Staring Into Open Flame...Could Barely Tear My Eyes Away (Giaus)

Alone in at the center of a ternion stone walls Farren stood silently contemplating the next half hour to hour of her life. It was to be illuminating she presumed. Perhaps constructive. Hopefully gratifying. Unfortunately emotional. Here in this desolate hole that was at the center of so much of the problem she would unearth something she'd been avoiding for a long time. Maybe it would all be a failure but it was something she could not not pursue.


There were many bleak memories of her mother locked away deep in the recesses of her mind. Their brief relationships had been marked by strife, forced interactions, and interventions from psychological professionals. In order to go about her daily life she'd long learned to lock them away. Traditional and the ritualistic monotony of life for someone of her breeding and status made it easier to bury these memories and the associated feelings. In the act of clearing her mother's rooms for storage there had been some memories that were impossible to ignore.

One in particular stuck in her mind, a gloomy day at Dalemain Estate, her mother's parlor, naturally the most gothic of all the parlors in their estate. A young teenager Farren was set at the piano forte, ordered to play for her mother who was in a depressive mood. The adults in the room assumed her playing would muffle their conversation but she could read lips and easily played the most complex tunes without so much as glancing at the keys or sheet of music. Her mother's attending psychiatrist, a fixture in their home, was addressing the dark haired, gaunt woman as she stared dead eyed at her dark haired, lithe daughter. "You must invest in her. She must know you have the love a mother has for her child. If you do not show her that you have this, if you do not show her you are proud of her as a person then she will spend her life seeking that validation," the elderly man did not look the least bit hopeful as he pleaded with his patient. A look of resigned disappointment and loss that Farren would never forget.

Now the prophecy of the scientific seer was coming to fruition. Ignoring good manners she'd all but invited herself to the root of the cause. The activity yard of Azkaban was hardly a yard. Several stories deep, in the center of the building, surrounded by the three wings of the building, it was a bleak triangular courtyard. It was covered with flat stone pavers. In the center was a triangular patch of dirt she assumed once was a small garden. One metal bench was bolted to the stone next to the dirt garden patch. Over head was a corroding gangway running diagonally across the courtyard.

There was no direct sunlight from above, the depth of the location within the walls and the early hour kept any sunny patches at bay. Stone on four sides and a white, cloud filled sky above, the crippling misery of Azkaban was felt here more than she'd imagined. It was cold even though summer was quickly approaching and Farren kept her black wool cloak drawn around her, an elegant silver snake chain laid across her breast bone held it clasped around her shoulders. She wore a simple but no less elegant green dress that she's selected because it was both location appropriate and an accurate reflection of how she regularly presented herself.  This, was somehow very important to her today. Staring blankly at the dirt patch in front of her Farren attempted to mentally prepare herself for what was about to occur.

There were so few people left alive that knew Victoria Abercrombie well Farren had hardly felt guilty about the desperate Hail Mary of a letter she'd sent to Mr. Purcell. In her lifetime Victoria had been more of an enigma than a mother. Wrecked mentally by the scores of murders she carried out during the war and subsequent nightmare residency in Azkaban Victoria Abercrombie shifted from being a keen, cunning killer to an empty shell haunted by the past and imaginary scenarios. Though she had tried to make time for Farren she often approached her child as a mission to execute or was too lost in her head to be fully present. In the absence of a deep relationship with the woman the Abercrombie family had crafted an imaginary one for Farren. Victoria was a hero of the war, serving the Dark Lord exceptionally well despite her young age. After the fall she'd proudly stood up for their race and their mission to the Ministry. She'd marched into Azkaban with her head held high even though doctors deemed her too mentally distraught to serve time. After her release from the abusive hold of the Ministry she'd undergone treatment at length to heal herself for the family and the Dark Lord. When he returned she was at his side, carrying out his bidding, bringing pride to the family. It was no wonder young Farren didn't know her mother well, the woman was shouldering the Dark Lord's cause. Farren was taught of her mother's great accomplishments and magical strength to make up for her obviously lacking mental strength. Victoria was the pride of Slytherin, a champion duellest, a near prodigy of a witch.

