[Mini Plot] They Came From All Over (open!)

It was a relatively calm, peaceful autumn night in early November, but the atmosphere in Hogsmeade was anything but quiet. In the morning, the British Ministry of Magic would be opening their summit on the subject of trying to find Hogwarts Castle and its students hidden inside or beneath the large impenetrable dome that had appeared there over a month and a half prior. Wizards and witches from many different countries had responded to the advertisement that was published in all of The Daily Prophet's international translations. Both major inns in Hogsmeade were full to the brim and the Muggle establishments in the nearest towns (still many leagues away) were beginning to run out of rooms as well.

And there sat Ceinwen Conway, hundred-year-old matriarch of the Rhayader Conways, on a barstool at the Three Broomsticks, singing "Cariad Cywir" off-key while a portly bowlegged wizard from Austria was duetting with her, mumbling his way through "Prost Prost Kamerad" while his moustaches dripped with butterbeer foam.

Ceinwen, who had no children of her own but at least two great-nephews that were attending Hogwarts, had made up her mind before her birthday two weeks ago that she would be coming to Hogsmeade to try and solve the problem herself. She had more years on her than most, and even if she did realise she went dotty half the time, why shouldn't she try to put all her knowledge and experience to good use? In fact it wasn't until she's already been in Hogsmeade two days and purchased a little parcel of land on the outskirts of the small wizarding town that she even heard the Ministry was having the summit to begin with. To which she had replied, in typical fashion, "Well it's about time they caught up to my way of thinking. Now pass me that marmalade, young lady, I need it for my toast." The young lady in question was an alley cat - male, in case you were wondering.

So far Ceinwen hadn't been able to figure out much, and though she'd absent-mindedly tried to do a few things to the dome she was still (miraculously) uninjured but equally uncertain how to solve the problem of the mysterious, ancient barrier. Oh, it was old old magic, for sure. Ceinwen might not know where she was most mornings when she woke up, but she could recognise the hum and thrum of the oldest of magicks, beyond human comprehension and beyond human control. So she would be attending the summit, and come hell or high water she would be heard, even if her contribution to the whole thing was minimal.

In the meantime, however, she had time to kill, and she was making acquaintances with the foreigners (and the other British folks who came up for a temporary stay) as they prepared their own notes and researches and references for the following morning's beginning of proceedings. The pub, she found, was an excellent way to get to know those people.

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Rolled 2d50 : 35, 20, total 55
Rolled 1d100 : 6, total 6

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“Do you know who I bloody work for?!”

She bellowed the words venomously across the bar at Madam Rosmerta, her face contorted with incandescent rage, her hands gripping the edge of the old wooden surface. It was more a statement of intent rather than a genuine question. Dressed in black robes, Nathalie was waylaid with luggage; by her feet were two oversized packing cases loaded with various documents and scrolls which she had apparated alongside herself from London. Over her shoulder she carried a sack filled with the same, and her cheeks were reddened, whether from physical exhaustion or mental anguish at the unfolding scene, it was hard to discern.

Madam Rosmerta crossed her arms across her generous chest, and gave the blonde at the other side a withering look. “Look here missy," she began, her voice low and precise, "you can’t just wander up here from London and demand to just get a room, like we’re simple country folk who’ll just do what you ministry busybodies order us to. We’re fully booked, we have half of wizarding Europe upstairs, and I could have taken three times as much, had I the space. But I don’t, so you’ll just have to try somewhere else.”

“I don’t give a shit who you have upstairs. I don’t care if you have the bloody German minister for magic. The Office of Public Information Services of the BRITISH MINISTRY booked four rooms. So you better start clearing out the bloody Germans or, I swear . . .”

“You’ll do what, Missy? What exactly will you do?” Madam Rosmerta had leaned over the bar, her bright eyes narrowing and her lips pursing. “You know, I remember you, I remember you well. Last year you were swanning around Hogsmeade in a school uniform looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. You even had the cheek to come in here with your attitude. Well let me tell you one thing, you were a little bitch then and you’re a little bitch now, and there are no rooms for you at my establishment, ministry or no ministry!!”

