Unwelcome Guests in Unsatisfactory Places (Nat)

Drawing her wand from the pocket of her heavy black wool cloak Farren glanced around the dim hall checking again for eyes or security measures. In an apartment block this cheap there was bound to be minimal security but nosy neighbors were always a possibility. Without raising her wand from the folds on her cloak she conjured a locking spell ensuring that the other doors on the hall were locked from the outside so no one could leave their apartments while she was in the hall. Glancing over her shoulder she eyed the two dim overhead lights and with narrowed eyes she pursed her lips silently conjuring a spell to extinguish each of the bulbs until the hallway was dark giving her a cover if anyone was to look out a peephole. She’d already checked the building for protective spells from the lobby and she’d found nothing so it was easy to assume any magical protection would be localized in the specific unit.

Pulling her wand from under her robe she raised it and pointed it at the door executing a series of disarmament spells on the apartment, short bursts of light illuminating the hallway. So the idiot girl didn’t bother to properly protect her home. Farren was hardly surprised but she wasn’t going to cut any corners and be caught out. Another flourish of her wand and locks on the door broke, it swung open on it’s hinges easily. The heiress executed another series of spells to remove any protections in the apartment or surveillance spells. Staring into the apartment she cocked her head wondering if this was really the girl’s home. It looked more like a hovel though she knew the address was correct, it’d been too easy to obtain her home address from The Ministry. Turning her wand on herself she whispered softly, “Protego Finato Duri,” encasing herself in an invisible protection charm as a last and probably unnecessary layer of protection.

She stepped over the threshold and waited to see if anything happened. It didn’t. If anything had been arming the flat it had been taken out. Not forgetting the neighbors she flicked her wand unlocking their doors. Glancing at the darkened hall lights she debated if she should fix them as to not alarm the residents but decided coming home to a dark hall was a good way to throw Nathalie off.

Pushing the door shut behind her she turned the locks back into place and pulled her hood down from her head. Lazily she raised her hand, flicking her wrist to turn on all the lights in the flat. It was the most depressing living quarters she’d ever seen. Until now she’d had the impression that this neighborhood was a rather middle class area - for muggles. The street had appeared clean enough and it was located between two rather posh areas she thought, then again her knowledge of London was limited with her own home in Kensington and most of her social activities taking place in nearby Knightsbridge or Mayfair. Perhaps though this was some kind of council housing for the needy who otherwise couldn’t afford an area as decent as this? That surely would explain why the entire flat appeared to be the size of her house elf’s quarters in the attic at Dalemain. Though there were small windows, being five o’clock already, it was dark in the street and no natural light was there to cheer the pokey little flat.

Farren had ensured that Nathalie would be coming straight home after work so that she wouldn’t be sat around waiting for her. That morning she’d sent an owl to Nathalie with a false shipping ticket from Borgin and Burkes. The official looking ticket stated that a package for Miss Nathalie Wilkinson would be arriving at her home between 5:30 and 5:45PM and that in order to receive it she had to personally accept the package from the owl to ensure proper delivery.  Knowing Nathalie the little twat would have spent the whole day wondering who had sent her something dark and mysterious instead of wondering if the notice was a trap.

Farren tossed her heavy cloak onto the small table which must have served as the only table in the flat. With a sigh she smoothed her purple velvet dress and found her way into the toilet to check her slick, pulled back hair in the mirror.  She opened the cabinet examining the cosmetics and toiletries and before taking a nosy lap around the flat. It was as unremarkable and uninteresting as it’s occupant. Though truth be told Farren had only read about such places in books. She’d certainly never visited a counsel house or flat like this so perhaps this was the norm. The idea of a person living in such a small space was a fantasy world saved for novels and stories on the wireless of poor witches and wizards making something of themselves from nothing. Compared to this place even her smallest home was a veritable palace.

Standing in the kitchenette area she decided to pass her waiting time with a cup of tea. Flinging open the cabinet she pulled items from it, laying them on the small counter space, until she found the tin of tea bags and cup that looked clean enough. She filled the cup from the tap and warmed the water with her wand, unceremoniously dropping the tea bag into it. As the tea bag steeped she leaned against the counter looking around the flat for something interesting to occupy herself with. Sticking out from under her cloak was what looked like a mail pile, envelopes, a magazine perhaps.

Tossing the saturated tea bag in the sink and moved to the table where her cloak was. Grabbing the pile of mail she perched on the chair, her body turned towards the door. Sipping the flavorless tea, flipping through the girls mail she waited for Nathalie to come home. Her invisible shield charm was still in place in case Nathalie decided to get rowdy when she came home and found someone in her house. Though, it shouldn’t surprise her to have guests drop in when she did so little to properly protect herself and yet so much to annoy people.

@Nathalie Wilkins  @Gavin

“Oh for God’s sake,” she whispered to herself as she turned from the stairs out onto her pitch-black corridor. Ministry-sourced accommodation had a tendency to lay rather firmly upon the rundown side of the spectrum, but to lose the entire lighting on her corridor was a first. Nathalie made a mental note to write a stern letter to her landlord - apparently he couldn’t even get the charm on the lights to work properly. She extracted her wand from her raincoat with a sigh, and Lumos gave her at least some semblance of illumination, allowing her to find her door about ten paces away from the stairwell. But it was when she removed her keys from her handbag and went to place them into the door, that she suddenly noticed that there was nowhere for them to go. Puzzled, the blonde lowered herself to the lock, and discovered that the complete cylinder was missing, allowing her to see the glowing light from the room within. Swiftly, Nathalie took a step backwards with her wand instinctively held before her; her eyes wide with alarm. Shit. She had presumably already alerted her intruder with the sound of her footsteps, and so very deliberately ran back along the corridor to the stairwell.