But now she was an adult. She'd been soaked in the blood of this enigma warrior and seen how fragile she truly was. None of the lies she'd been raised on held water anymore but like losing ones religion there was always an inkling in the back of the mind that it was all true, that one had to live up to the standard you pretended to no longer believe. She now knew Victoria was plagued with physical issues, particularly the inability to carry a child a to term and other genetic defects relating to the limited gene pool pureblood wizards drew from. Her mother had been the epitome of a ruthless bully, taking power and success in any backhanded way necessary, in an almost masochistic fashion. The lunacy that had engulfed her mother so fully after the first war was far more severe than she'd ever been allowed to truly know: manic depressive disorder, post trauma hallucinations, mental breakdowns and psychotic fits. For all of her young life the mighty Victoria had been a frail, broke, shell of a woman.

Regardless of the conflicted image Victoria held Farren knew she needed to know more. Deep down she knew that in a significant way this was about the approval she'd always want from her mother. With everyone so close to Victoria dead or already in the family it was difficult to garner new perspectives. There was a long chapter of her mother's life she had no account of apart from someone retelling what Victoria had told them. Here, in this miserable hole, she hoped to start to reveal a whole new Victoria. At least it was easier to tell herself that than to say she was here to learn about her mother to deduce if the woman would be proud of the woman her death had forced her child to become.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the courtyard and Farren's attention was drawn upwards to the corroding gangway over head. A young, handsome auror was now stationed at the far end of it. She assumed this meant Mr. Purcell's arrival was imminent. Unsure of how she felt about her rash decision to reach out to him and to come here Farren inhaled deeply closing her eyes for a moment. Though the air was still heavy with mold and wet there was a briskness to it not available inside, courtesy of the wind rushing over the top of the structure above her head. 

With a heavy sigh Farren opened her steely blue eyes and turned towards the single entry point into the court yard.  Gaze trained on the iron door she mentally collected herself, exactly as she would before making a public appearance. She had a purpose, a goal, and a set list of things to accomplish in this interaction. That was her focus. But try as she may in the back of her mind the questions were already nagging. Would he think she had her mother's same prominent bone structure? Would he notice she was wearing the diamond heirloom earrings her mother was given for her 13th birthday? Would he hear the same effected socialite speech pattern in her that her mother had had having grown up in high society? Would he look at her and see Victoria not just physically but in the embodiment of her idea of a successful woman? It was a loaded question but one that was flickering intently in the recess of her mind.

The old iron door, corroded and discoloured to a greenish-brown from the sea air, was slowly pushed open, screaming upon it’s oversized hinges. From the darkness within stepped out a tall Auror with a long, gaunt face. He appeared to be in his forties; old for an auror; his skin lined delicately, his grey eyes matching the greying mop of hair on his head. He halted, and looked Farren up and down for a moment, bemused puzzlement etched upon his sharp features.

“Miss Abercrombie, I presume?” The Auror slowly walked towards Farren, examining her with his head pulled back from his shoulders, like a visitor at a museum curiously examining an ancient egyptian artifact; something so alien and exotic compared to his own life. Some moments passed in silence between them, before he dramatically cleared his throat.

“Welcome to Azkaban. My name is Auror Lithgow.” He licked his lips, narrowing his eyes at the witch standing before him.
“Alright, ma’am. If you would just follow the rules, then everything will be fine. This meeting is slightly . . . unorthodox, but . . . yes, well. . .” He looked away momentarily.
“Do not accept anything that the prisoner may attempt to give you. Do not attempt to give anything to the prisoner that is sharper than a piece of paper. No pencils, no quills, nothing. The prisoner’s movement will be restricted, but refrain from getting within an arm’s reach. At all times, there will be two aurors on the gangway above. At all times, there will be two aurors, myself included, behind this door. If you need anything, simply call us. When you want the meeting to finish, simply call us. Do you understand me?”

He reached into his robes and extracted a roll of parchment and a pencil. The auror fumbled with the document for a moment until he reached the right section of the text, before holding the pencil out to the witch. “Please sign here. It states that you were instructed regarding your safety, and that you or your family will not hold the Ministry responsible should injury or . . . death occur to you whilst on the premises today.”

