie's tea cup and saucer to the side so she could drop the photograph in front of her. "Was it Ivana? Is she coming for me too? Is it the O'Dwyers? Or the Regans?" Farren leaned down closer to her face, perhaps uncomfortably so. Farren hissed in her ear, suddenly very close to her as if she were going to envelope her and devour her if the girl did not cooperate, "Is it Ivana? Tell me who made you write that stupid letter and who is forcing you to come to me. What connection do you have to this man," she reached over tapping on the photo of Dermod with a bony finger, as if Nathalie would know who the older man was.

Farren welcomed her. Or, gave her as good a welcome as Farren was able to. That is, not at all. But it was the intention that counts, thought Nathalie to herself whilst the elegant witch moved to the long table.

The table itself looked to be antique; much grander than anything Nathalie had ever come across. The surface was covered in an extremely thick tablecloth; settings had been placed at both ends. Farren proceeded to seat herself at the end with her back to the window, so that she was silhouetted by the bright spring sunlight outside. Nathalie followed the older witch to the table, and sat down where indicated. She was now in the full glare; of both the sun and Farren’s gaze.

With military precision, a procession of the most formal house elves had constructed the tea service. And when they had finished, the stern butler had returned to ensure all was perfect. Nathalie looked at the setting in front of her. The usage of rulers and protractors could not have make it any more perfect. The food looked delicious; and although the Slytherin was rather hungry after her journey, devouring the plate would probably go against the rules stated in chapter three of Composition of a Lady. Instead she selected one scone, and carefully dissected it with her knife. Upon picking the implement up, she realised from its weight that is was sterling silver.

Farren described the magical protection used to prevent interlopers from paying a visit to Abercrombie soirées; Nathelie noted the small pin on the butlers lapel, glinting. It appeared to be made of silver and glass, but from the distance she could not make out any more details. The butler appeared proud of himself. Nathalie thought he genuinely must be slightly insane, or suffering from cabin fever as a result of being cooped up with Miss Abercrombie day upon day.

As one would expect from a lady of such luxuries, Farren’s tea prepared itself. Nathalie looked at her own static tea cup and spoon, and manually added her own milk requirement, before delicately stirring; terrified that she would scrape the fragile porcelain. Never in her life had she broken into a sweat whilst simply preparing tea.

Relieved that she had not broken anything, she gently raised the cup to her lips (elbows off the surface of the table: Composition of a Lady Chapter 2) and listened whilst Farren began to inform her about the long history of the beautiful house, and the origin of the Abercrombie family business. The older witch no doubt knew that most of what she was stating was efficiently recorded also in the essential A History of Magic’s Leading Families.

Nathalie was aware of the ubiquitousness of the Abercrombie empire. The majority of magical texts that one would purchase in Great Britain had the small, elegant Abercrombie logo upon the rear of their dust jackets. The name was a part of Magical and academic life. Before her meeting with Farren in the dusty attic office in Hogsmeade, the blonde had not considered the name in any more detail than this. However as Farren underlined the significance of one clan alone being responsible for so much information; so much material knowledge; the importance of the family slowly became clearer to Nathalie. In many ways, the Abercrombies held the keys to which particular information flowed through magical Britain. In general, that was simply business. But it also was a phenomenal method of control. Control the information, and one could control the populace. Perhaps Nathalie had underestimated Farren the bookseller, after all.

The Slytherin had just finished her tea, when the butler returned to her side. A writing set was placed by her arm, along with a carefully prepared document. Nathalie looked down to it, and back to the brunette who was watching carefully from the end of the table whilst the butler took a slightly aggressive stance at the doorway. She read the title at the top of the uppermost page - “Non-Disclosure Agreement”, in an ornate gothic font. With her head lowered, the blonde’s cold eyes swivelled up to the brunette, a “you-cannot-be-completely-serious” glance. Farren proceeded to list all the retribution that would be set loose upon her should she tell anyone of their meeting. Then the elegant witch gracefully made her way over to Nathalie’s shoulder, and handed the loaded quill into her hand, turning their contract to the final page. Nathalie glared at her. She had never planned to discuss anything that went on in this ridiculous house with anyone else, however it appeared that she was not to be trusted. In a little display of arrogance, the blonde flipped the contract back to its first page, and began a deliberately slow read-through. It was exactly as horrific as the brunette had described verbally. Still, as she had no intention of informing anyone about their little tea gatherings, she had no problem signing it. Nathalie snapped the quill off Farren, and signed her name with a flourish.

“It’s nice to feel so trusted,” she said under her breath. And then, deliberately louder, “Here is your agreement. I hope it makes you happy. I have no intention of discussing anything about this to anyone. I doubt they would be that interested in your. . .”

The blonde was cut off by Farren sliding the tea cup aside; it juddered in it’s saucer, the teaspoon falling onto the tablecloth. Upon the contract fell a photograph; Nathalie glanced at it; some strange intense man smiling rakishly back.

“Everything I know?! I don’t know who this is!” she cried out honestly. Now Farren was right against her ear; Nathalie could feel her warm breath; smell her floral perfume.
“I . . . I don’t know an Ivana!” she answered, her voice rising as Farren demanded answers that she simply didn’t have. Nathalie looked back to the small photograph, trying desperately to place him. A friend of her father? A temporary professor at Hogwarts? She could not recollect him at all, no matter how much she tried.

Nathalie pushed back the chair and sprung to her feet. The teacup jumped in its saucer.

“What do you think I am!?” she shouted at the brunette, her brow furrowed, blue-grey eyes filled with rage. “You think I’m some sort of . . . of mole?? Or that I want something from you? I want nothing from you. You have nothing I could possibly want. I sent that letter because I wanted to, because I wanted to see if there was a future, nothing more. It was never meant for someone like you! You should never have laid eyes upon it!! And . . .”

Nathalie stopped shouting. She looked downwards to her feet, suddenly feeling slightly odd. Her eyes pivoted up to Farren’s; a slight flicker of horror crossing her pale face . . .

After their last transaction and the subsequent reading she'd issued to the girl she'd honestly expected her to glean something from it. Pages and pages of history on society and families. Volumes on behavior and etiquette and the little peasant was still making snarky remarks that were completely out of line. To say she was disappointed was an understatement. More like, disgusted.

Then again it was all happening so quickly Farren didn't quite know how to respond. She was shocked she signed the agreement with so little argument but the way she reacted to being questioned was entirely unexpected. Her immediate outrage was enough to prove to Farren that the girl was in fact telling the truth. Afterall her mother had taught her that when questioning someone the innocent will react with anger at unjustly being questioned whereas the guilty will merely repeat the same story over and over. Judging by the blonde's knee jerk reaction of flat out rage it would seem she in fact had no idea who Dermod was....or Ivana for that matter.

