[dorfold | cheshire] is there no way out of the mind? | nathalie

Genevieve heaved a sigh as she walked into the front door of the family estate, bag held closely in the crook of one arm and luggage in her other hand; her wand tucked into a pocket sewn into her favorite wool cape coat. She had arrived home unexpectedly—spotted first by the gardener as she forced the front doors open with a flick of her wrist. It was very fitting of the Grosvenor teen, to forego protocol in order to do as she pleased, regardless of how severely the staff would be punished should she choose to complain about their unpreparedness for her arrival. She was spotted next by one of the maids in charge of the door, who tried to stall her by asking to take her coat and her bag in order to give the staff more time to move from their own dining hall in the kitchen to the front door to greet her properly.

However the young woman simply frowned and pulled away from the older woman with some choice words before ascending the stairs. She looked down the hallway in the opposite direction of her room and considered visiting her cousins’ room to see if any of them were in but decided against it and turned to walk down the hallway into her own room, dropping her bag at the door before walking over to fall on her bed and sighing in absolute bliss. No matter how many top-rated hotel rooms or family vacation homes she visited, nothing compared to her own bed. She had not announced her arrival partially because she desired this: a few moment of silence before—there was a knock at the door before her lady’s maid and a handful of other servants arrived in her room—and just like that her silent moment was gone.

It was no secret that Genevieve had been away for the past six-months for personal reasons. At least that’s what she wanted to believe, considering the amount of owl mail she received from her inner circle and some extended family friends, who left a brief note on their health and a series of questions about the circumstances surrounding her departure. She was not at liberty to say and did not want to, choosing to stay silent on the manner rather than to give others a reason to speculate. However, her silence only encouraged more rumors. Some said that she had run away from home to be with a lover that her family did not approve of, others claimed that she was pregnant and hiding a child, and a few tabloid magazines had even suggested that she had been in hiding for committing a terrible crime. In truth, it had been simply a matter of needing space to readjust her feelings after she had made a shocking realization soon after her graduation from Hogwarts last summer.

Nevertheless, a reassessment of feelings meant that the bubbly young woman full of life left only to return cold-hearted and bereft of genuine kindness. Something had changed in the young witch right before she had left—her smile big enough to light the room, her gestures animated and her words full of hope—it was something that the servants had not seen since she was a child. But just as quickly, she had disappeared and returned to the aloof young witch the staff had been accustomed to since after her mother had been taken a prisoner. She watched with slight interest as the servants quickly worked around the room to tidy up, preparing tea and a few snacks on the table and then turning around to unpack her many things. As was in her nature, Genevieve had packed enough clothes to last a year and had even bought more during her travels abroad—spending most of her time traveling throughout the Americas.

Genevieve looked on coldly as the maid’s unpacked her belongings, her eyes focused on a new girl whose face she had never seen before, young and obviously inexperienced, put in charge of making the trip from the suitcase to the closet—it would have been something accomplished easily at the flick of a wand but the former Slytherin girl had never been opposed to allowing the servants to fulfill their duties to the best of their abilities and therefore had always preferred it this way. It built character, she reminded herself, servants were in their position for a reason and devoiding them of purpose would only give them reason to believe that they were not essential to completing the menial tasks around the house. Genevieve simply did not have it in her heart to take that away from them. Or better yet, she did not care to make the lives of the staff any simpler. If they could not handle it, there were hundreds of candidates better fit for the position and very willing to work for the Grosvenor family, no matter how demanding the young woman could be.

“Miss Genevieve, you’ve an appointment with a Nathalie Wilkins shortly,” her personal maid, Effie, announced quietly, shifting on her feet and keeping a close eye on Genevieve’s reaction. But Genevieve did little to acknowledge the statement, though Effie’s experience with working with the young witch had told her that she had forgotten all about her meeting. Genevieve’s eyes remained on the new girl as she reached into her coat to withdraw and point her wand at the young maid with a scowl on her face, “I won’t be pleased should I find that my things were not put away properly,” she said venomously before she shifted the wand from the new maid to the older woman, Effie’s expression more nervous than before, “You’ve chosen to remind me of an appointment this late and expect me to be pleased with you?” she asked casually, “You’ve lost your touch, Effie,” the young witch noted before putting her wand away and moving to stand up.

Effie said nothing in return, glancing at the new girl as Genevieve made her way to the door. The young woman opened it, her eyes focused on the floor, “Tea will be served in the drawing room, Miss Genevieve,” she said and the young witch rolled her eyes, “I know,” she replied coldly before disappearing down the hallway. As she approached the door to the drawing room, she paused at the door, composing her expression and nodding curtly to the butler who then proceeded to open it on her behalf. “Nat! It’s been so long,” she said, the tone of her voice a little more enthusiastic than necessary. She hugged the woman briefly before encouraging her to take a seat on one of the comfortable seats in the room. One of the maids in the room, a more familiar face, brought a pot of tea and a tray with fresh pastries, sitting them gently on the glass table. “It’s been several months now, have you been well?” she asked, nodding in gratitude as the maid poured a cup of tea for both women. “I’ve been so out of the loop for the last six months you will have to fill me in on all the ongoings,” she added.