He waited for her to finish applying her signature to the text, all the time his greedy eyes scanning her visage. Upon completion of the essential beaurocracy, he returned the items once more to within the folds of his robes.

“Thank you. And one other thing that I must tell you. The Ministry of Magic has a no-hostage policy. Thus in the unlikely event that you are kidnapped or taken hostage, the Ministry will not pay a ransom nor negotiate your release to satisfy any demands made.” With this, the auror smiled sickeningly.
“Well, now that’s all cleared up. Bring in the prisoner!” he bellowed suddenly, somewhat too loudly for the space they were in. His shrill voice echoed between the thick stone walls.

Another auror, much shorter than Lithgow and with a round baby face and cropped dirty blonde hair, walked through the doorway. Immediately behind him shuffled Gaius Purcell, wincing somewhat in the light for a moment. The Death Eater was dressed in his grey prison robes, the number D1-0039 roughly stencilled over his left breast. His hair was reasonably long and straggled, roughly slicked back from his face in thick strands. A silvery grey stubble thickly peppered the skin of his jaw. The wizard’s hazel eyes locked upon Farren, and remained fixed upon the elegant witch whilst the aurors busied themselves by fiddling with his shackles. Two old iron cuffs, linked by a short iron chain, retained his hands, and another set were affixed around his ankles. A further chain linked his hand restrains to this ankle restraints, meaning he had very little freedom of movement for his limbs, and could only shuffle forward at a slow pace. Yet he still attempted to stand with erect posture, despite the hindrance of his fetters.

As the finishing touches were made to his jangling restraints; Gaius could not help but give a somewhat off centred smile at Farren.

Presumably confident that his was sufficiently restrained, the Aurors got to their feet. The younger walked back through the doorway and into the darkness, whilst Lithgow followed at a slower pace, eyes scanning Gaius and Farren once more.

“Alright Mr. Purcell, you’re good to go. Follow the rules, please.”

“Of course, Auror Lithgow. Thank you for your assistance,” replied Gaius politely. His voice was hoarse, but strong. His eyes continued to bore into the witch.

The heavy iron door clanked shut. The lock echoed throughout the triangular courtyard, and a screech of gulls that had taken residence upon the nearby roof burst into flight, squawking as they departed into the dull grey sky.

Silence once more returned to this gaping hole in the middle of the prison. All that could be heard were the crashing waves of the North Sea as it threw itself against the rocks beyond the walls. For a moment, Gaius disengaged from viewing Farren, and looked up to the gangway that hung above them. Upon it two aurors stood; their wands drawn and held in their hands; one watching him directly; the other looking away, a cigarette with a glowing red tip hanging from his lips.

Gaius shuffled forward, somewhat awkwardly due to his restraints, until he was about two metres from Farren.

“And you must be, of course, Miss Farren Abercrombie,” Gaius began, his eyes narrowing. “As you probably have already realised based upon my somewhat theatrical entrance, I am Gaius Purcell.” The Death Eater smiled warmly at the brunette. “My sincerest apologies for having to meet you in Azkaban. They tell me it is not even comparable to the days when the Dementors stalked the corridors, but rest assured, it is not a place for a young woman of quality to spend any time. Hence my arrangement to meet with you here,” and with this he gestured with a constrained hand to the courtyard.  “Slightly inclement, no doubt, however it is much more agreeable and private here, than to converse amongst my esteemed peers in the visitors room. Some have not set eyes upon a woman for several years and, well, I’m sure you understand.”

Gaius broke away for a moment, as if listening to something in the distance. His eyes flashed back towards Farren as she stood in front of him.

“You have her posture, you know . . .”

“Yes,” Farren responded tersely as the grey headed man approached her. As was typical the witch had prepared herself mentally for all forms of encounters long in advance. She was well versed in controlling her behavior when need be and now was such an occasion. The way he nearly leered at her, like an exotic flower, in the dark rubble of the prison, she knew was two fold. Women of her caliber likely never entered this place. Partially because there were so few women of her caliber left walking free and because those that remained free had no business in such a place. On the other hand she knew that her name proceeded her everywhere she went. Especially Azkaban. The strong, young dark haired witch looked not so unlike another witch whom had passed through these halls some 20  years ago. Chained, humiliated, and stripped of power her mother Victoria had been imprisoned here after the first war. A prison term that would haunt the family for generations both emotionally, mentally, and publicly.