She tried desperately to remember what the men from the Devil's Den had taught her. Dropping her handbag to the floor, she silently removed her shoes. In bare feet, she tiptoed swiftly back to the door of her apartment in darkness. In her left hand she clasped her keys; her index finger looped through the keyring and the bunch buried within her palm. Her mind was focused with a giddy mixture of alarm and adrenalin. Take the door with force from the bolt side using the left shoulder, so that if someone is standing behind it they’ll take the blow; wand should be held at chin level across the chest in the right hand and parallel to the shoulders; a narrower silhouette means a smaller target. Check the near corner. Then run the wall. She braced herself at the doorway for a moment, holding her breath. This is so ridiculous. She slammed her shoulder into the door and it sprang open, swinging hard on the hinges and crashing into the wall with a bang, and the blonde advanced quickly with her wand aloft, and when her eyes were accustomed to the light she was greeted with the elegant form of Farren Abercrombie, perched like a rather delicate bird by her small table, carefully making her way through her post.

Nathalie raised an eyebrow. “Um . . hullo,” she mumbled, lowering her wand and catching her breath for a moment with her hand upon her chest. “ I . . . what . . . I could have hurt you, Miss Abercrombie.” She exhaled loudly, looking to the ceiling with her hand rubbing the nape of her neck. There was a simmering of anger in her voice, but it was tempered with relief. As bizarre as it was to have Farren Abercrombie sitting in her home, it came as a respite that the intruder was not someone with more nefarious intentions. Nathalie turned to close the door, and uttered a “pessulus reparo” upon the broken lock. She stood silently for a moment regulating her heart rate. Her mind was flooded with questions.

What followed was something of an awkward silence. For the blonde, it was a bizarre and disturbing psychological disconnect to see the Abercrombie heiress within her own small and modest dwelling. Farren appeared, well, taller, probably because Nathalie was more used to seeing the witch in ballrooms with four meter high ceilings. Dressed in her fine gown, she looked strangely out of place; as if Nathalie was glimpsing a ghostly spectre from a previous century who had accidentally crossed over into this one; into this dwelling. This was as far away from the grand receptions and charity dinners of the upper classes as one could get. It gradually dawned upon Nathalie that Farren had very possibly been here some time, and had had the luxury of perusing her meagre possessions. She blushed with embarrassment; if there was someone that she could never match up to on that front, it was most certainly the icy elegant brunette sitting nonchalantly before her. And why was she rummaging through her post?

As Nathalie scanned the surroundings, she saw that Farren had taken the liberty to make herself a cup of tea, and in the process had emptied her kitchen cabinet. To the blonde, this seemed to be a perfectly Farren Abercrombie way to make a lowly cup of tea.

“So you are my package,” she began, removing her muggle-approved black raincoat. “If you had wanted to visit me, you just had to send a letter. I would have even left you a key. What do you want?”

Unfolding a piece of plain parchment Farren scanned the letter in her hand. ‘For the love of Merlin, is Nathalie spending her weekends in Hogshead socializing with school children?!’ she thought as she read a short letter about meeting in Hogsmead with a girl who had posted the letter from Hogwarts. It was disappointing but unsurprising. Footsteps in the hallway alerted that someone was coming, they tracked to the door in front of her before…oddly retreating several seconds later it seemed. Light from a wand was seeping into the room though the door frame and hole in the door which gave away that someone was there and she hadn’t imagined the footfall.

What happened next would have prompted hysterical laughter from the heiress if she was not so appalled at what unfolded. There was a blunt thud as a body slammed into the apartment door which sprung open, swinging into the wall beside it with a crash. Nathalie, barefoot, swooped in the door her wand raised for attack. Bewildered at this approach to entering one’s home Farren stared, letter raised in her hand, in judgmental shock at the blonde witch panting before her.

“Hello,” she said simply watching as the girl raised her hand to her chest to calm herself. Farren’s plan to alarm the girl had certainly worked though not as she expected. The hilarious display of ineptitude from the girl was most unexpected. Her eyebrows stitched together, her lips pursed slightly as Nathalie began to speak but she broke her scowl and let out a laugh when Nat said she could have hurt her. Nathalie had probably never seen Farren laugh and this certainly wasn’t the kind of laughter you would want directed at you. Her face contorting slightly as she tried in vain to control the laughter escaping her Farren looked away from Nat to the letter in her hand and then back at the girl.

“Don’t be so stupid Nathalie, you couldn’t have hurt me,” she quipped dropping the letter to the table. Her slender hand rose and she flourished it elegantly,  the shield charm around her flickered, a shimmering golden bubble around her before becoming entirely invisible again as she lowered her hand. Pursing her lips to try and stem her laughter Farren shook her head a little.

A sly grin broke across her face as Nat conceded that Farren was her package and she laughed again, “Yes. Did you like my little shipping notification? My maid did it for me, she’s quite talented is she not?”  Pursing her lips she suppressed her giggles and smirked at Nathalie, “Why in the world would I call upon you and ask for an invitation when your home is already open to guests? Obviously this way was much more entertaining. Though I didn’t expect you to raid your own flat.”