Nathalie’s nostrils flared, and judging by the beetroot colour of her face, she was either going to have a stroke, or was about to assault Madam Rosmerta. Just then, with her pupils dilated and her body trembling with indignation, a discordant melody, which had been providing the surreal background music to this contest of wits, grew to an ear-shredding crescendo that made both combatants wince. Nathalie spun to face the singing couple,who were seated upon stools at the centre of the bar. A kindly-faced elderly witch with bright white hair and a corpulent gentleman with an equally burly moustache were carefully finishing their renditions, which upon closer consideration appeared to be two entirely separate songs, whilst some audience members broke out into an alcohol-fuelled applause.

Nathalie snapped.

“Would you two put a bloody cork in it?!! I can’t hear myself think; it’s like you’re strangling a bloody cat and no one wants to hear your caterwauling!!!”

The Ministry of Magic had booked four rooms at the Three Broomsticks for the Office of Public Information Services employees including herself, Nathalie, and Michael. Though, by the looks of things, Nathalie wouldn't be getting her room. Rosaline supposed that she shouldn't have looked so smug, standing by the window listening to the music with a drink in her hand. The singing was off, but she didn't mind it much. She had recognized the older Welsh woman as Ceinwen Conway. She was a pureblood, and while Rosaline did not know her on a personal level she was at least aware of a few basic facts. Ceinwen was the matriarch of the Conway family, and as a prominent woman of another prominent Welsh family, the young woman would be absolutely daft to not know who she was.

It was for that reason that she was shocked at her coworker's behavior. Immediately, Rosaline's cheeks flushed with embarrassment and indignation. Walking smoothly to Nathalie's side, Rosaline spoke calmly. "This is no place to make a scene, Ms. Wilkins. Particularly when you have just been denied service." With that, she finished the last drink from her glass of firewhiskey and placed the glass on the counter. "So, if you would kindly keep your voice down." After a moment or so had passed, her drink was refilled and she had laid the money on the counter for Rosmerta to collect. Honestly, Nathalie's shrieking was giving her more of a headache. In the office, she mainly dealt with Michael. After tonight, she would remember to be more grateful. He may have been a muggleborn, after all, but at least she had never seen him throwing a tantrum like that. And he was a bit easy on the eyes...

At that thought, Rosaline took a drink from her glass once more. She had to keep her head in the game. There were a few things in some of the scrolls underneath Llys y Dail that she had scribbled down and taken along as potential solutions to this problem of the dome. She hoped that the students, professors, and others trapped inside were all still alive. The dome appeared to be brought about by some sort of old magic. It was certainly nothing that she had ever seen or heard of before. Rosaline found herself feeling grateful that she was not one of the unfortunates trapped in the castle. If only she had known that the last time that she had seen her loved ones who were inside Hogwarts that it could have, indeed, been the last time that she ever saw them. She thought of Basil, and how things hadn't gone as she had planned with him. She wished that she had gotten to see him over the summer. However, he had opted to go to a camp instead. It was probably for the best, to be honest. Things had been a little... off between them, ever since the summer before her seventh year. Now, she would have given anything to see him, or to see any of her friends and family at Hogwarts.

She would even endure Nathalie Wilkins, if that is what it took.

The heir wing of Harlington Manor had been used for generations as the main base for the family's up and coming patriarchs. The ancient room having witnessed the transformation of many from arrogant boys to proud men ready to lead the family and deal with the responsibility that entailed. The room reflected the family's extravagant, but never ostentatious, heaven forbid, taste in decor.  The walls were painted a light peach colour and were lined with several works of art the current heir found pleasing to the eye. At its centre was a magnificent mahogany table, which was used to complete any family business deemed important enough to catch the occupants eye.

Behind said desk was the current owner of the room, one Pyxis Hartridge Abercrombie. The man infamous amongst the denizens of the wizarding world for being trialled as a Deatheater two years before. The Pureblood heir was clad in a pair of dark green wizarding robes, which had been fitted to emphasise the muscular build he was beginning to regain from months of following a healthy diet and making use of nutrient potions. His mind healer was also pleased with his mental recovery, and all being well, in a few months it would be as though he was never in Azkaban. The lack of Dementers, under the current regime, meant he was a lot better off than relatives, such as his Aunt Victoria, who had spent their time in Azkaban under the Dementer's tender care.