As the blonde shoved her chair back Farren wisely stepped back out of her way putting several feet between them. Smoothing her skirt she was met by the steadying hand of her butler who'd come to her side given the suddenly offensive stance Nathalie had taken. She began screaming at Farren apparently either oblivious or not caring that she had an audience. Mr. Carlton, the butler moved to draw his wand but Farren raised her hand to stop him standing still and resolute as the girl pelted her with what were more or less insults.

So she didn't want anything from Farren? Farren had nothing she wanted? Farren should never have seen the letter? Fine. If that was how foolishly she felt then Farren could entertain that. How stupid was the child, she thought perhaps she'd just misjudged her before. But now she was showing that in fact she was not of any use because she was too stupid and foolhardy to see what opportunity she was passing up.

The commotion in the drawing room had drawn an audience as now three house elves, in their pristine black shifts, were trotting into the room. Farren's personal house elf, Prissy, a young female elf born on the grounds just ten years before Farren was at the head of the small pack. "Miss Farren, please let me stop her," the butler said as the elves gathered at his heels. Farren shook her head but glanced down at the elves, "Prissy....please..." she murmured disdainfully.

Not needing another hint of a command from her mistress the young elf stepped forward and lifting a hand cast a spell to calm the girl and make her woozy. Farren opened her mouth to tell the elf to go easy on the girl but instead changed her mind watching as the elf moved towards the girl. The Witch, her butler, and her elves watched as a look of horror dawned on the blonde's face. She seemed uneasy on her feet and then with out a sound collapsed to the floor her head smacking against the beautiful hand knotted rug on the floor.

Farren sighed, scoffing at the scene disdainfully. "This is absurd," she said turning her back on the scene as she moved back to the table. Having not been called off though the elves did not let up on their gentle assault. The three elves moved forward to the blond laying partially immobilized on the floor. Prissy taking the lead moved to her head, standing next to the blonde looking down at her. Nathalie would feel too woozy to stand or protest but by no means was knocked out. Seeing the blonde's behavior as a great offense to her mistress the elf took it upon herself to remind the student exactly how the world worked.

A shrill tone emitted from the elf as she stared down her long nose at the blonde witch. "Bad girl! Bad girl!" the elf scolded shaking her finger at the witch. "You do not talk to Lady Farren like that not you....you.....no body. Pureblood trash cannot talk to Lady Farren like that!" The other elves pipped in agreement standing on either side of Nathalie. "Don't you know what Lady Farren can do? Don't know you know who she is and who she knows? Lady Farren is of noble birth and you are nothing! Your family is not great. They accomplished nothing. You aren't fit to shine Lady Farren's shoes and she was going to try and make something of you. Stupid child no one is allowed in the house and you got a special invitation and you yell at the hostess. STUPID STUPID SHOULD BE MUDBLOOD!" The elf was screaming at the girl now, her little odd face growing redder and redder as little flecks of saliva rained down on the girl's face. "We have met mudbloods that know better than you. Foolish, wasteful, ignorant child. You apologize to Lady Farren and beg her to forgive you. You are not even important enough to be her servant. Witches like you....you are nothing and even we small house elves know it. You do not deserve her kindness! You are worse than mudblood! Don't deserve to be Lady Farren's charge. Don't deserve to meet Mr. Dermod! Don't deserve to be Slytherin. HUFFLEPUFF YOU ARE. MUDBLOOD HUFFLEPUFF IS FIT FOR YOU."

The other two elves chimed in in agreement, hurling some baseless general insults at the girl being held captive with the woozies on the floor. Farren stood watching from the table not sure if she wanted to laugh or spit on the girl. Surely being sedated and harassed by house elves was a fitting punishment if there were one for the girl's brash behavior. Though even Farren had to admit the elves were going a bit overboard. Suppose that was the cost of not having much opportunity to let out any steam or get away from the estate much lately. Lazily Farren raised her hand signaling the elves should silence themselves and they did at once, drawing back from Nathalie a couple of feet.

Her butler stepped forward towards the girl and the elves scattered further towards the edges of the room. "Miss Wilkinson," he said bending down to scoop the blonde witch off the floor. He didn't bother to support her head as he moved her to the sofa to lay her out there to let the effects of the elf's spell wear off. Standing over her the butler sighed disapprovingly before hastily stuffing a pillow under her head.

Rolling her eyes at the scene Farren picked the photo of Dermod up off the table and walked over to the sofa where the little witch lay. She stared down at the girl, her butler standing beside her looking at the whole scenario disdainfully. "Do you think we ought to take her to her mother's?" the butler asked softly. Farren shook her head, "No, she's just getting it out of her system. Stupid little twat. She's lucky it was just us and the elves. I'd hate to see Dermod deal with her." The girl looked scared and like she might be sick, as one would after having been hit with a spell like that from an elf.  Standing in silence watching her for several moments Farren and the butler did nothing to ease her suffering or speed up her recovery time. The elves had scattered completely, disappearing back into the house, and the only sound in the room was that of the wind on the old windows.

Finally, when the girl would be on the tail end of the spell, maybe feeling steady enough to sit up, Farren moved over to the sofa and looked down at the girl. "You know...verbally attacking hosts isn't exactly the idea behind Composition of a Lady. Clearly you can read but don't comprehend," she said clucking her tongue scoldingly at the girl. "Look I understand what you think you are and what you think you want. I told you, it's not there. I told you what you want, Kevan Taite's books, it's over. I thought it was made clear that that era died with The Dark Lord. Don't you read the news? It's over," Farren hissed at the girl resolutely making it perfectly clear that there was no argument to be made. Farren glared at her in silence another moment before dropping to her knees coming closer to eye level with the girl. "I understand that you think I'm some useless socialite that doesn't know anything and couldn't fight my way out of a paper sack," her tone was soft, almost sympathetic, which made it all the more terrifying as one should expect her to be upset. "Which is wonderful, that means our efforts to paint me as the pretty face of a publishing empire who is too busy picking out frocks to care about what happened to her and others at the hands of muggle loving liberals is in fact  working perfectly!" Farren seemed almost giddy, chortling as she shook her head. Her manically sweet tone continued, " They can't suspect that I'm organizing with my peers to imbed the ministry with pro-pureblood, pro-traditionalist employees and candidates. They can't know that my peers and I are part of an extensive black market ring of dark arts traders and practitioners. They can't know that we intend to recruit dedicated young purebloods and bring them up to through the ministry into positions of power down the line. If they knew that....well I'd surely be rotting in Azkaban with my cousins. Speaking of...we better not tell them that we convinced....persuaded privately, major portions of the Wizengamot to convert my cousin's 20 year Death Eater sentence to a two year petty Dark Arts charge!"