Her cool blue eyes swept over the girl before she shook her head a little, half at Nathalie half to clear her head and try to truly quell the laughter. Nathalie would be mortified, she knew that. Whoever had told this girl to respond like this were truly idiots. “Why exactly have you removed your shoes?” she asked scowling at the girls stocking feet.

“And why….did you throw your body into your own door when there is  a wand?” Her expression was one of puzzled judgement, like a parent would give to a child who’d just told them something farcical and bizarre. Her eyebrows rose and she shrugged, “I guess I don’t really care but it was truly….spectacular to watch. Brava.”

Another silence hung between them momentarily as Farren stared at her. Surely Nathalie knew what she wanted didn’t she? It had been months since she had seen the girl. In fact had she seen her since the girl sat with her at a Wizengamot hearing to see Pyxis speak? Farren couldn’t remember the last she’d spoken to her and certainly not since Pyxis had marked her had the pair spoken in private.

“I’m here to see what you’ve been doing and if you’ve done anything interesting to us. It has been so long since you’ve had the good fortune to visit Dalemain. I thought I’d do you a favor and save you the trouble by coming to you.” she said matter of factly. She held back the sarcastic tone, intentionally reminding that being invited to the heiress’ estate was a benefit and mocking the witch for losing her shoes and banging in her own door was enough without snark. Reaching for her mug of tea she motioned for Nathalie to sit down across from her, inviting the other woman into her own home, to her own table. “You’ll not have forgotten that your current position is only possible through the good will of the Abercrombie family and our many connections. It’s only natural for patrons to check in and make sure their investments are worthwhile on occasion. We wouldn’t want anything on our books that is a loss now would we?”

Farren offered her a tight lipped grin before taking a sip of the tea, quite at her leisure and clearly expecting a full report of the girls current activities.

“Because . . . nevermind,” she sighed, weariness washing over her pale face. She wondered how long it had been since she had last spoken to Farren. Nine months? Perhaps more? And it seemed, as Farren proceeded to burst into mocking laughter, that it had been not nearly long enough. Whilst listening to the brunette speak, Nathalie slowly went to the little hallway to place her jacket upon a coat-hook and returned to the living area, where she pulled her blazer off and rather too carefully placed it over the back of the kitchen chair - anything to delay having to actually sit down and participate in Farren’s little mind games. But sit she unfortunately had to, eventually.

“Well, you may enjoy blasting curses through your doors at Dalemain, Miss Abercrombie, as you have hundreds of them. Unfortunately I have only one. And a landlord.”

There was something vaguely comic about the situation; the two witches in this small living space; nearly knee to knee around the little table, with Nathalie’s opened and ransacked mail upon the surface. Beyond the small window, the bustle and chaos of London was reduced to nothing more than a rumbling muffle; the background to their stillness.

The blonde glanced an opened letter in Reena’s handwriting, and she nearly had wanted to snatch it away from Farren’s reach; anything to spare the young Slytherin from the older witch and her tentacles. Over the years, Nathalie had developed a growing potent protectiveness over the young girl, and this had only deepened since she had left Hogwarts. In her mind’s eye, the sudden image of Farren lining up even more pet projects in the future was disconcerting, to say the least.

But her thoughts were interrupted again by Farren’s silky voice. So all she wanted was simply a catch up; a progress report? Did the Abercrombie heiress require a presentation to the board? Immediately, Nathalie’s suspicions were raised. It wasn’t like the brunette to take such a close interest in her actions. As far as the blonde could make out, she was simply a charity case to her; something to amuse her and give her something to play with for when the smothering silence in the corridors of Dalemain grew too much to bear. Or at least that was what she frequently told herself.

Farren often referred to us. Whoever us were. The same people who engraved her arm? Or did she mean her and Pyxis? The clan Abercrombie et al? And what exactly would be interesting? Farren had rarely come to her before with requests. Perhaps that was the issue; what had the younger witch actually provided to Farren thus far?

Nathalie considered her role at the ministry. It had not taken long for her to realise that, compared to her associates in her job, she was dramatically under-qualified, and the office was certainly enough of a gossip mill to allow her to discover that there had been several more-than-capable candidates rejected for her very role. She was Farren’s little plant. She herself had no problem with this - it was a role she could happily play. And being in the Ministry wasn’t all that bad; it was the veritable font of all information in magical Britain. There certainly were worse places for a newly scarred “volunteer” to the cause to spend their nine-to-five.

Nathalie met Farren’s steely gaze. “So, Miss Abercrombie, you’re dropping in unannounced to check up on me? I see.” She gave the elegant brunette a cold smile in return. “That’s fair enough.”

“Well, alright then. As you know, I work as an aide at the Ministry’s Public Information Services. There, I am privy to all the information that flows through. From intra-department communications, to drafts of official Ministry communiques. Also, we need to be present at many of the weekly inter-departmental status meetings; formally to align and record minutes. I have been . . . diligent, and so I am assigned this task with increasing frequency.” She nodded, and locked her grey eyes with Farren. “So, what would you like? Is there something I can get you from the Ministry? Financials? Treaty proceedings from the IMC? Employee lists? I can get all, apart from the Aurors. But I’m working on that one, too.”