Across from the man sat Gabriel Dinkage. A tall gangly man with rim glasses and a clipboard at his chest. He had a naturally cheerful countenance and was dressed in a pair of emerald green robes. He was the Hartridge family's PR manager, and questionable taste in clothing aside, was one of the best at his job. He was currently advising the dark haired pureblood on the best course of action. "Pyxis, you must attend the symposium the Ministry have announced! It could be the perfect remedy for your image problem! Can you imagine it? 'Hartridge socialite aids in the rescue of the nations pride and joy!' "The man's manner betraying excitement the composed Legilimens found rather irritating.

"You can relax Gabriel". The words spoken with a slight sneer to them and a hint of warning. "I shall attend! And be seen as the perfect and charming socialite whose concern for our nations youth can not be contested".

It was time for Pyxis to make his return to the wider wizarding world. It was time for him to strengthen his reputation by aiding in the rescue of today's youth. And it was time for him to make his family proud!

....

With an almost silent pop, Pyxis Abercrombie appeared in the road that ran through Hogsmeade. The imposing figure's blue eyes instantly scanning the terrain for signs of hostile forces. Although the man expected to find nothing, it was a habit drilled into him by living in a time of war. Once he was satisfied with what he found, the man instantly made a beeline for the three broomsticks. The Hartridge heir having been invited to meet with a Russian diplomat he had become familiar with during his time working at the Department of International Co-Operation. Although he had since been elevated to a higher societal standing it did no harm to continue strengthening such alliances. After all, as any true member of the elite knew, money was nothing without the history, influence, and power to back it up.

Today, the pureblood had opted for an outfit that ought to make him appear more approachable to the progressive masses, without betraying his conservative leanings. The Legilimens was clad in a bespoke suit with a style similar to that of muggle formal wear. The suit in question consisted of a white shirt, a dark blue tie and a matching jacket, which brought out the colour of his eyes. The trousers by contrast were plain black. His dark hair had been grown out so it reached his shoulders and shaped his features nicely. All in all, he considered him to be especially handsome on that particular day.

When he opened the door to the three broomsticks the Pureblood heir stared with distain as Nathalie Wilkins screamed and shouted like some sort of harlot denied access to her addiction of choice. Her behaviour was appalling, and he was going to have to discuss with Farren procuring some etiquette lessons for the girl. If they were going to associate with Miss. Wilkins then she needed to master some semblance of decorum.

Pyxis made his way through the bar and approached the three. "Ladies" a small nod offered to Rosaline alone, as she at least had not lowered herself to such demeaning behaviour. "Let us all calm down and try to remember why we are here. Madam Rosmerta, I can imagine it must be hurtful to have people come into your establishment and treat you in such an uncouth manner. However, I ask of you to allow this young woman some leeway for her behaviour today. From what you have said she has just left Hogwarts herself, and therefore it is likely she has friends, maybe even family, trapped within its walls. Of course her temper is frayed" the middle aged woman looked appropriately apologetic as a result of the politely worded rebuke.  "And as for you miss...?" He made his tone sound questioning. It clear the Hartridge Abercrombie wished for Nathalie to act as though they have never met. "Madam Rosmerta is in charge of this establishment. If there is no room then there is no room".

It was then the man paused and ordered himself a bottle of their finest whisky with a charming smile. The man waiting until he had taken his first sip before declaring for the bar to hear. "The return of our children is the most important goal any of us can strive for at this time. Therefore, I will pay for all Ministry Officials the Three Broomsticks can not fit to stay at the Whispering Willow hotel in London for the next two nights". The Whispering Willow was one of the finest hotels in Britain. It was known for its extremely exclusive clientele and even the elite of society sometimes struggled to get a room. It was a testament to his family's influence that he could confidently make such an arrangement. Now thanks to Pyxis, Nathalie and her ilk got a much better deal than those who had managed to procure rooms in Hogsmeade.