@Nathalie Wilkins @Gavin

The crack-bang of apparation was usually followed by a disorientating sensation, not unlike a small cyclone in the middle ear, and as Nathalie popped into existence upon a farmer’s road by the quaint little muggle village of Acton she was struck by the exact same sensation, and took a little drunken sidestep to the right as a result. After a few seconds, her stomach had eventually caught up with her and she began her short journey. She walked for five minutes through the village’s small sun-soaked streets, all charming little detached houses and footpaths dotted with small old ladies with too many shopping bags hanging from the crook of their elbows, and after passing by the ancient stone tower of St. Mary’s Church Nathalie made a right turn off the little muggle road with it’s slightly off kilter signposts for Nantwich, Willaston and Blakelow, and continued along the old unmarked pathway snaking alongside an emerald green field that led to Dorfold Manor. It had been several years since her last sojourn to this part of the country, and the trees appeared fuller and heavier; their foliage a deep waxy green from March's spring rain. It took several minutes for her to traverse along the little pathway before those familiar imposing gates of Dorfold appeared, and beyond it, the ornate Jacobean face of the mansion itself.

As if by synchronicity, a groundsman, adorned with an impressive grey moustache, appeared from a hedgerow, and gave a cheerful “Good morning, Ma’am. Ms Wilkins, I presume?” to the visitor. The blonde smiled and nodded in the affirmative, and with a flick of his hand the gates opened to allow her ingress. “Just up to the door madam, if you’d be so kind.” She immediately preferred this kindly old man to the austere ghouls of Dalemain.

She curved around the familiar old moss-covered fountain in the centre of the main courtyard, and ascended the steps to the threshold. Again, the doors gently opened for her, and within stood an older lady dressed rather accurately in her maid’s outfit. “Ah Miss Wilkins,” she began with a professional smile, “. . . such a pleasure. What . . . has it been two years already? My goodness, how time flies. May I take your coat?” Nathalie made small talk; why yes it had been; what a good memory you have; but you look exactly the same; gentle laughter; oh, yes that would be wonderful. “And just through to the drawing room, ma’am. Miss Genevieve will be with you shortly.”

As the blonde crossed to the indicated room, she noted the distinct sense that there was something of a rush in the vast house; a pair of maids climbed the huge staircase at speed, whispering amongst themselves, whilst two men were struggling with multiple pieces of ornate and expensive luggage. It only confirmed to her the very reason for her journey; that Genevieve Grosvenor had returned home.

Once in the grand old room with its ostentatious furnishings, Nathalie stood for a moment by one of the large trellised windows, watching the gentle curve of the estate fade to the horizon whilst two groundsmen were hard at work with shears upon a slightly overgrown hedge. Her thoughts turned to her friend. Good old Evie, always one for little bit of drama. No one actually knew why the hell she’d vanished. And with not even a note. Nathalie had been a little bit irritated; she was, apparently, her friend. They’d shared plenty of things during their Hogwarts years; Nathalie had even spent weeks at Dorfold during several of those summers. Naturally, there had always been that little bit of space between the two girls; their backgrounds being what they were; always enough so that there was a touch of artifice about their intimacy. They’d never stand shoulder to shoulder; nor could they ever. Any yet, they had had their moments. And thus, from Nathalie’s perspective, there was no doubt in her mind that Genevieve had been simply nothing more than rude.

Still, when that little note had arrived by owl on the Friday morning at the Ministry, "I’m back tomorrow, come to Dorfold!” in Genevieve's familiar scrawl (she didn’t even need to sign it), what else was the blonde going to do? Naturally, she would cancel all her plans for her precious Saturday and set off for her friend, and grill her for the information she was undoubtedly owed.

The door clicked open, and Genevieve herself strode in, dripping with confidence and energy, looking a million dollars, and the couple shared an embrace. For a moment Nathalie forgot her compaints and smiled despite herself, holding her friend momentarily in her arms, before she gently pushed her away and held her with faux indignance at arms length, her grey eyes narrowed, scanning across the woman’s body.