Given this man’s age it was possible he had just started his tenure here when her mother was here. Perhaps he watched as more senior guards and the Dementors abused her within inches of her life. Whatever was in his head, she didn’t care. She met his gaze with a stony expression. Perhaps he was undressing her in his head, perhaps he was marveling at the finery she wore to a prison and was mulling over what possessions one owned that made such garb, out of reach for most, prison visit attire for her, or maybe he was just thinking over all the things he’d seen and heard about her and the family. It didn’t matter, she was accustomed to all of it.

“I understand, thank you,” she said plainly with no intention of treating Giaus like some leper she had to form a perimeter around herself to guard herself against. As he presented her with a piece of parchment and a pencil she arched her eyebrow slightly. Had Azkaban given up on quills? Were they afraid she’d stab him in the jugular and kill him with a quill? Although a look of disapproving skepticism crossed her face for a moment she signed where indicated rather awkwardly having to hold the parchment against her left hand while signing with the right. Surely  they should do this upon arrival but perhaps they enjoyed attempting to make her squirm.

Steadfast she scowled at his tone and demeanor upon sneering through his hostage warning. “And whom will be taking me hostage Mr. Lithgow?” she questioned. Her tone was affected as if it was a waste of her time to speak to him. “Your Aurors or the prisoner whom your job is to control?” Pursing her lips momentarily she shrugged dismissively before offering her own sweetly sinister sneer, “I suppose it doesn’t matter, I have more than enough resources to pay my own ransom, whomever the culprit might be.” As he called for the prisoner to arrive she turned her eyes from him, stepping towards the door, so she were beside the auror, making it clear she was neither scared of he nor the prisoner. Her head was still raised proudly though her expression had shifted from stony boredom and indifference to something more powerful and defiant.

Having not seen a photo of Giaus more recent than the first war Farren was somewhat surprised when she saw a man who looked more world weary than old. It was a look much like she’d seen on her dear cousin Pyxis. The seemingly uniform unkemptness of him led her to assume that even basic hygienic allowances were not granted to prisoners.  The way he was chained seemed so barbaric it took considerable effort for her to not flinch from her painted on expression.

As the iron door begrudgingly slid shut behind the aurors Farren offered the Death Eater in front of her a slight nod. It was obvious she wasn’t the least bit flustered by all of this though an average person might be. She paid no mind to the overhead supervisors and waited patiently for the wizard to meet her. A thin smile crossed her lips as he greeted her. “Yes Sir, I am Miss Abercrombie, please call me Farren. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Purcell,” she said almost warmly though it was clear she was reserved. 

“No need to apologize to me Sir,” she said matter of factly, “It’s through no failure of your own that you find yourself in residence here,” she said her tone slightly lowered on the off chance the guards might hear her over the roaring sea surrounding them all. “The courtyard is surely sufficient enough,” she concluded abruptly making it clear that to her there was no point in bemoaning the circumstances of their meeting. In many ways were it not for Azkaban they may not even need to meet as such. For perhaps had Azkaban been a more tolerable place her mother would have survived longer and having lived through what she had with Victoria the witch needed no excuses or apologies for Azkaban. She knew all she needed to and had worked around the hand Azkaban had dealt her since she were but a girl.

The roar of the sea engulfed the hole they stood in, a tremor produced by a massive wave attacking two sides of the prison interrupted them as Farren looked down instinctively before realizing herself these must be quite normal and allowed to persist as some form of slow, extended, psychological annoyance. When the Death Eater commented on her similarity to her mother he probably knew he was stroking her ego, building some kernel of favor so that their interaction might be more easy. It did make her smile slightly more genuinely. “Tall, thin, arrogantly defiant?” she said almost mocking herself. “I daresay if I hadn’t inherited such mannerisms from her I’d have been taught them by a governess at some point.”