With that unfortunate matter dealt with he gestured for Nathalie and Rosaline to join him at the back of the bar. It was then he looked to Rosaline choosing to ignore Nat for the moment "Miss. Bane.. How are you today? I was sorry to hear about your mother and cousin being amongst those trapped" his tone suitably sorrow. In the meanwhile with a discreet wave of the wand concealed within his sleeve he used the extent of his rudimentary legilimency skills to crudely alter Nathalie's memories so they showed him telling her to refrain from shouting, or revealing they know each other. The last thing he needed was the silly twit making people suspicious and poke their noses where they don't belong.

((Hope this post works for everyone! The Amazing Potato feel free to have Ceinwen join them. I just did not think Pyxis would have interrupted her. @Ceinwen Conway @Nathalie Wilkins  @Rosaline Bane ))

Before the two "choristers" had a chance to respond, Nathalie was accosted by a woman who appeared by her side and immediately came to Madam Rosmerta’s defense. When it dawned on Nathalie who exactly this was, she was horrified. None other than Rosaline Bane, her former classmate, and who recently had appeared in the same ministerial department as her own; spending an awful amount of time with Michael Evans, more senior member of the team. They appeared to be working upon a project that, due to lack of general conversation on it, was to be of the greatest secrecy. She had often seen the two of them sitting side by side through the frosted windows of conference rooms, deep in secretive conversations, over a topic that the blonde presumably was not to be privy to. And here she was, asking Nathalie to keep her voice down.

She may have been a Bane, but Nathalie, already pushed towards an uncertain breaking point, was about to read her the riot act too; something along the lines of how dare you come over here and interfere with my work. She had turned with eyes afire towards the dark haired witch when a man’s voice stopped her in her tracks. It was Pyxis Abercrombie, who was recently having the unfortunate tendency to appear uninvited at random points in her daily life, ever since their peculiar late-summer meeting at Harlington Manor. He had strode across the bar, all heads turning towards him and Nathalie paused, open-mouthed, as he proceed to take command of the entire situation. Soon Madam Rosemerta was soothed, an exorbitant fire-whiskey was purchased, and any argument that she once had had was unceremoniously cut off.

Fuming, she followed Rosaline to the back of the bar after Pyxis’ gesture. She stood there, arms across her chest and face like thunder when suddenly she joined eyes with Pyxis and a flash of light in her peripheral vision caused her to look sideways, where there was nothing but the rotten wooden wall of the old pub. Gradually, it appeared to her that the sequence of events that had just occurred seemed out of alignment, and she stood puzzled with her brow furrowed and feeling rather curious, whilst Pyxis made small talk. She had a strangely clear memory of him very clearly informing her to shut up and act as if she were a stranger to him. But, not publicly. And yet he had been here for only a minute or two. She attempted to assemble what exactly had happened again, when the penny began to drop.

He had planted that memory in her head.

She flashed the wizard a piercing stare with narrowed eyes. How dare he, she thought. The thug. How dare he violate her like that. She would obey him as he wished, naturally, as their previous meeting had had a somewhat seditious bent, but she would bring this up later. She would not allow such a encroachment of her mind to pass with no comment.

Instead she turned to Rosaline, and began in hushed whispers. “Well thank you very much, Miss Bane. Thanks for sticking up for me. That went wonderfully. I was simply trying to negotiate what was fairly ours; just like was organised back in London, on Ministry orders; and then I set foot in this pigsty of a place filled with mad old codgers to find out that everything was royally screwed up because she is an imbecile, and then you take her side? Rosmerta is an spiteful hag with a chip in her shoulder the size of the Great Hall.” The blonde signed dramatically, rolling her eyes for effect, before turning to Pyxis.

“Well alright then, Bane. Introduce me to your wealthy boyfriend.” She spoke to Pyxis directly. “So thoughtful of you to put us up in London, Mister . . .?”

Rosaline could not help but to feel some amount of amusement at just the look on Nathalie's face when she had seen her. Her eyes lit up with a fire that said "try me" when the other witch had appeared to be preparing to start in on her, and a small, though presumably unsettling smile shone on her face. However, their almost-confrontation was put to a stop, thankfully, due to the arrival of Pyxis Abercrombie. Rosaline usually wrote the Abercrombies off as politically useful, but not people who she would like to spend a great deal of time with. The women, in particular, seemed to be a bit empty-headed for her tastes. Not that some of the women in her own family were much better; nor were the men. In fact, she was beginning to think that the whole world was littered with idiots. Idiots like Ms Wilkins, who saw fit to start a fight in a bar during an actual crisis.