Farren sat, her long slender fingers wrapped around the mug in her hands listening to Nat tell her how these days her most important job was taking notes. It took a great deal of strength to not fling the cup in her hands at the face of the stupid girl sitting in front of her. Honestly, a year in a job she’d been given and her most notable achievement to date was taking meeting notes. Didn’t they make quills that did that automatically?

“So in almost two years in a job you were handed you have accomplished intercepting interdepartmental memos and climbing the professional ladder to the esteemed position of a Quick Quotes Quill?,” Farren said drolly, her tone punctuating how patheticlly under achieving she found the witch. Her nails drummed against the ceramic mug as an awkward silence hung between them. Pursing her lips she set the mug down on the mail, she shook her head a little bit, clearly bewildered at the lack of achievement. “As thrilling as your job sounds that wasn’t really want I was after,” the way she said the word job was the same inflection one might expect her to say muggle with, utter contempt.

“There’s no playing coy with me Miss Wikins, while I’m sure you’re ability to read and write has impressed your Ministry colleagues I’m afraid that I have house elves that are just as accomplished. If I want information from the Ministry I will most likely need the kind of information that isn’t traded through the mail room,” She paused thinking for a moment of her house elf who was in fact much more useful than this girl. If it came down to their lives she’d be forced to choose the elf who was clearly much more useful and probably just as intelligent.

“No, I’m more interested in what you have actually been doing….and learning and seeing,” she paused for a moment considering her words carefully, “I know,” she said firmly her eyes flickering quickly to Nat’s arm. “I know you’re one of them and I don’t doubt that being marked as such roused your enthusiasm for being a self christened daughter of the revolution.” Her eyebrows rose, almost daring Nathalie to dispute her claim.

“You see, the problem with being Farren Abercrombie is that you are…well…Farren Abercrombie. I can’t exactly go swanning about the United Kingdom sticking my nose into anything I want now can I? If I showed up at Nyx Nightclub or took up a so called friendship with any of these stupid thugs parading around London’s watering holes like dark arts masters it would be noticed,” Her eyes bore into Nathalie waiting for any signal that she was close to scratching away at the kind of thing the blonde had been up to since Pyxis last dealt with her.

 “I may not need information about the Ministry mailroom but you can be sure that many of us are most interested in the activities and rumblings amongst the kind of people you would have access to…the ones that are situated, well, at the bottom of the ladder, if you will.” She was careful to not make the interest sound singular. Nor did she want to reveal to Nathalie that she too had been chose by the Death Eaters for what had been at the time, treason against the Dark Lord. For all Nathalie knew she was a Death Eater marked by the Dark Lord himself, her mother had been important enough after all.

“So,” her tone was silky and cool yet somehow still threatening, “what exactly have you been up to, Nathalie?”

“What you were after?!” exclaimed Nathalie, gazing back at the brunette witch incredulously. “And what exactly was that, because as far as I can recall, we never really had much of a briefing, did we?” Her voice was rough and suddenly hoarse. She had stood to her feet now, annoyed at Farren’s attitude. How dare she come to her very home, rummage through her belongings, and then, after demanding a status report, exclaim that it wasn’t good enough and give her that usual “I’m so very disappointed in you” spiel that so often dripped from her mouth. Christ, she was as bad as her mother. Five minutes in Farren's demure presence and Nathalie was already shouting.

Her eyes narrowed as Farren slowly continued her little prepared homily. Suddenly, it dawned upon the blonde that Farren was picking at a particularly fresh wound; coming from a different direction, a deviation to the norm that suddenly caused a feeling of acidic terror to gather in the pit of her stomach.

“Marked, as such”

What did she know? Farren was a skilled negotiator; a woman who could wield the english language like a prize fighter; playing with words and arranging them in strange, non-threatening sequences which would be interweaved with vague and menacing connections to a reality that lay apparently beyond her. A southpaw in a corset. The blonde tried not to look ruffled, instead turning away from the elegant witch as she proceeded to return some of the debris of Farren’s boisterous inspection to their rightful places. She put teabags back into their little cardboard box, arranging them on top of each other; her face a picture of mild annoyance; anything to not have to engage with Farren’s probing.

Farren Abercrombie. Raven haired daughter of a senior Death Eater, lost to the war. In semi-permanent public mourning. Black a staple of her wardrobe. Currently something of a socialite and philanthropist. Giver of a good speech. Taker of a good photograph. Eyebrows that would cut glass. Administrator of a well-established Publishing house. Old money. Frequently seen within the gossip pages of the Daily Prophet, bedecked in something obscenely expensive and avant-garde.

And was that all? Was she anything else? Victoria Abercrombie had been in Azkaban; she was significant enough. The rumours were explicit. Farren would have been of age, surely? Nathalie had been too young, but not Farren. Nathalie turned, arms crossed about her body, eyes a little too wide. She pushed a flaxen hair behind her ear. She unconsciously pulled at the left cuff of her blouse. Her grey orbs glanced momentarily upon Farren’s forearm; covered and hidden.

She sees Farren the Death Eater, masked and robed, grinning skull upon her skin, demonically tearing through the forest towards Hogwarts that May evening; curses trailing like tracers red and green against the inky black of the walls, and the thick grey smoke that belches from the torn castle like a dying whale upon a beach; all upended and bloated and gracelessly voiding its essence to the sky. She tries to picture it; she tries to picture Farren the soldier; Farren the revolutionary; Farren seeking cover; Farren harnessing death and delivering it to her foes. It jarred; it would not align with the woman seated before her now; prim and perfect; coordinated with the ordered world and public face of a contrite pureblooded order.