Farren laughed, sneering at the blonde, "I can see why you wouldn't want, useless, air headed, socialite Farren, to read your precious letter. I'm -so- irrelevant, and my family, the family of two of the most trusted and decorated Death Eaters, is completely out of touch with you interests," Farren nodded sighing sympathetically. "I can see how being questioned, to determine if you were a mole, by such a useless person is so degrading to a girl of your standing. After all your father.....well was he even a marked DE or just a crazed zealot lapping at the heels of families like mine?" She shrugged dismissively,"No matter, I can understand that going through basic questioning and questions of allegiance is insulting to you. I mean...what was I thinking. Why in the WORLD would I question the motives and loyalties of a girl who wrote a fan letter to a faceless corporation praising the political positions of a fake person?"

Farren glared at her, it was practically a snarl as she stood up, her hands on her hips as she looked down at the girl. "I know you're a little bit stupid, so let me put it more plainly. Kevan Taite ISNT A REAL PERSON," she paused letting her words sink in, "He's fake. Made up. He's a character, Babbity Rabbity is more real than Mr. Taite." She crossed her arms over her chest, "Forgive me for thinking you might be of use to society by being groomed into good use. You've proven you do not have the decency or intelligence to be groomed into anything. Clearly I made a mistake. So you have two simple choices. Once the effects of that spell wears off you may either submit to questioning and vow to change your erratic and stupid behavior in hopes of being put to use OR you can have the memories of this meeting and the last obliviated and be returned to your mother's home. I will wait exactly five minutes for your response, choose wisely you will only get one chance to make this choice."

Turning from the disgusting wretch of a girl Farren calmly returned to the tea table. The butler returned to her side to prepare her a fresh cup of tea and the heiress calmly returned to her tea and cake.

An uncanny feeling in the pit of her stomach; a slight change on the outskirts of her visual field; a dulling of colours and sounds; and swiftly Nathalie lost muscle tone in her lower back and legs. Like a wooden puppet with its strings cut in pairs, she somewhat comically fell to her knees, before keeling over backwards; the side of her blonde head making a dull thwack upon the rug that she had been standing on only moments earlier.

Nathalie's recollection of events grew muddled from this moment on. She could see the room; its perspective rotated by ninety degrees. Objects floated in and out of focus; blurs and lines; coloured streaks and bright flares. Thin legs, or perhaps narrow wooden branches appeared before her, but they didn't seem to have much importance. Muffled voices rose in a cacophony; a dissonant cascade of unpleasant screeching sounds. She could swear that she had heard the word Mudblood, emitted in a macabre squeal. Following this, the Slytherin was assailed by the waft of the most repugnant stench, a mixture of burning leather and stale sweat, making her limp body flinch and her unfocused eyes water. She wanted to raise her hand to her face to block the sickening odour, but she had no energy in her muscles.

And then, just as everything became too intense; too strong, too vivid - everything halted. The diabolical screeching, the horrific alkaline scent, the moving branches and lights and comets that seared across the firmament of her vision; everything faded to nothing. She felt she had fainted, or perhaps was going to faint, or perhaps was caught in some kind of Dantesque chain of continuous syncope; punishment for a crime she neither understood nor cared about at this particular moment in space and time.

Bodily she was raised from the ground; draped inhumanly; hips first; back arching like the demonically possessed; an unholy perversion of Lazarus. Her eyes rolling open in their sockets; the room appeared upside down. As groggy and befuddled as she was, she recognised the inverted form of Farren; her long slender figure an aperture of darkness in the cloudy grey of the room. A vacuum of nothingness. At this frozen moment, Nathalie felt bizarrely safe in the arms of a stranger. She wished for nothing more than to remain like this; she felt inviolable, Farren could not reach her.

She was on a couch, or a divan. Pins and needles pricked her legs and arms. She knew she was squinting; the harsh light was too much for her irises to cope with. The room slammed into view in a crash zoom; the table framing the scene of a lopsided Farren and the unpleasantly smug butler; the couple washed out in the bright aurora. Nausea hit her in deep waves; she knew she was groaning because she could hear herself; sounds were being processed again by her brain. She could hear the icy tones of Farren. Nathalie felt as if she was waking from an unpleasant dream, only to discover that reality is slightly more distasteful.

The blonde lay there for some more time; but for how long she had no idea. A clock ticked somewhere in the stillness. Nathalie was aware that Farren was watching her; arms crossed, weight on her left hip, all angles and straight lines.

Gingerly, and noting that her limbs were once again functioning under her conscious control, the Slytherin sat up. She unfolded her legs, placing her feet (where had her shoes gone?) softly upon the rich, thick rug that was upon the floor. She sat with knees pressed together, her usually straight back arching as if carrying a great psychological weight. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had gone days without sleep. Somehow during her psychotropic exertions a strand of blonde hair had come loose; it hung from her right temple like a flaxen lanyard. She stared under the windows; where the wall met the floorboards, carrying out that ritual familiar to sailors over the world who look at the steady horizon in an attempt to overcome motion sickness.

The nausea slowly settled. Her calves burned. Her head throbbed slowly; a dull cerebral ache behind her eyes. Her mouth tasted of stale saliva.

"Your elves," she whispered hoarsely, "are complete bastards."

At least she thought one of Farren's battalion of overdressed house elves was to blame; Farren had wielded no wand, and Nathalie was unable to piece together exactly the chain of events since their tea and scones had gone downhill so quickly.

The blonde listened meekly whilst Farren excitably recited her plans; conspiracies to plant the ministry full of her little underlyings. Nathalie, exhausted and weak, barely listened; her blue eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Farren became more and more animated; apparently proud of her schemes and plots.

"Stop . . . Stop telling me these things," she looked at Farren, now kneeling beside her, confusion and puzzlement etched upon her pale face. Nathalie thought of the non-disclosure agreement upon the table top, not meters away from the odd couple. She was trapped, and every little secret Farren vomited in her ear buried her deeper into the trench of her own making.