Unsure of how they should conduct their conversation Farren decided to let him take the lead and thus kept her first real comments light, something he could fumble against his restraints through without missing anything if he wished to move to the solitary bench or fall into some kind of constrained rhythm to walk laps around the courtyard.

“It was very kind of you to agree to indulge my curiosity,” she began, “I apologize for the letter out of the blue. If we were able I’d have made sure we were appropriately introduced before calling on you,” she paused not sure how to continue with a discourse that didn’t sound utterly pitiful. What did you say to a stranger you were meeting in prison to glean the most basic of information about your parent from? How did you say to a stranger that by the time you were old enough to understand anything about who people are your mother was so gripped by mental illness that it was impossible to know what she might have been when she were herself.

Having no good answer to these questions she proceeded with the history behind her needing to reach out to him. “As you know my mother was imprisoned when I was a toddler. Most of my memories of the event are foggy at best and probably just things I pieced together based on the newspaper clippings about the event. Being as you were close to her I assume you know that the first war had mentally exhausted her. I’m sure it’s redundant for me to remind you that though she was skilled and dedicated the duties placed upon her were greatly taxing. I suppose she was quite mentally unprepared for her role,” Farren paused.

Gaius would be more than familiar with the way her mother had been utilized by the Dark Lord. Her family connections allowed her access to the highest level people while her unrivaled skill as a duellist made her the deadliest young recruit the Dark Lord had at the time. Though she was jailed on a count of 12 murders her father put the number closer to three dozen, something no person would mentally handle well. As the first war had progressed Victoria had become increasingly depressed, riddled with anxiety, and suffered night terrors and insomnia. A fact that did not help and contributed to her having multiple miscarriages before she carried Farren. Excused from her duties for but a few months to bear and birth a new pureblood Victoria had resumed her duties when Ren was but three months old. It was assumed she suffered post partium depression in addition to her growing levels of post traumatic stress. Once the war was over Victoria had been arrested and briefly jailed despite Medi-Wizards testifying she was not mentally stable. It had famously taken months of appeals and the near death of the witch in Azkaban to have the medical opinions and issues she faced accepted by the ministry and have her released. 

After a pregnant pause she continued. It was all matter of fact though the underlying message was one of the most personal things one could discuss or dwell upon. Like her mother Farren was outwardly cold, reserved, and clearly calculating every word she issued. The former taught such behavior as she rose in station and importance to The Cause via marriage and acceptance from the Dark Lord, the latter taught from birth how to conduct herself and was far more skilled at wearing the veil a woman of her station must. “After her illness in the prison and subsequent treatments I’m afraid I was off at Hogwarts by the time she was close to being her old self, if she even managed to be close to that at all. I knew my mother via family instruction and scheduled visits. As she was taken from us so early and in such an altered state I’m trying to glean a better understanding of her, as I’d explained in my letter,” she offered a gentle smile not wanting the conversation to be bogged down by the sob story that was her mother and their failed relationship. She was here to gather facts and a personal account as far as he knew. Any ulterior motives would be closely guarded by the heiress.

The couple began a slow parade around the small exercise yard. Above them, the two aurors chatted quietly amongst themselves, now and again glancing at their charges.

“And I insist that you call me Gaius. It would feel terribly odd to me if we did not use our first names.” He smiled weakly at the witch. As she made her next statement, the Death Eater interrupted his guest politely, “I must respectfully disagree with you, Farren. It is through every failure of my own that I am here.” He thought back to those final days in London. How he stayed in the cursed Ministry with his overgrown Napoleon complex instead of going to Hogwarts for the futile fight to the death. If he had not died in the halls of Hogwarts, he could very well have ran away with the other cowards. But that was never an option. Still to this day there was a list permanently etched within the recesses of his memory, of the names of all those traitors who vanished into that dark night, abandoning the cause they once claimed so candidly to represent.

He could have ran before the Ministry had fallen. And yet he didn’t. “There’s not a day that passes, that I wonder if I made the correct decision. It would not have been difficult for me to have left with the others, to fade back into the darkness, live a half-life on the run. But,” and with this he looked off wistfully at the stone wall on the far side of the courtyard, “I thought there would be . . . something else. Someone else. Other loyalists to our cause. My comrades; those other followers of the Dark Lord. But I was uninformed regarding the extend of our defeat. It turned out, I was the only one left to face the music.” His hazel eyes turned back to the Abercrombie heiress at his side. “And that I did. But such is life.”