And how could she really know about Nathalie and her “diversions”? This was unconnected; Pyxis had said so. This was silence or death, apparently. No one knew. So much for that. And what did this mean? Was this a clean-up? Had Pyxis spilled everything? She hadn’t seen him in over a year; perhaps he had lost his nerve, ended up a sobbing mess at Farren’s feet, begging for forgiveness; “Sorry about that whole private resistance army thing I was covertly arranging underneath everyone’s nose. Hope Mr Malfoy doesn’t mind too much.” Or that Purcell creep in Azkaban.

Sedition against the state and their former organisation at the same time. How ironic. How far-reaching. Piss everyone off and end up hanging yourself. And Farren, her angel of death, come here for her pound of flesh. She probably volunteered, thought Nathalie. “Let me play with that daft blonde bitch a little before the end.” Nathalie wondered what a coffee cup would look like when it came down upon her head with force. She sees herself in a pool of crimson with Farren on her knees beside her. And Farren’s icy eyes still with that look of mild disgust; probably because she would have to clean her clothes after this. And Imagine having to die slowly in grim Ministry-funded accommodation. How bleak. How fitting.

She closed her eyes and cleared her mind of the silliness, steeling her resolve. She was overreacting. Farren was Farren. And Nathalie had been in a near-constant paranoid state for months now; she was seeing false positives everywhere. She was turning into a hypochondriac of conspiracy. Surely, that was it.

The blonde sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes for added effect. She gazed coldly at the brunette. “Miss Abercrombie, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about; but, I have a terrible feeling that you have been spying upon me. I haven’t the faintest idea why you would arrange something so ridiculous. Perhaps you want to make sure I go to work in the morning, is that it? Scared your investment will become a delinquent?” She paused, for effect more than anything else. But why was she sweating?

“Who I associate with is none of your business.”

Panic again, closing on her chest. What if she was right? May as well go out swinging.

“Farren, show me your arm.”

With her tone rising along with her body Nathalie seemed to have been especially triggered this time. Breaking into her hovel had not even garnered this much emotion. Her mother had taught her that when you questioned people the innocent would always insist on their innocence and slowly, as time dragged on, become angered at not being believed. The guilty would have a rehearsed story ready to repeat on a loop once their immediate, fake outrage wore on them.

Just what Nathalie was guilty of Farren had no idea. It was easy to assume that the girl’s mark would have sent her on some odyssey to become the dark witch she dreamed of being. Perhaps she’d joined that stupid fight club where witches and wizards battled with muggle weapons? Maybe she’d tried to contact those dark people associated with the group shadowy group Pyxis mentioned numerous times? Her volatile response certainly led Farren to think that her assumption was right. How the younger witch tugged at her own sleeve before her eyes flicked to Farren’s arm made her extreme discomfort evident.

Sitting quietly, stone faced, Farren watched Nathalie’s performance of ‘General Teenage Indignation’ for her. Shuffling her tea didn’t fool Farren, in such a small apartment the witch could practically hear the gears in the girl’s mind whirring. For a moment the corners of her mouth turned up as she wondered to herself if Nathalie’s thoughts were actually powered by some kind of rodent pet running on a little wheel somewhere. The girl was certainly dense enough to have a hamster for a brain.

The Ministry quill witch’s  eyes rolled signaling it was Act II of ‘General Teenage Indignation’. It was apparent that Nathalie was either incredibly stupid or mentally unhinged by Farren’s appearance and questions - likely both. How was it that she claimed to have no idea about any activities that Farren alluded to yet one breath later she accused Farren of having her tailed. Then she suggested the imaginary spy, who had seen something to trigger these questions, was actually to make sure she went to work. The work Farren had just told her she didn’t care at all about.

For a split second the corners of her mouth flinched upwards. People with nothing to hide always bellowed that their associates were no one’s business didn’t they? She was making a total mockery of herself. Her subconscious guilt and fear leaked out of her so profusely it was a wonder no one had found out about the association related to the mark on their arms. Then her paranoia boiled over, splashing fear all over the floor the blonde witch asked to see Farren’s arm.

Cold eyes upon the blonde, Farren sat for a moment debating what she could and should do. The girl was a prattling mess, a near embarrassment to what was left of their cause. Keeping pureblood society and influence in place took nuance and skill. Should an Auror come casually asking what the design on her arm meant Nat would fold faster than a house elf who had burnt something and immediately begun hitting themselves in the face with the burning pan. Furthermore, who was this stupid brat to think she had the authority to demand anything but forgiveness for her incompetence from Farren Abercrombie? No. This would not do. She was so far out of line it couldn’t be borne.

Her expression softened into one of bemused skepticism. “See my arm?” she asked almost scoffing, “Honestly would you it make you feel better knowing if there was something there or if it was bare? Either one leaves you with many questions.” Her sharp eyebrow arched questioningly but her tone was soft, “If there is a Dark Mark what does it mean? Who did I kill? What directives were I left with if any? What exactly DO I know?”

Pausing for effect she reached forward with her left hand and began fussing with tight, beaded the sleeve on her right arm which indeed was very difficult to move with the heavy glass beading and unyielding material.