And then, Farren went on the rampage. Standing above her, she verbally destroyed the young witch. Nathalie watched her from the corners of her eyes; tears welling as Farren listed her failings mockingly, her lack of reputation; her uselessness. She could not prevent the lump from growing in her throat. Not now, she begged in her head, not when you have weakened me like this. Farren, please don't. But Farren, like a rabid bloodhound, clamped down on her throat and refused to let go. Nathalie clenched her jaw tight; a poor attempt to stop it from trembling. She could not see the room anymore; images were distorted by the tears that threatened to overcome the levee of her eyelashes. The blonde gulped; sniffing hard; a feeble attempt to hold back a tidal wave of emotion. She had nothing left to give to Farren, nothing left to say, no other way to defend herself. Only a warped sense of pride kept her sitting there in the sunlight with Farren bearing down upon her.

Kevan Taite ISNT A REAL PERSON

Nathalie looked up at the brunette as she gave her ultimatum. She watched her retake her seat, as if nothing had happened, and return to the ritual of her tea. The quintessential English witch.

Thoughts swam in Nathalie’s head. Kevan Taite is not real? What did she mean? How could that be possible? She slept next to a shelf of his hardbacks; treasured tomes that had filled her with hope and aspiration. Who had written them? For an instant, she felt disgust rise in her as she considered the frightful idea that Farren Abercrombie herself was the author. Impossible, thought Nathalie to herself. Farren is a lot of things, but she doesn’t have the patience of a writer. Or rather, she prayed it wasn’t Farren. The idea of this woman being the creator of texts that had given her so much fulfilment, was quite simply perverse.

Natalie considered her options. She realised that she had none. Earlier today the Slytherin had resolved to undertake this journey, no matter its many twists and turns, no matter the challenges that lay before her. This morning had not quite gone exactly to plan, both mentally and physically, but she would continue. Farren would have to kill her to stop her on this path. Nathalie thought, only half in jest, that perhaps such a step would be Farren’s next idea.

A moment, and she had gathered some composure. She wiped the tears away from her cheeks, and she turned her eyes to her hostess.

The student broke the silence. “I think you’re a psychopath, Miss Abercrombie.” She stated this simply and softly; no emotion, no hatred. Just a simple assertion of what she had experienced.

The blonde slowly put her aching head in her hands, and sat like this for several minutes. She tried to clear her head of all thoughts, of all the rage and anger and hatred that she felt for Farren. But the brunette was stuck with her now. Nathalie would be the perpetual thorn in her side. So Mr. Taite was not real. So be it. The ideals in the texts were all that mattered. They were priceless; they had kept the fire lit in the hearth of her heart during cold nights. They would continue to do so.

Nathalie removed her hands from her face; her blue eyes bleary. She stretched her long neck backwards; eyes closed, rolling her shoulders like an athlete preparing to throw the discus.

“Alright, Miss Abercrombie. Question me. Do whatever you need.” Her eyes sprung open. “I am all yours.”

Farren was unaware that her elf's little spell had such a devastating effect on her guest. After all, it was just an elf and it was just a little spell at that. If this was how she responded to a little charm, rue be the day the girl over drank or took drugs for sport. Clearly the girl didn't get out much if a little spell put her out so hard. So Farren didn't really think much of how hard a time it seemed the young girl was having. Afterall, she had begun to assume that the little twat was normally like this, lolling about in a pool of her own saliva, unable to compose herself. That was the hallmark of the lower class was it not?

Sighing to herself Farren went back to her tea. She didn't bother glancing at the clock because she wasn't actually going to keep time like she'd said she would. Instead she served herself another tiny slice of cake and systematically cut it into perfect quarters, each quarter cut in half so eight perfect pieces sat on her plate. Gently she placed one of the morsels in her mouth and closed it, letting the sweet melt in her mouth. Staring blankly into the space before her she slowly, methodically ate her cake square, one tiny bite at a time.

Her mind was a million miles away, far from this moment. She pondered, not for the first time, why she bothered. What was the point of it all? The war was over, muggle pop stars and denim trousers had infiltrated Hogwarts. She herself was known to go riding in jodphurs these days, astride her mount like a man. Times had changed, there was nothing to be done about it now, realistically. Maybe she should just sit back and accept the changes? Wouldn't it be easier? Her perfectly manicured eyebrow arched as she wondered to herself. Then what? What was the world like without the Farren Abercrombies and Narcissa Malfoys? Certainly less.....cultured. But what else was it missing then? Her brow furrowed together as she debated this with herself.

These momentary lapses in purpose were not rare for Farren. Typically brought on only by extreme situations it was not abnormal for the heiress to ponder the point of it all when 'it all' was costing her so much. Her friends had died, her family had died, half the people she'd known growing up were dead or in jail. Yet without 'it all' she didn't know exactly what she was. So was it fair to say that 'it all' was so deeply wrapped up in her identity she couldn't function without it? Most likely that was what kept her going. At least that was the conclusion she came to every time she thought about it, as she was now.

And why not? Everyone had to have some purpose in life. It just so happened that hers was larger than 'have two children' or 'own a home someday' or 'travel to China'. Was that so wrong? That saving a culture was part of, if not all of, her purpose in life? At least it was better than the pathetic dreams most people had. People always wanted to make something of themselves. They wanted to help other so they became nurses. Maybe they loved children so they became a teacher. So what? If they hadn't taken that job, someone else would. But no one, no one else could take her job. She, like a select few of her peers, was born into her life's purpose. To carry the old world into future for the sake of their race. It wasn't something she put much thought into before the end of the war but now, what with all the pressure she was under, it was increasingly a part of everyday life.

Gently stabbing her fork at the little plate in front of her she was jolted from her thoughts as the sterling scraped the china. Wincing at the sound she sat her fork down on the empty plate. Sighing softly she looked down at her place setting, somehow comforted by the familiar china she'd known her whole life. Her bright eyes flit to the trays of treats in front of her and she had to tell herself no regarding another cake. She wouldn't let stress eating ruin her figure, especially not over a moronic child that was easily taken over by a house elf.

Sighing, now bored with the bountiful offering before her Farren glanced at the girl on her sofa and rolled her eyes. She seemed to be cringing and wincing still though she was stirring. Her gaze turned to the window at the far end of the room, looking dully out across the view she knew so well. The rolling green hills, the distance still shrouded by morning mist, it was reassuring to her that indeed this was her path and that she was not incorrect to take it seriously. Like others of her rank, be they magical or muggle, she was a steward of this great land and this great tradition. She was not going to muck it up out of laziness and lack of self discipline. If traditional purebloods were an endangered species than by God she was going to be the most decorated conservationist of modern history.