They continued their promenade, in this unlikeliest of places for an informal meeting. Even though he had been in her presence for only a matter of minutes, Gaius was struck by several elements of Farren’s makeup. For once thing; it was clear that she had been exceptionally well raised. Everything that radiated from the witch illustrated how she wished to be perceived in public; how she aspirated her voiceless consonants when she spoke; the cadence and timbre of her speech; the angle of her fine chin to her narrow throat; the perfect weight of each elegant stride: all was a perfectly arrangement result of years of the finest training possible. Not even the indiscriminate melting pot of Hogwarts appeared to have affected her. She was the precisely groomed heir of the Abercrombie line. To Gaius, her mother's presence haunted her physically. And as the young woman spoke, it dawned on him that Victoria’s spectral presence had an effect upon her psychically also.

Farren gave a brief underline of her mother’s past, as best she knew. It appeared that she wanted to know her mother better. The war had taken a near unimaginable toll on Victoria; of that Gaius was unfortunately too well aware; however that damage had affected mostly those closest to the Death Eater. Gaius was rarely directly faced with such stark realities. Of course, he was well aware that injuries acquired during wartime, both mental and physical, affected more than just their direct casualties. Gaius could explain, expound, rationalise this. Such events were distasteful, yes, but the sad consequence of human conflict, However, Victoria belonged to a small, tight cabal of wizards - those that Gaius directly cared for. Her illness and eventual death consternated the Death Eater. And now to see her very flesh and blood come to him for a deeper understanding of her character; well that caused very different emotion to grow in him. He empathised with Farren.

He listened, shuffling along beside her, nodding slowly. When she stopped, he remained silent, before coming to a halt himself. A gentle laugh echoed through the courtyard; one of the aurors on the gangway had shared a joke with his colleague. Gaius gestured to the little metal bench. “Perhaps we should take a seat?”

Once seated, he turned to the brunette and examined her carefully with his eyes. From her strong jaw to her fine nose and angular cheekbones; from her youthful blue eyes to her perfect hairline; he very deliberately studied her. Normally Gaius would never be so brutally boorish with a guest, but this guest was different, for Victoria Abercrombie’s blood flowed through her. And this made her hallowed.

Gaius exhaled, closing his eyes.

“I met you once before. That’s what I meant in my letter - you’re not a stranger to me. You were . . . I’m not sure . . . perhaps one year old? Not long before the Dark Lord suffered his first defeat.” Gaius leaned back into the bench, his eyes narrowing as he examined the records in the deepest recesses of his mind.
“A few of us; Malfoy, Yaxley, one of the Lestrange’s too, if I recall correctly. We had a meeting at Dalemain. Your mother hosted it. It was the first time I had seen her since she had given birth to you. We were so busy; running all over the country. It was not uncommon to lose track of our closest friends. I believe I spent six months in Scotland on His orders," the wizard frowned, as if long-forgotten memories were just beginning to resurface in his mind.
“She was so beautiful, and she was doing her best to hide it, but I knew she was struggling with the pressure of it all. To be honest, we all were.” Gaius turned back to Farren’s gaze. “There’s only so much death you can take part in, before it eventually affects you.”
“But I did see you, briefly, in the flesh. A little baby girl, fast asleep, wrapped in a white lace blanket. It was strange for me; to see your mother in the focus of motherhood. That’s not how I visualised her when we were younger. But there you were. Her child. It was only for a few minutes. I wished her and your father well. Then we went off again; orders, you see. We had so much to do.”

Gaius fell silent once more.

“Your mother changed so dramatically before we lost her. I’m not sure if I can give you a good description, because Victoria was a rather complex person. But, as it is not every day that I am visited by her daughter, I shall try my upmost.” He flashed a crooked smile to Farren, but it could not hide the sense of melancholy that had flooded his mind, hiding in the corners of his eyes.