“If my arms are bare what does that mean? I should be marked, I turned 17 well before Snape killed Dumbledore. My mother was put on trial when I was a baby for 12 murders. My Grandmother was killed by Kingsley Shacklebolt before I was even born.  I was engaged to Declan O’Dwyer at the time…a Death Eater too. If my arm is bare why was I not marked? How in the world could I not be, unless something extraordinary took place.”

The sleeve of her dress was barely a quarter of the way to her elbow. The beaded fabric was clearly not easy to move.  Her cool blue eyes flicked up to Nathalie’s face from where she sat. Turning her arm over to expose the inside where a mark may be if it were on her right arm she opened her palm towards the ceiling. Her eyes narrowed suddenly in what may be seen as anger but was in fact concentration. In a mere second she’d flicked the right wrist and Nathalie’s wand came tearing violently from where it was tucked into Farren’s outstretched hand. Her long slender fingers curled tightly around the wand and rising to her feet from the chair her lips curled into a cruel smirk. Just as quickly as she’d seized the wand she raised her hands over her head and at once every cabinet and drawer in the tiny apartment flew open the contents blowing out of them as if they were coming from a canon. Glass bottles could be heard hitting the bathroom floor. Cookery, cups, food, and dishes came flying out of the cabinet whizzing past Nathalie’s head. Clothing, shoes, and jewelry leapt from the wardrobe onto the floor. Drawers practically vomited their contents onto the floor. The eruption was deafening as every thing in the small apartment that wasn't bolted down or already on the floor crashed rained down. Solid objects bounced or rolled, trailing across the floor in every direction. Nothing broke, Farren had made sure she had charmed things not to break as soon as she’d hexed them out of storage. She didn’t want to torture Nathalie, just show her how weak and stupid she was.

It took a couple of seconds for the great crashing and rolling of objects to subside and silence return. Hopefully in that time Nat would realize that Farren was perfectly capable of silently and wandless destroying her entire home and be thoroughly shaken. Her eyes flashed with and rage her brow furrowed. “You do not get to ask the questions!” she barked dangerously. “Do you realize how bloody obvious you are? For Merlin’s sake, if I were an Auror curious about the stupid mark on your arm you’d leak the whole thing in ten minutes and have Pyxis back in Azkaban for life,” it was obvious Farren couldn’t care less if Nathalie also went to Azkaban for life.

“I could practically smell the paranoia coming off of you, though with all the signs you were leaking I’d hardly need to rely on you reeking of anxiety to know you’re hiding things. You’re so weak, so foolish,” she hissed icily indicating she was utterly disgusted with the witch.

She wasn’t relenting. Her expression was fierce even as she remained eerily composed, her voice equally threatening and mocking, “When someone makes suggestions that you’ve marked by dark magic you don’t tug at the sleeve covering your mark and then look at that person’s arm. You don’t raise your voice and become frantic. In one breath you told me you had no idea what I was talking about but that I must be having you followed if I’m asking such questions. You stupid idiot, if I was having you followed and knew what you were doing why would I ask about dark activities if I knew you were doing nothing.”

“If you’re not associating with the type of people I asked about why is who you associate with none of my business? Honest people with nothing to hide are willing to tell the truth, Nathalie,” her tone suggested that the girl’s christian name was a filthy thing, “You couldn’t be more blatantly concealing something unless you were wearing a mask to cover your stupid, obvious face,” her lips pursed into a thin line, a vein in her temple was visible, the only real indication that she was livid.

The tiny apartment only allowed for less than a meter of space between them and she stared her down letting the piercing silence hang around them. In the back of the apartment something clattered to the floor punctuating the quiet. “Now,” she said her tone softening from a biting cold hiss to menacing silk, “Answer my questions and maybe I’ll think about giving you your wand back and not having that mark and your memory scrubbed away.”

Standing across from Nathalie she stared at her, her cold eyes boring into her. Taking the girl’s wand in her left hand, out of the way, she extended her right and the box of tea bags Nathalie had tidied landed in her palm. Her gaze never faltering from Nathalie she flicked the lid open with her thumb. Slowly she raised the box so it was inches from it’s owner’s nose. Scowling she turned the box over letting the paper enveloped tea bags flutter to the cluttered floor at Nathalie’s feet. “Oops,” Farren said cooly as she tipped the empty box out of her hand dropping it onto the girl’s shoes.

As the crash and the bangs settled into a strange uncomfortable silence, Nathalie looked about her, seeing her little life carelessly upended and strewn indignantly across the apartment. Her eyes scanned slowly over all the debris and her brain could not fully comprehend the sheer extent of it. It was almost comical; a horrific chaos. It was not as if she had owned anything of any particular value, but to witness her meagre belongings so viciously disturbed and violated caused something within her to react, and in a manner she had not fully predicted. She simply sighed pathetically.

Her eyes met those of Farren who was lecturing and ranting now; and Nathalie was only partially following the sentences she spoke; each of the attacks and complaints blending into one blurred screed. Now and again the blonde would involuntarily jolt upon hearing a particularly sharply barked statement, due to the particular way the Heiress had of commanding her volume, meaning she could go from docile to truly ear-splitting in the blink of an eye.

Farren took a step towards her, and Nathalie’s grey eyes widened, half expecting a slap across the face. However the heiress, not one known to debase herself with such acts of physical violence, instead tipped the little papery teabags out upon the floor before her. In turn, the younger witch emitted a half gasp, half sob; completely unprepared for the force of Farren’s wrath and now fully overwhelmed, and her eyes gradually welled with tears. “Oh Farren,” she said, and her voice was soft and it quivered within her throat, “ . . . I  . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t understand . . .”