Finally, after Merlin knew how long, the twat spoke from the sofa. A faint smile twisted across Farren's lips. So she thought she was a psychopath? Clearly the commoner never would have made a very good Death Eater. Farren didn't look at her nor acknowledge her statement. Instead her gaze held steady out the thick glass panes at her beloved hills. A wistful sigh escaped her  as her mind wandered to time spent on those hills long gone now, with loved ones also long gone.

Nathalie was sitting up. She looked at Farren and declared she was ready. Still Farren ignored her, the moment being not nearly as gratifying as she'd expected. There was always a time, a singular moment, when breaking a green colt that the animal realized resistance was futile and learning to work with and for it's master was a more productive use of it's energy. This was not that moment. This was, for Nathalie, defeat. However, given that the idiot girl had been screaming at her host and subsequently beat to submission, this was a modicum of progress though Farren suspected there would be resistance every step of the way.

A thick silence hung in the air around the two women. The room was warming quickly as the mid morning sun began to peak over the hills and strike the thick leaded panes of the large windows. A steady trail of fine steam rose from the spout of the sterling kettle which was clearly enchanted to keep tea pipping hot and the heavy hand of the ancient grandfather clock drug it'self by another minute.

"I see," Farren said simply her attention finally turning to the girl on the sofa.  Gazing over at the blonde with her usual stony gaze Farren debated what to say to the girl. She wanted badly to offer up a witty retort about the goings on but she was smart enough to know that, in this relationship, with the submissive giving in, it was her role as the dominant to nurture her now. Tearing her down would come again later. So instead of saying anything at all she just stared at her, deep in thought. It occurred to her to administer the vertiserum now and question her at length. However, Farren was far removed from the Death Eaters. If the girl was a mole, or some kind of plant, Farren wasn't up to date enough to ask appropriate questions. Moreover regardless of what she did with her if the girl was introduced to Dermod he'd want to question her too and he may be better positioned to suss out a mole looking for DE than she. Not that she much cared what Dermod thought, since he was hiding out in Ireland and doing nothing to advance their cause, but still, he was the catalyst of all this.

After a long silence Farren finally spoke, "I will be generous today. We will put off the veritiserum for another day. In the meantime I need you to honestly answer what you know about the following questions. I strongly advise you answer honestly for there will be a day when you are tested with the serum and if you are to be found lying....." she paused pursing her lips, "Well let's just leave that up to your imagination. I'm sure my elf will be anxiously awaiting that day, just in case," she said a little sneer in her tone.

Sighing as if this was all extremely tiring for her Farren curled her finger motioning Nathalie back to the table. "Come," she said silkily, "In order for us to trust you and find you useful you must stop reacting like a lunatic and learn to control yourself. Did you not read the books I told you to read?" Clearly the question was rhetorical but it seemed that Farren was finding the whole scenario extremely inconveniencing.

"I'm going to mention several names to you. I want you to tell me what you know about them and if you are connected to or are working with or for anyone. I realize you said you are not but when you react like a lunatic it discredits what you're saying, so you have to repeat yourself," Farren said cooly, waiting for Nathalie to come to her and cooperate. "So, I need to know what these names mean to you," she began speaking slowly so Nathalie would have time to keep up even if she was still feeling the residuals of the elf's spell.

"Ivana Karkarof.....
Dermod Morfessa......
Aeric Regan.... Zachary Incarnadine.....Declan O'Dwyer....."

Eyebrow arched Farren sat back in her chair, waiting.

Nathalie watched Farren move her food delicately about her plate. The elder witch appeared to be lost in thought; not even considering Nathalie’s words. After a slightly awkward moment, the brunette spoke. Nathalie’s stupor cleared somewhat at the mention of veritaserum. Well of course; what was a little veritaserum between friends? All in the name of good, clean fun. Nathalie in particular was looking forward to the cleaning of the toilet bowl with her toothbrush, followed by the after lunch flaying.

As sobriety returned, so did her anger. Had she really deserved the assault from the house elf? For defending her own innocence? To Nathalie, Farren operated in a world where there was only her own opinion, and that was that. No nuance, no perspectives that differed would be tolerated. Farren appeared to be a singular magnetic pole; warping the world around her to her will. And Merlin help the poor soul that happened to get in her way. Nathalie; usually self assured to the point of arrogance, was experiencing a steep learning curve. And yet, on it she would continue. Nathalie had nothing further to hide from Farren. And Farren was all she had at this moment.

The reality of the newer situation that the blonde now found herself in was dawning on her. From her earlier comments, it was clear that Farren lay on what could be termed the darker end of the wizarding spectrum. The Death Eater memorabilia that lay in the mezzanine beyond the closed doors had underlined the involvement of the Abercrombie clan in the activities of the Dark Lord. Farren was involved in some way; a fellow traveller. And here sat Slytherin Seventh year Nathalie Wilkins; proud NEWT student; having been cursed by an errant house elf; having signed a disclosure agreement that would reward her with deprivation, destitution and Merlin knows what else should she ever speak of this meeting to another living soul; sitting listening to this Dark Witch wax lyrically over her plots to place sympathisers in the Ministry. The student was standing on the borderline between polite wizarding society, and something she could feel in her very bones was illicit. Her mind was clearing quickly now; the situation demanded it.

So Farren spoke, and Nathalie listened. The student considered that this was very possibly the way Farren liked all her relationships with others to be.

Farren gestured to the blonde to return, like one would a misbehaving child after it had begged for its parents forgiveness. Slowly Nathalie rose to her feet, and walked somewhat unsteadily towards the table. Relieved to have made it without collapsing or emptying the contents of her stomach, she slowly lowered herself into her chair and placed both hands upon the surface, composing herself. The Slytherin student listened in silence to Farren’s question. Names were listed.
The mention of the Regan surname caused an unconscious dilation of the blonde's pupils. Interesting, she thought to herself.

Before answering, Nathalie poured herself a cup of extremely strong tea. She stared at the bone white vessel, steam piping from the surface of the near-black fluid. She added a drop of milk, and stirred lightly. Meanwhile she wracked the records of her memory for the names. Farren's homework perhaps did have a logic after all. Thank Merling for A History of Magic’s Leading Families.

“Karkarof. English purebloods of Bulgarian descent. Professor Karkarof was the Durmstrang headmaster. He’s dead now. I have never heard of an Ivana Karkarof.”

Nathalie sipped at her tea; her face stoic. She stared past Farren at the hillsides beyond. Outside, it threatened to be a beautiful spring day. The contrast to the austere couple at the table and their butler observer was striking.