Abercombie, or Hartridge Abercrombie, if one wanted to be entirely correct, appeared to be a sight better than some of his other family members already. He certainly had good taste in liquor, and that was something that any Bane could appreciate. Rosaline stood silently during his announcement to the pub that he would pay for unarguably better rooms in London. It was likely all for show, after all. She had been raised around boys who would grow up to be men like Mr. Hartridge Abercrombie. Most of them were, to be frank, full of shit. She would see about him, she supposed.

Following him alongside Nathalie, with no real motivation other than why not?, the trio made their way to the back of the bar before moving on with conversation. Rosaline offered him a polite smile and a nod before she opened her mouth to speak, "I am as well as can be expected. I only hope that we may free those at Hogwarts soon." With another nod, she continued, "Thank you. I do hope that none of your loved ones are there?" However, their conversation was not able to continue much further on past that. Nathalie was not yet finished with her temper tantrum, or so it would appear.

At least, this time, she isn't being so loud.

"I do not condone the sort of behavior that you were exhibiting. We are ladies, Ms. Wilkins. Much more importantly than that, even, we are dealing with an actual, real-life tragedy. There are children trapped in that castle, and your concern lies with where you are going to lay your head at night. I am not sure what sort of morals and decency your family has instilled in you, but that is not the way that I was taught that young ladies should behave." Not that she had much room to talk, with the drugs and the secrecy, but... Well, what Nathalie did not know, she could not use against her. "Madam Rosmerta is a normally very kind woman, who you have given enough reason to dislike you. You would be wise not to make the same mistake here." Rosaline warned her in an icy whisper.

The dark-haired witch took care not to physically react to the childish 'boyfriend' comment. "Actually, I am afraid that Mr. Hartridge Abercrombie is but an acquaintance. Nonetheless, Ms. Wilkins, meet Mr. Hartridge Abercrombie. And likewise." Producing a small smile, Rosaline nodded in agreement with the last bit of what Nathalie had said.

"Yes. That was quite generous. Thank you."

The Hartridge heir sat and surveyed the blond and dark haired witch across from him. His back held upright and his piercing blue eyes staring intently at the room surrounding them. His haughty expressions betrayed none of the amusement he felt at the sight of Nathalie’s crossed arms and hostile countenance. She would be terrible at Occlumency the dark haired male mused as he silently considered the woman he was expected to train. Had no one taught her the art of subtlety? Had she never been introduced to the idea that such overt displays of emotions were not only uncouth, but tools an enemy could use to manipulate her into doing their bidding? To be frank, she was behaving more like a Gryffindor, with their hot headed responses to perceived injustices, than a Slytherin who usually favoured a calmer and cool headed approach such as bribery, or extortion if necessary.

The twenty nine year old ignored the piercing stare Miss. Wilkins fixed him with. The former Deatheater able to guess, without the aid of Legilimency, that she had figured out what he had done. Not that he was surprised. It had, after all, been a blunt use of the mind art designed to get his message across, rather than a genuine attempt to unknowingly invade the deepest recesses of her mind. Instead, his attention remained on the dark haired woman. The Briton had just been about to answer Rosaline’s query about loved ones when he found himself being interrupted by Nathalie. Pyxis allowed his thick brows to rise upwards, while his lips pursed in disapproval. It seemed her earlier exhibition had not been enough to sate the blond’s sense of impropriety. Again, the former Slytherin found himself wondering how he was ever going to mould Miss. Wilkins into a useful tool for the Deatheater remnant that had begun to gather in recent months.