She looked to the ground, like a school child undergoing a stern reprimand. “What did I do to you?” she asked, genuinely, her face cast in a troubled shadow and marked with perplexed confusion. “Was it at Hogwarts? Was that it? I can’t remember. Did I say something to you then? Did I mistreat you, or . . . embarrass you? If I did, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t understand why you hate me. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to. I’m not like you; I’m not as successful or as talented as you, so I can’t . . . keep up with you. But I’m doing the best I can.” Her voice faded away. She was trying not to cry, because Farren wouldn’t like it. Farren was not fond of emotion, Nathalie knew that. She did not like public displays of weakness. When Nathalie looked up at her sponsor, her face was worn and older, as if she had missed several sleeps. She had given up. Farren had won.

Slowly, Nathalie walked away from Farren and returned to her chair by the window, where she, as if now burdened by a physical pain, softly seated herself as before, this time with her back to the heiress. Perched upon the edge with her elbow propped against the tabletop; she wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand and rested her head against her fist. She could see herself reflected in the window; Farren standing behind her, faded like a spectre; and beyond, through the glass, the black sky of London and the myriad of orange muggle lights making constellations upon the rooftops that faded to the invisible horizon. She wondered if there were others, just like them, out there on this very same night. Marked and awaiting.

“He came to me last summer. June or there a-bouts.” A beat. “Your cousin, I mean. He invited me to his home. I had no idea why; the only time I had even seen him before was in the Prophet, when they let him out of Azkaban. And then that time at your birthday party. I was confused why he would want to see me; I had no connection to him. I thought maybe it was due to my . . .” her voice a step lower now, as it becomes a tad more personal, “. . . my father. Perhaps something from the war. I was wrong.” She sits up straight and unbuttons the cuff of her white blouse, folding it back, rolling it along her arm, exposing her skin and the brown leather watch strap around her wrist. She keeps going, like a patient preparing for a phlebotomist, until her forearm is naked and exposed. It is difficult to see in the lowlight, but there is a pale graphite outline about three inches in length. She lays her forearm upon the tabletop for Farren, amidst the wreckage of her opened mail. She draws around the line with her fingertip; the hooked ♄ of saturn. “He gave it to me,” and she follows with an immediate correction, “or rather, he awoke it. Or something. Apparently I was selected.” She speaks with such derision. “Lucky me. It was not my choice. Nor yours, I imagine.” Based upon Farren’s reaction and her words, and the fact that Nathalie was still not dead, it was not hard for the younger witch to come to the conclusion that the Abercrombie heiress had also been branded against her will.

“He told me that people would contract me. And that’s what happened, to some extent. Rather, they would leave me notes, here, in my apartment,” and she smiled weakly, still staring at her arm. “Little . . . invitations.”

Nathalie sighed, wondering if Farren really was all that interested in the details. “Pyxis told me that it was all this big secret. But he also told me that there were more. More than just me, I mean. But I’ve never met any. Until now.” The blonde turned in her chair and looked at Farren, standing there a picture of arrogance in the centre of the room. “How very apt that we would be in the same little club.”

“I go to Knockturn Alley, to different places. It’s rarely the same place. Rarely the same people. They give me lessons.” She unconsciously winced; such lessons usually left her with physical marks. "I don’t think they’re Death Eaters, per se. They’re criminals at the very most. But they have to teach me things. Occlumency, defensive curses, those sorts of . . . skills, if you want to call it that,” and with her eyes now upon Farren’s visage, “ . . . and to be always suspicious. To trust no one. Not even you.”

It was strange, but something close to relief was surging through the blonde. Relief at sharing this burden, even with someone as unsympathetic as Farren; relief at feeling that she was not going crazy; relief that she was not the only one.

“So what now?” She met Farren's gaze once more, perhaps a touch more defiant; she had no more secrets from the heiress. She was her very own open book.

As the dust settled and the thin blonde witch began to well with tears Farren took a step back. She didn’t think the girl would break so easily. In all regards she was weaker than Farren had imagined. Her house was horribly protected. When the girl realized there was an intruder in her house she’d unwisely blown her own door through, barreling into the house like an idiot. It had taken almost no effort to disarm her. Now she was figuratively collapsing before her.

The emotional show, though she tried hard to contain it and minimize her crying, made Farren realize the situation here was entirely not what she had expected. When she found Nathalie, through her zealous letter to Dermod’s pseudonym, she’d sensed a risk. Here was this young witch who had finished her education in a broken, blown out Hogwarts, who likely had been stuffed in their dungeon with the other Slytherins as Farren’s own relatives had besieged the school with The Dark Lord. Coming from a family permanently handicapped by the consequences of The Dark Lord. Yet she had been so full of conviction that The Dark Lord’s ways and those in Dermod’s books were right. At the time Farren had envisioned Nathalie coming from a group of like minded students and that if left unchecked they could overwhelm the efforts of Purebloods in the current political arena with their own radical agenda.

In retrospect her assessment of the situation and Nathalie were completely wrong. Perhaps she could chock it up to her own inexperience at the time? Or was it just her fear? Whatever the case Farren had completely over estimated her and now she realized it. There was nothing to be done now about what had passed but she very quickly needed to decide what to do now. The blonde brushed past her, sitting down at her table and Farren turned to watch her setting her hands on her hips.