“Morfessa;” continued the student. “I am not familiar with the name. Regan . . .,” she blinked, “Ancient Irish wizarding family, originally blacksmiths, nowadays many businesses are under their control.” She thought of Conall for a moment, pausing her speech. There were so many Regans. Why did Farren care about Nathalie’s knowledge of this one? She continued suddenly, hoping that Farren did not pick up her slight preoccupation with this name in particular. If she managed to return to Hogwarts in one piece, perhaps she would ask her year mate about him. “Aeric was two years above me. You surely remember. I never talked with him.”

She sighed, before continuing. “Incarnadine; from . . . Norfolk, I believe.” Nathalie looked to Farren, as if for assurance she was correct. She received nothing in return from the lady of the house. “Potions are their thing; I think they run a shop in Knockturn alley. Zachary was a few years ahead of me; but I did not know him personally. Wasn’t he in your year?”

“O’Dwyer family, old purebloods from across the water, import-export dealers originally, back in Ireland. Nowadays they have several concerns. I think they own Cucurbitas.” She looked back at Farren. “I do not know a Declan.”

The silence returned to the couple and their tea. Nathalie decided to interject with a question of her own.

"Miss Abercrombie, if I may be so bold," continued the Slytherin, her voice controlled and measured; in marked contrast to the emotional vociferations of their earlier disagreement; "do you know who the author of the Kevan Taite novels is, or was?”

As the girl started to prattle off her mechanical, glossary definitions of the names she'd listed Farren considered her thoughtfully. The brat seemed far too impetious to be some kind of mole. Not to mention she wasn't particularly bright or clever - again lowering the odds. A mole would be much better and clearly wouldn't have written that stupid note, they'd come to her from another angle, something she automatically trusted.

She scoffed at the suggestion that she'd remember Aeric, "Of course I remember him," she said and immediately returned to her thoughts about the girl. Given that it was aparent the girl was completely insane, uncouth, and green she couldn't be anything more than the crazed teenage manic Farren had first assumed she was. Letting an awkward silence hang in the air as the heiress rerouted her plan for the day given the negative turn things had taken. After her outburst the girl needed to be kept at arms length and start her learning from a safe distance.

Nodding Farren answered her question about Kevan Taite, "Yes, but of course I know him. Why else would I bother screening mail about his books, not that we get any...hence why you actually got a response." She concluded looking away from Nathalie again lost in her thoughts about how to rework the day and what to do with this girl.

"Very well," she said finally, "I do not think you are affiliated with anyone. If you prove to be promising and worth the effort my associates will administer the vertiserum test. If you are found to be working for someone or a spy from the Ministry...." she trailed off, her eyebrow arching tellingly, "Well, that won't happen will it now?" she concluded rhetorically.

Her gaze shifted to the clock on the far wall, nearly noon, she'd have to move quickly now. "We have a very busy day ahead of us I'm afraid, we have an appointment at 3:30 in London and there's much to prepare before then. I trust you will be able to find your way home if we are in London?" she asked but clearly wasn't waiting for a response. She was already on her feet walking to the table she'd ladden with items earlier. "If you're going to learn from society and a pureblood's place in it from me you must understand where I stand in that world.  Clearly you did at best minimal research on my family and I before you came here. Otherwise you'd have know Declan O'Dwyer was at one time my fiance," she picked up the heavy leather bound scrap book full of news clipping and walked over to Nathalie, standing beside her chair.

A flick of her wrist and the dishes and silver before the blonde neatly stacked themselves out of the way. Farren laid the book in the cleared space before the girl. "This is a little thing my Grandfather's secretary started about 80 years ago. Knowing the public image and presentation of your family is important, we call this the Family Public Record," She said turning to the first page of the book. "I assume you understood the basic history from the books you read? Family dates back to around 400 AD in Scotland, we broke from the north and moved south about 200 years after that and we've been in north west England since? Ring a bell?" Again she was being rhetorical.

"Anyways fast forward to the early 20th century. Spencer Abercrombie, my Grandfather, is a young man and heir to the family. He has two sibblings a younger brother and sister - both of which are eventually either disinherited or disowned. But no matter, in 1940 Spencer married the most eligible Slytherin graduate his parents could find: Fareh Eugenia Cordelia Black. She was 18, he was 26. Their wedding announcement cut from the paper and pasted onto the first page of the book boasted of a fabulous wedding attended by all those that mattered.

"My father and his younger brother were born by the 50s. Hogwarts all that," she said absently flipping through several pages of what appeared to be simple society pages articles about parties attended and hosted and political contributions. "Then Fareh took notice of one of my father's class mates, his junior but none the less noticible," she said pulling out an article that was tucked in the pages not glued down, seemingly added after the fact. Unfolding it she flattened out a Daily Prophet column which was part of the series 'Witches to Watch'. A lanky dark haired teenager with angular features and long dark hair stared back at them haughtily. Her robes were clearly a fancy, custom design but proudly displayed Slytherin insignia, a petite dark wand held in her hand. Above the photo a headline read:

Victoria Bennett Named European Underage Dueling Champion in the 14
-16 Years Age Group

"Of course what happened next is predictable, but at least they were genuinely in love," Farren said flipping to a page of clips on the wedding a lavish affair well attended by everyone and anyone worth anything. Flashy, gossipy headlines accompanied them.

Abercrombie Heir Weds Dueling Champion in Lavish Event for 500 Close Friends and Everyone of Note

"They were happy but Grandmother had dual intentions for Mother. Shortly after the wedding she produced my mother for The Dark Lord, earning her great favor for bringing him such a young, talented recruit. Both were entrusted with high profile work and after awhile their work had a distinct calling card," Farren flipped through a few pages turning to Prophet reports on DE crimes.

Muggle Economic Minister Murdered - Body Appearing to Have Organs Expertly Removed

Wizengamot Member Zainul Grossman Murdered - Entire Family Missing, Assumed Also Deceased

"Obviously no one knew who was responsible for these events. The first war was so chaotic and messy, it was impossible to pin crimes on people," Farren said matter of factly turning to a page that had only one article pasted to it. A small blip surrounded by other gossip blips on the society page.

Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon Abercrombie of London proudly announced to close friends and family that their first child is due in the early months of 1978. Formal announcement to be made early in the year after the birth.

"Of course being in the family way my mother was advised to monitor her activity. However there was a huge operation in the works that she and Grandmother were overseeing that had to be carried through despite the mounting concern for her health and mental stability," Farren turned the page, a front page spread from The Prophet unfolded to reveal a disturbing photo of beautiful Victoria being restrained by a very young Kingsley Shacklebot in a grappling hold she struggled against, clearly screaming out and trying to move to something out of frame. It was a jarring image even now and the headline and header blurb made it clear why.