Pyxis opened his mouth to further rebuke her only to be beaten to it by Rosaline. The dark haired man nodded his head in agreement as Miss. Bane proceeded to give the light haired woman a much needed put down. He would of course add his own words later in the conversation, but for now, the Welsh woman was doing a more than adequate job of correcting the prisoner’s daughter. He had never really had much to do with Rosaline. The age difference between them meaning that he had already left Hogwarts by the time she had started and her family’s residency in Wales, as opposed to England, meant the Hartridge’s and Bane’s rarely crossed paths socially. However, he found himself approving of her decorum thus far. Much more than what he would have expected based on the little Farren had shared about her thoughts on the girl.

The former Deatheater almost chuckled when Nathalie first described him as Rosaline’s boyfriend and then thanked him along with the other witch. If Miss. Wilkins wanted to try irking him by insinuating things she knew not to be true as a part of their act as strangers he would be more than happy to do the same in turn. “It is absolutely no problem and there is honestly no need to thank me” the words spoken in a slow and deliberate tone with perfect enunciation that came as a result of years of elocution lessons. “As you quite correctly pointed out Miss. Bane, there are children trapped in that castle. There are people’s children, parents, aunts, cousins and closest friends trapped in that castle. I would be most remiss if I allowed tomorrow’s symposium to be disturbed by something as petty as sleeping arrangements”. Although he had said nothing directly to Nathalie anyone who paid attention to the subtleties of other people’s words would have caught the clear rebuke in them.

In case the blonde was not one of those people the Hartridge heir decided to opt for a more direct approach to the problem. “Can I teach you a lesson I, and other Slytherins like Miss. Bane, here learnt as Slytherins back in our days at Hogwarts Ms. Wilkins?” the handsome Briton used the form of address Rosaline had introduced Nathalie to him with, and he resisted the urge to smirk at the dig he was making, that had he not known her he would have thought of Nathalie as being unworthy of the Snake house. “When you find yourself in a situation such as the one you faced today losing your composure and insulting others in your ire is not the way to gain your desire. Indeed your actions simply made Madam. Rosmerta even more determined to deny you a place for the night. Instead, what you must do is remain dignified and use your intelligence to find a way to make yourself a desirable guest. Use whatever tools are at your disposal to ensure that the person with the thing you want is more likely to bend the rules to aid you”. Even though there were wards protecting the three of them from eavesdroppers he opted not to go into details on said methods, of which there were many. There were the obvious ones such as bribery for those in an economic position to do so, extortion for those cunning enough to research their prey and find something that would embarrass, seduction for those brave enough to flitter between the lines of respectability by appearing to offer something they shouldn’t, and lastly there was threatening to harm them and their loved ones if compliance was not reached. While he had used the last method in the past it was Pyxis’ least favourite as he thought it more suiting to petty thugs. 

It was then he turned his attention to Rosaline once more“as for your earlier question I am afraid my cousin Piers Hartridge has been caught within the confines of the dome”. In truth, the boy was the grandson of his grandfather’s cousin and thus much more distance than the Hartridge heir’s words implied. However, he doubted anyone truly wanted to hear the intricacies of his family’s tree. Besides the family trees of the other elites here in Britain, and abroad, had been drilled into him since before his Hogwarts day, and he was confident it would have been the same for Rosaline. If Nathalie wished to learn more she would simply have to do her homework.

It was then he smiled softly at the two of them before assuming a slightly meeker aura than before. “As workers of the Ministry have you ladies any ideas about what the ministry have planned for tomorrow? Do you think these might perhaps aid us in our task of freeing our trapped brethren”. It was then with the flick of his wand that three large and clearly ancient looking books suddenly floated out of his bag and on to the table before them. They were covered in protection spells lest they fall a part from brutish handing. “Do you think these might be of any use?” They had come from his family’s library and contained detailed information on rare and unusual wards and shields.

Stop fidgeting, stop being weird. People are going to stare.

Ether didn’t get involved. He did not work in groups, he did not play well with others, and to be frank, he didn’t give a shit if that was an undesirable quality. He was the proprietor of a successful business, keeping his income steady and strong, in addition to being on retainer with the ministry. He was used to flying solo, especially when it came to his work. Now, though, as he walked down the streets of Hogsmeade, the worst parts of his Ministry contract had once more reared their ugly head.