“I first met your mother when we both started Hogwarts together, in 1962. As you know, we were both sorted into Slytherin house. It was obvious from the first classes we attended that Victoria was talented. Very soon, she was perhaps the best in the house. It took some time for her and myself to become properly acquainted. As you possibly already know, my background, whilst far from penurious, was nothing like that of the Abercrombie family.” Gaius gave another smile to Farren. He was not aiming to be cruel; but rather underline to Farren that she lived in a very different world to the average witch and wizard.

“I would say it was in our third or fourth year that I began to know Victoria better. We were both very decent academically, and Professor Slughorn would routinely select us to participate in events as representatives for the house. You mother was an extremely proficient duellist, as you are well aware, and I supported her in competitions, despite her being much more talented than myself. Debating competitions, Defence against the Dark Arts demonstrations for younger students, the school newspaper. Those kinds of things. She was always involved. But it was in our later years,that we became close. At first, if I may be so bold,” and with that, a lighthearted, sly glance to the brunette by his side, “I would have guessed that your mother did not like me very much. I was young, arrogant, I had ideas above my station, I chatted frequently with all the girls, in all the houses. A girl of good breeding, like your mother, would very probably have been well warned about my type.” He gave a gruff laugh, enough to make the aurors on the gangway momentarily look at the couple, before returning to their own secretive conversation.
“However, eventually, for whatever reason that to this day I am still unaware of, your mother and I developed something of a friendship. To be honest, Farren, at first I had very little faith or interest in her. To me, back when I was full of youthful arrogance and pride, with faith in nothing but my own thick head, I though that Victoria was an out-of-touch toff, living in a castle in the countryside; completely unmoored to reality.”

The wizard turned to Farren, meeting her icy blue eyes. “And that’s where I was completely wrong. For Victoria Abercrombie was a very motivated young woman, with ideals and principles far beyond anything I could have predicted.”

“By our Seventh year, Victoria and I were lucky enough to become both Head Boy and Girl. Now back in our day, that was quite the event. I’m not sure how it works in Hogwarts today, but back when we were students, for both Head students to come from the same house caused slight consternation. However, if I may self-aggrandise for a moment; we were rather good at it.”

Gaius stopped his little discourse, and turned back to the crumbling stone wall that marked the exercise yard. For a moment, the muffled crashing of the waves of the North Sea against the ragged shore of Azkaban island were all that could be heard.

“But you want to know what she was like, am I correct? She was extremely . . . accurate. She did not make mistakes, at least publicly. She had a will to success; I would almost describe it as a Nietzschean will to power. She was only 17, and yet she walked those corridors as if the school was her own little army to command.” The wizard laughed momentarily to himself. “Merlin, I still remember how she ordered those prefects about.”

A pause, whilst he observed Farren’s porcelain face carefully.
“And that, dear Farren, was why I loved her. For I had never met a young woman with such ruthless ambition, and such pride. She was awfully impressive.”

There were few people Miss Abercrombie was on first name basis with in a positive way. To a lady of breeding using given names meant one of two things: that person was either your close friend or relation, or an inferior. It was odd for her to have an elder request she instantaneously put herself in the former category. A peer or at least an equal. Farren did not rebuke his command nor his contest that his imprisonment was his fault. Naturally she understood his point of view but would not completely accept that someone acting honorably was deserving of prolonged punishment.

The lithe heiress followed her host to the lone bench silently, not wanting to verbally agree as that would be an awkward indirect recognition of his bindings. Something she had chosen to ignore and not acknowledge as one would if someone had a physical disability, lack of acknowledgment was a refusal to recognize a weakness or fault.