AURORS FOIL PLOT TO ASSASINATE MUGGLE PRIME MINISTER AND TOP PARLIMENT OFFICIALS
Fareh Black Abercrombie, Thelonious Nott, and Camilla Goyle Burns killed in fray, five others jailed in Azkaban

ALL IN THE FAMILY: Abercrombie and Abercrombie Were Masterminds of Parliament Attack Plot Ratted Out by Fellow Death Eater in Azkaban

Victoria Abercrombie: Jailed on 36 Counts of Attempted Murder and Conspiracy to Overturn Muggle Government

Sighing heavily Farren turned the page to the next series of headlines dated some months later, not saying anything for the headlines said it all.

Outraged Family Demands Amnesty After Miscarriage Inside Azkaban

Victoria Abercrombie Rushed to St. Mungo's from Azkaban After Miscarriage, Trial Date Moved Up to January

Emotions on High During Trial for DE Mastermind Who Miscarried Inside Azkaban

St. Mungo's Most Senior Officials Testify on Behalf of Defendant Victoria Abercrombie Citing Extreme Psychological Trauma

ABERCROMBIE AQUITTED OF CHARGES ON GROUNDS OF MENTAL DURESS AND INSTABILITY

"She completed six months of treatment at Mungo's and then was released to our home in London under near constant supervision of a doctor and then of course I was born in late 1979. After the baby Potter incident things tappered off significantly. My mother was hardly able to function outside of the home and we were able to lay low, live our lives. Of course thought the second war brought about a whole new problem. With the DE controlling so much the media were eager to distract the public as much as possible. It was all made up news for the most part anyways, why not exaggerate the lives of the wealthy and powerful?" Flipping ahead in the book she turned to pages featuring for the first time photos of herself, looking as she had when Nathalie knew of her at school. Young, soft, fresh, and doe eyed the young heiress made for a notable distraction.

Abercrombie Heiress and O'Dwyer Heir Rumored to be Engaged After Being Spotted in Dublin

Abercrombie Poses as Featured Face for Paris Couture House of Pierre Dumas, Says Profits from Campaign Donated to Mungo's Psych Ward

O'Dwyer Camp Won't Explain Diamond Ring Now Worn By Farren Abercrombie - Engagement Assumed Confirmed

Massive Search for Gimble Industries Heiress Derina Gimble Headed by Longtime Friend Farren Abercrombie

Abercrombie Pleads with Public from Dublin Requesting Help in Recovering Gimble Family from Undesireables Capture

ITS OVER - Abercrombie Seen Cavorting in Paris Sans Ring or Beau

Massive Search Effort Undertaken by Farren Abercrombie for Cousin Bellona Bennett - Taken by Undesirables

"The last year of the war things got quieter. I was mostly here, out of the public eye, trying to recover from a break up and the loss of my two closest friends. Once the Dark Lord died it was clear we had to go into damage control. Of course things were much better managed the second time around. It was assumed anyone marked or a known DE in the first war was active again but thanks to the DE control of everything very little actual news got out. So there was less specific evidence but more speculation and paranoia. We were all assumed guilty on association. It fell on me, as the heir and only one unaffiliated with the first war to be our spokes person of sorts," Farren explained flipping through more pages of the immediate fallout of the war headlines.

Abercrombie Pledges 1Million Galleons for Restoration of Hogwarts Library

Abercrombie Publishing Announces Plan to Cover All Medical and Rehabilitation Costs for Employee Veterans of War - Other Corporations Expected to Follow Suit

Professionals Attest to Victoria Abercrombie's Deteriorating Condition Dispelling Rumors of Involvement at Hogwarts Battle

Pyxis Hartridge-Abercrombie Convicted of Informing Death Eaters and Providing Support to You Know Who

Abercrombie Family Leaders Notably Absent from Cousin's DE Trial

Private Service to be Held October the 14th, 1998 to Commemorate Life of Victoria Bennett Abercrombie

Farren Abercrombie Addresses Mother's Death One Month After Private Burial

Farren Abercrombie Arrested Under Suspicion of DE Involvement, Released Four Hours Later

Pureblood Families File Formal Harassment Complaint with MoM Stating Discriminatory Arrests and Questioning as New Leadership Search for DE

Farren looked down at the pages, her image staring back at her. She looked notably different from just several pages before when she was just three years younger. Post war Farren was hardened, colder. She'd aged greatly over the four years but in a way hinting at innocence lost not years. The witch closed the book and stood in silence for a moment satisfied that she'd managed to bring the girl up to speed with as little personal experince as possible. The girl had seen the same thing as the public and while it was fairly accurate it was devoid of Farren's true feelings and experiences.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked seemingly unaffected by the pages of horrors contained before her. "Not about Kevan Taite - about real things," she clarified her tone snarky, "Maybe some additional comments about my mental health from the girl who spent the whole war sitting in class?" Her tone made it quite clear she didn't appreciate the girls earlier comment given what her life had been like as opposed to the younger girls.

"I know you don't care about this but you must. Though this is my particular history it is the history of Kevan Taite too. Were he real he would be in a similar situation as my mother was, as the Malfoys are. You may think the Season is all very silly and pointless but we are all suspects for an unforeseen amount of time. Normality must be restored and social order must be restored before anything else or we lose everything. They are doing everything they can to choke us out. Make us some marginalized segment of society that is feared and pitied and powerless. Foundations before walls," she said moving the book back to it's original table. "Which brings us to today's task. We're going to The Ministry."

Relief flooded over Nathalie when Farren referred to the “real” Kevan Taite in the third-person; presumably the author was not Farren’s nom de plume, which would have been a somewhat unpleasant arrangement. The student considered that no one wishes to discover that their favourite author is actually someone with a personality as grating as Farren’s. The brunette claimed that she trusted the younger girl; as much as Farren could trust anyone, that is. Again, there was another threat of Veratiserum, this time to be administered by the elder witch’s associates. As much as Nathalie had wanted to be here, and to make this first step (despite the slight unpleasantness of Farren and her methods); the very mention of fellow collaborators made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Who were these collaborators, she wondered? Surely the hostess could have only meant one thing. And this was what Nathalie had wanted to hear, all along. That there were others. That she was not alone desiring a change. Of course, Farren would not have been Nathalie’s first choice of confidant. However, the elegant witch had invited her here; she had replied to the letter; she was at this very moment engaged in conversation with her in this opulent and beautiful home. Now the blonde had to play her cards right. And yet, she was quite certain she was presently well off track.