When the dome had gone up, naturally it was big news. Crisis mode. Apocalypse splattered across the pages of the Prophet. No one could get in, no one could get out, and no one had any idea what was going on inside the walls of what was supposed to be one of the safest places in the wizarding world. Ether had found it troubling, sure, but he didn’t personally know anyone inside. He didn’t have that strong, panicked connection of a parent or aunt or uncle. He’d been out of school for so long that he’d actively sought to repress the memories, to avoid the past and the punk he’d once been. It had been over a decade. He cared, but not enough to do anything.

But he didn’t have a choice. He was deployed, called into action, more than earning his keep of Ministry money for the year. He was their most active ward master. He had a reputation and he got the job done. They had him by the neck, and he knew better than to try to quarrel or talk his way out of it. They’d put him up in The Three Broomsticks, along with many other Ministry personnel, but this was different for him. He was a contracted employee, not an office drone. Besides the occasional owl correspondence, he didn’t even know anyone at the Ministry. He maintained a healthy distance. He liked to think it made him a better curse breaker.

As quietly as he could manage, he let himself into the old pub and was met with the sight of many bustling people. He’d never seen the place like this, so frantic, so diverse. People from all over the world were here, wanting to solve the puzzle. Some had a personal stake, saving a loved one. Some wanted recognition and praise for solving the puzzle. They wanted to be the smartest. And Ether, and hopefully a few other twisted souls, wanted to solve this for one simple reason: to go home and get back to their regular lives.

His rucksack on his back, he made his way to the counter and smiled at Rosmerta. She was as curvaceous as ever, as pretty as he remembered. He'd flirted relentlessly with her as an upperclassmen, and he liked to think that she fancied him just a bit. “Hello, I’m Vandross, Ether Vandross,” he explained, to which she promptly insisted she remembered him. He flashed her a smile. Those memories were made over a decade ago, surely she was just saying it. “I’m here with the Ministry, I’m supposed to have a room? They owled me a confirmation, somewhere… in here,” he said, ruffling in his bag. But then she told him they were overbooked. He didn’t have a room. It was then that she spoke up, pointing to a group of three, and Ether went a bit pale.

It was like Hogwarts all over again.

He could tell their blood was pure just by looking at them. It was in the style, the movements, the way they spoke. The way they carried themselves. Their diction and their elocution and their formality. He swallowed, blinking. He recognized that man, that face. It had been in all the papers. That was Pyxis Abercrombie, and he was a Death Eater. He pulled his rucksack higher on his shoulders, furrowing his brows, feeling like he was being stared at. He looked to Rosmerta. “He’s not going to be paying for me to stay anywhere,” he said quietly, his tone pointed, the insinuation clear. As if the man would foot the bill of a mudblood. Ether tried, and usually succeeded, to ignore his blood status. In day to day activities it rarely came up, it was only the moments like these, when he was surrounded by strangers, that people knew. As quickly as he could tell that their blood was pure, they could tell that his was not.

And yet here they both were, in the same room, on the same team. The same Ministry of Magic. Whether they liked it or not, whether they wanted to admit it or not, his first generation, mudblooded magical skill was considered just as good as theirs. He was a hell of a wardmaster, and as much as their bigoted, elitist ideologies might want to try, no one could take that away from him. In society, they could think what they wanted. That was not his world. But in the realm of business, of occupation, the playing field was level. Hell, Abercrombie had done a stint in Azkaban. If anyone was a criminal here, it was him. He glanced at him, eying him, taking him in. He hated that he was handsome, painfully handsome. A beautiful face for an ugly, twisted soul. He didn’t want to look at him too long. He didn’t want him to notice. “Seriously, you got a cot? A sofa? Anything?” he asked desperately to the woman behind the bar. But he was on his own. Once more, he didn’t have a choice.

He ran a hand through his hair and moved closer, just near enough to speak to them without being a part of the group. “Pardon,” he said lightly, his voice deeper than usual. He was compensating, it seemed. “Rosmerta mentioned something about Ministry people being put up at the Whispering Willow?” he asked, his eyes moving between the two girls and the Abercrombie. He met the Death Eater’s gaze. It burned. “She said to ask you,” he added, his tone a bit sharper, hesitation mixing with anger mixing with fear.

((out))