He stared at her quite blatantly as they were seated side by side. It was, in most circumstances, extremely rude but there was nothing normal about this circumstance. So she stared back at him dully letting him bore into her with his eyes clouded with some kind of emotion she did not attempt to discern. Perhaps this was more difficult for him than she thought? She assumed that he was cataloging her appearance, comparing her composition to that of his dead friend. It hadn't occurred to her that this experience might be equally if not more uncomfortable him than herself. Afterall who could be the judge of grief, regret and embarassment? Was it more miserable to lose a parent you did not have a deep relationship with, whom you grew up being drained by yet constantly fed excuses for their behavior or to lose someone you grew up with, whom you lived with and accomplished goals with? Perhaps the crux of it all was that it had been Farren's job to not act to prevent her mother's death. As the heir she was untouchable and expressly forbidden by her mother from stepping into potential harm. Giaus on the other hand chosen not to fight along side his old friend. He chose to watch a woman of deeply diminished psychological ability march into battle, alone, amongst peers that knew not the extent of her damages. He'd let her march into battle with only young Pyxis as her guardian and then she'd been killed. Farren was suddenly very much aware of the acute grief it was probable Giaus was chained to and she almost pitied him for having been saddled with hers as well now. In addition she'd put him in the awkward position of forcing a meeting with him in shackles. He had agreed and invited her but none the less there had to be some tinge of embarrassment to the ordeal. 

His sole memory of her garnered a small grin. "I do not think you are the only one who thought motherhood was an odd look for her. I daresay she would have agreed," she offered almost lightly but in fact it was fairly well known that Victoria had been no natural mother. It was impossible for her to be and while part of Farren may have resented her for it at one point it only filed her with a bizarre sense of remorse and indifference now.

She listened politely as he told the tale of Giaus Purcell and Victoria Bennett. It was a story that did not feel wholly foreign. The tales of her mother were borderline mythical in her childhood home. As an absentee parent what little authority Victoria had to wield over her only child was derived entirely from her perceived perfection. An authority Farren felt still today, as she sat here wanting to know the woman.

Parts of his tale made her smile and other parts made her gentle polite smile fade for a fleeting second to a grimace. An expression of regret and discomfort, it was the parts of the tale that reminded Farren of herself that made her perfected facade chip. To some extent she knew she and her mother were similar, that was obvious. However hearing it from someone who had no idea he was describing the young woman in front of him was jarring.

The heiress did not interrupt or interject. When he concluded she offered him a meek smile, a genuine expression of appreciation and forlorn. Her gaze lowered to her lap before looking across the yard to the crumbling stone wall. A pronounced silence hung over them. The sea and wind outside were a distant, muffled roar. She was unsure what to say or maybe even why she'd come here. As she'd contemplated perhaps she wasn't ready for this. It was unlike her to feel unprepared but right about now she felt like someone who had marched on stage to give a speech but had dropped their notecards in a puddle as they mounted the podium.

"It certainly sounds like you knew her very well," Farren offered in a deep, gentle tone. Blinking at the wall in front of her she shifted to push several strands of hair caught in the stale airflow from her face. "Thank you," she said simply though it was clear that was a loaded statement. She was a dying breed of heiress and he was a dying breed of stalwart. Heartfelt discussions and reminiscing were not comfortable practices for either of them. Emotional outbursts and reactions were for the lesser rungs of society who acted with fickle hearts and rash thinking.

"I suppose what I want, by whatever means I can best achieve it, is to know her mind. I want to know what her opinion would be on all manner of things," looking back at the captive beside her she tilted her pretty head in thought. "It is my assumption that many girls know what their mother's would think. Even if they ignore it the mother's opinion is internalized. At least it's there to guide them as much as they would listen to it."

"I never developed such a connection. I know enough to guess in many cases but in others am unable to even guess," Farren fell silent. Again she shifted her gaze to some spot over his shoulder letting the pronounced white silence return. She wasn't uncomfortable but she wasn't one to be vulnerable or discuss her feelings with anyone but her most trusted confidants.

"I should add....." She started almost hesitantly shifting her gaze back to Giaus, "My father hardly speaks of her. He cannot overcome his grief and regrets. His life is shrouded in grief and acts of emotional suppression. Unfortunately he is unable to help with my concerns to any great extent," the delicate young woman looked across at the haggard man, a stony expression etched over her sharp features. There was nothing soft about heiress but there was, to a knowing eye, a young adult all but abandon by her parents emotionally screaming and clawing behind her iron walls. She was more broken than the most war ravaged body. Her scars were just hidden behind excellent genetics, years of behavioral and emotional modification, and the inability to truly trust anyone.