“No, it won’t happen. I am not working for anyone.” she answered clearly, looking directly at the brunette.

London? Before Nathalie could assemble a response, Farren was by her side, clearing the table effortlessly. A heavy brown-leather backed book was placed in front of Nathalie. She looked upon it; Farren poised by her shoulder. The older witch opened the thick cover, and with great deliberation turned the yellowed pages.
The book was a collection of newspaper and magazine clippings, charting the Abercrombie clan's journey through the twentieth century from the perspective of the wizarding gutter press. In this carefully curated tome, a public face had been carefully plotted with great detail using these old pieces; their relationships, dalliances, crimes and deaths, all described in salacious column inches. Old photographs were placed above most of the articles; strangers with that particularly harsh Abercrombie gaze; looking at the two women at the top of the table; peeking out from across the decades.

Nathalie scanned the headlines with her blue eyes whilst Farren presented each page. The young Farren herself sat in one photo looking proud, and yet more like the girl Nathalie could remember from Hogwarts. Compared with the witch that now stood by her shoulder, the younger Farren lacked something; a "steel" around the eyes perhaps; something that had turned her into the battering ram of pureblooded excellence that she was today.
When Farren had finished the display of her history, Nathalie turned her neck to look at her. For the most fleeting of moments, the blonde could have sworn that she had seen something almost wistful upon her beautiful face; a resigned softness that had been kept locked away, at the very least from Nathalie's prying eyes.

So this was how the Abercrombies were viewed by society. Articles and scraps collected from the pages and writings of the Fourth Estate, and assembled in this huge tome. In general, Nathalie tended to ignore the more gossipy articles the press; apart from when curiosity had gotten the better of her. But now Farren was showing that there was a purpose to such vapidity. One could structure a narrative; one could almost control the truth. Wasn’t this the purpose of the contents of this old scrapbook?

The book had illuminated a wealthy, proud family, who were certainly on the far end of the conservative wizarding spectrum. And yet a family with intrigues; petty romances that the average reader would lap up and devour; with such fragments the public would never be fully satiated. Even their dabbling with the dark arts only added to the family’s glamour. The Abercrombie’s were everything that kept the average wizard or witch in awe: powerful, wealthy, walking that fine line between respectability and darkness, and touched by tragedy. Oh, how the masses adore a little bit of tragedy when they read The Daily Prophet with their breakfast.

Nathalie nodded as Farren made her closing comments. She could see her logic; there was a thread of common sense running though it.

“Miss Abercrombie,” began Nathalie somewhat reluctantly. “Excuse me, but why are we going to the Ministry?”

Farren pushed the book away and looked down at Nathalie her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered her. Today had gone completely off the plan and she wasn't sure just what to reveal to the girl. Maybe it was better to let her see what was happening as it all unfolded. Keeping her guessing would keep her vulnerable. Arching her eyebrow slightly Farren almost smirked, "The first good question you've asked," she said but she was moving towards the table where she'd kept the book this time picking up a large dress box and walking back to the table dropping it in front of the girl her hand on the lid.

"You want to meet the enemy face to face right?" she asked in a tone that seemed to be almost gaming the student, egging her on almost. "Well, you're going to meet them. You're going to see the real enemy."

Pulling out the chair nearest here Ren sat down looking at her intently. "I'm going to show you why Kevan Taite had to die. Mudbloods, muggles, they aren't the enemy. Blood politics isn't about purifying magical blood anymore. It's about survival. The large majority of the public want us, purebloods, traditionalist, to just disappear. They don't want to think about the war anymore and the Ministry is more and happy to help them. Not because the Ministry doesn't want to think about the war, but because they want to diminish any possible threat. Think about it.....what's more dangerous to magical culture.....outsiders straddling the line between two cultures or insiders that want to stomp out the faction of the group that are the arbiters of that culture?"

Farren sat back in the chair letting the student process the ideas, or at least hoping she could. "The enemy is The Ministry..." she said softly, "Think about it.....to them we're all guilty by association but they can't put us in jail for that. Nor can they keep us all in jail and keep the economy afloat. Think of all the economic power the elite purebloods hold. Look at what just I have. Look at this house. It is one of three that I own. Magically fortified with wards and enchantments strong as any Ministry building. Rumored to house a library greater than Hogwarts and with more rare and original texts than the Ministry. Full of magical artifacts older than the Ministry itself. On top of that I own the printing rights to the majority of texts in this country. Look at all the resources I have and I am just one person, one family. There were dozens of others involved in the War....what they wonder would happen if we joined forces again?"

"They can't put us all in jail and they can't shutter all our businesses so what will they do? They will use what powers they do have to try and cripple us from the inside out. The Ministry is doing everything it can to choke us out. They are scared of what we could be so without completely destroying us they'll remove on piece at a time until we are toothless and at their mercy. It's not about blood purity. It's about survival. The second the Dark Lord died it became about the survival of our race. You can't propagate a revolution when you're fighting for every breath. To serve the pureblood cause is to preserve the culture and work the system to our benefit. It might not be as glamorous as your fairy tales sound on paper but neither was the real war. We're all tired of war. If we're going to survive we have to change our tactics. We play their game now, but we play to win," Farren pursed her lips scowling before standing up.

Reaching over she tapped the lid of the box. "Welcome to the War Criminals Children's Enrichment program, if anyone asks that's what you're doing. Learning about your wonderful government that your foolish father didn't appreciate," Farren offered a sick grin making it clear the idea was disgusting but for some reason necessary. Inside the box was an outfit she'd selected for Nat. It hadn't been intended for the Ministry, rather just general use outside of her usual thrift store rags when she was with Farren. Luckily the witch had selected something timeless and appropriate for almost any informal or business occasion. A white and beige tweed spring suit dress with matching shoes. The suit was french and designer, the shoes Italian. Both were probably worth more than her mother's monthly income and though Farren knew she wouldn't like them, she would wear them. "There's a powder room with a small sitting room across the hall. You can change there. Eat whatever else you want off these plates and be ready to leave in forty minutes. Give your old clothes to the elf, she'll make sure they get put with your other things. I have to dress for the day," she stepped back from the table and snapped her fingers an elf appearing from the shadows of the room. "This is Melly, she'll be.....helping you, don't do anything stupid," she said looking the girl up and down. "Forty minutes," she said turning and walking from the room leaving the girl to her own devices, the house elf standing guard a few meters away.