Silent, Ren listened to the younger witch recount her tale of meeting Pyxis and having her mark revealed. Though Farren wanted to scold Pyxis for exposing himself so much in the process of waking the girl she forced her attention back to Nathalie’s story.  Like herself the blonde witch seemed less the ecstatic to be chosen for this bizarre little club. It was something Farren found oddly reassuring in this whole debacle.

Her eyebrow arched as Nathalie began speaking about people visiting her home and leaving little notes. For someone whose home seemed to be violated regularly she sure was shite at protecting it and herself. It surprised Farren that the girl had had any extra curricular training. She didn’t seem capable of much at all, though maybe that wasn’t surprising, seeing as it seemed Pyxis had set her up with wannabe Death Eater lackeys at best. If Pyxis wanted Nathalie to be of any use as an ally of some kind she needed proper training. Pyxis and Farren had been trained by Victoria Bennett Abercrombie, a champion duelist, flawless assassin, and all around expert murderer.  On top of that Farren had been trained by Declan O’Dwyer, son of multiple world title holding duelist and Death Eater himself. Not to mention the years she’d spent watching her father practice necromancy and blood magic at home. If a bunch of thugs in Knockturn Alley were her teachers it was no wonder the girl was utter shite at protecting herself by Farren’s measure.

Unfazed by Nathalie’s mild defiance and now willingness to look at her head on Farren remained a complete stoic, blinking and the rise and fall of her chest the only signs that she was still present. There was a long silence between them as the wheel’s of her mind spun quickly formulating her next moves. Did she let the girl go? Was she utterly useless now? Or did she finally let her into the fold ever so slightly. The years of mild bullying she’d subjected her to had to count for something didn’t it? If nothing else the girl made for an obedient if annoying show pony of some sort. The decision was easy enough now that she thought about it. Nathalie was a resource, a weak one, but a resource none the less.

Moving around the table to stand across from Nathalie she stared down at her for affect. Looming over her, occupying space in her heinous home that she’d just destroyed, unfazed by any of it, she was reminding the girl once more who was in charge here.  “That’s quite a tale,” she quipped, her tone as smooth and icy as ever, “I am surprised you keep going to these little lessons, I dare say they don’t seem to be very….effective.” A long beat, giving Nathalie time to view her shattered little house in the periphery and realize Farren was right. “I’m not surprised though. If Pyxis set you up with a band of wannabes and thugs it’s hardly likely you’re going to become effective learning from that. I suppose I can sympathize with his inability to find you qualified teachers in the current climate but still….not very impressive.”

The chair opposite Nathalie pulled itself back from the table with a lazy wave of the heiress’ hand providing room for Farren to sit down. Staring across the table at Nathalie she laid her forearms on the table, locking her fingers together so her hands were clasped. It could be considered a rather conspiratorial posture as she was inclined slightly towards Nathalie. In a low whisper she began, “Pyxis has been on the continent for over six months now. I don’t know what he promised you or led you to expect. There is no army of training Death Eaters selected by their parents. I need you to understand this at least, the Death Eaters, our parent’s life work, is dead. Killing muggles, torturing mud bloods, destroying magical institutions and businesses, the world has no appetite for it. Radical is what it is considered today. We live in a post Death Eater world and the Death Eater as we once knew it is completely dead. Good riddance I say,” she concluded in a soft but determined whisper.

Leaning back slightly in the chair she paused considering Nathalie. This was her last chance to change her course but she wasn’t going to. “We live in a new world. Death and destruction will not be tolerated. The Potterverse considers itself too civilized for such things. They want to preach inclusiveness and modernity. These two principals I am diametrically opposed to however, I am far too resilient and clever to be defeated by the sunshine and rainbows they are forcing upon us all. My mother always told me in dueling practice to meet people where they are at.” Another beat as she gave Nat a few seconds to absorb. “Do you understand? If your opponent is using rudimentary magic then you should also use rudimentary magic, elevating the duel to a higher level shows all your cards at once. If your opponent is fighting you with dark hexes and curses you should not fire light spells or deflections back at them. Meet people where they are at……our world has entered a period of utter revulsion to violence of the revolutionary nature. We just survived a coup by The Dark Lord. What they want is politics and soft power. We don’t need an army of militant baby Death Eaters. We need a strong web of political and soft power allies to turn governance and public opinion our way. Money, industrial control, political power - that is what we need now. Defending yourself is a necessary skill anytime you are going against the grain, killing others is not. We live in a world where murder is radical violence but buying politicians with cash and blackmail is not. Do you understand what I mean?”

Farren stared at her, a stern expression on her face, she needed Nathalie to agree. “We don’t need assassins. We need the power of the press. We need pockets so deep they can fit half the Wizengamot in them. This isn’t a war. It’s a silent coup of public opinion and the government through changing people’s minds without them realizing they’re coming to our side.”  Separating her hands Farren lifted her right hand, her wand an ashen white-grey wood with a silver filigree handle of wild flowers and vines floated to it.  Eyes on Nathalie she waved her wand over her left arm. With the flick of the wand the burgundy beaded sleeve that had been there disappeared exposing her creamy skin. On the interior side of her arm was a thin black drawing of a ring of wild flowers, her own mark. “I’m here to find out if you’re ready to know what we are doing to change our world and if you’re willing to be apart of it?”