“You’re different; you’ve . . . seen the sun . . . ” She released her friend and took a seat, pouting in jest. “Have I been well?” answered Nathalie incredulously to Genevieve’s question. “You go absent without bloody leave; vanish into the night . . . I wrote you three letters. Three.” She held up three fingers in a manner which in some quarters could be construed as vaguely obscene. "I receive one in response. Actually, half a bloody letter, with nothing of interest in it. Therefore, I hate you.” and she flashed her eyes at her old schoolmate. The blonde picked up a narrow slice of Jésuite and swiftly cut it in half with a confidently wielded silver knife. “So what was it, then? They said it was a man. Some brute of a thing. Possibly even a mudblood; Merlin forbid. There may or may not have been a baby involved.” She made a shocked face for Genevieve's amusement. “Someone even said, don’t ask me who because I will not reveal my sources . . . anyway, they said, ‘she’s taking potions'. Backstreet potions and the like. I mean, you hear stories, right? But I thought, my Evie, on drugs? Not very likely.” The blonde took a vigorous bite of her pastry, before continuing with a full mouth.

“So spill. I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

Genevieve looked at the woman’s expression, the corners of her lips twitching in amusement at her expression. She had missed this, their playful banter, one that somehow always verged on the edge of a disagreement waiting to happen. The young witch had always keep her friends at an arm’s length, so much so that they oftentimes felt more like glorified acquaintances than anything at all. With an air of arrogance, the young woman often stayed away from a close connection to others, it was simply a matter of principle: no one outside of the family was to be trusted. But even then, it would be much too uncharacteristic and somewhat suspicious should she choose to not confide anything at all. Nathalie Wilkins was a safe friend, as in she had enough on her should she choose to foolishly speak of their private conversations to the papers, and while she could not even tell her the reason she was away, she could say just enough to ease her mind and keep her nose out of her personal business.

“Yes and I read them but I was much too busy to write anybody back, the last thing I need is for someone to find out that I’ve written you of all people and then I’d be spending my days answering fanmail,” she said, her voice rising in pitch somewhat dramatically. “You ought to be happy that I cared enough to write you anything at all, do you know how busy I was coming across all sorts of handsome gentlemen and away from this maddening country?” Genevieve had not devoted the entire trip to either of these things but had welcomed the much needed break out of the spotlight. While far from anything that could be considered remotely celebrity status, the Grosvenor name found itself in the papers more often than not, it had been nice to rebel just a little without the risk of hearing all about her night out in the Daily Prophet the next morning. In a way, the entire experience had been liberating, and that was something that she did not want to share with anyone else.

While the young witch would never openly admit to missing her friend, she had. They had been close at Hogwarts, Nathalie being one of the very few people that she had felt an affinity to, and even though the woman was two years her senior, they found themselves spending plenty of time together, whether it be at school or at her family estate. Genevieve had read all incoming correspondence but had failed to write anyone properly outside of her immediate family in return, and even then, her letters to those who she regarded closest to her heart had been rare. She had the time to do so but simply did not have the energy to answer the same question over and over; her honesty and patient could only go so far. Genevieve also supposed that the idea of disappearing and drawing the attention of others was exciting in itself, the young woman had always had a bit of a flare for causing a scene.

She laughed at her friend’s assumptions on the reason for her disappearance, she rolled her eyes in amusement, “I’d rather die than to ever find myself romantically involved with a mudblood, you know my taste in men, all very proper, well-behaved boys, no one my family would be disappointed in,” she said, the tone of her voice sarcastic. Although Genevieve had been particularly careful about the boys she engaged in any intimate activities with, many of the pureblooded young men she attracted were rarely the type to take home, in fact as far as the young witch was concerned, her reputation with her family remained untarnished. However, Nathalie had been one of the few people made privy of the younger woman’s exploits; she did like to brag on occasion, the thrill of the chase much too exciting to keep to herself.  “Oh and there is absolutely no baby, can you imagine how terribly upsetting it would be should I have to give up my life to become a mother? I take my potions quite regularly so that those types of accidents will not happen,” she responded with an incredulous expression on her face.

Genevieve reached over to take a small scone from the tray of sweets, popping it in her mouth and smiling contentedly, it was one of the many things she had missed from home, the pastries a particular highlight of her estate and the pride of her family. She savored the treat thoughtfully, moving to take a sip from her tea before shaking her head at her friend’s theory, “Drugs? Absolutely not. Who on earth have you been talking to, Nat? Have you been spreading these rumours so that I’ll hurry home?” she teased, frowning in fabricated anger, “How did you even survive without me around? You must have been awfully bored, had you written me more letters I might have returned sooner,” she added jokingly.

“I’ve been on a research expedition in the Americas, a small group of us, the lot young magizoologists, nothing worth writing home about,” she said casually though it was quite obvious by the expression on her face that she felt some sort of smug satisfaction knowing that the last six months of her life had probably been much more entertaining that what her friend had done. She did work for the ministry after all, and exciting things worth mentioning rarely happened to a member of the public information service department.  “I spent most of my time researching, we spent a few months in South America studying a few magical creatures here and there, researching Dugbogs and Nogtails and the like,” she explained indifferently, waving her hand as if to indicate that her travels had not been as nearly as exciting as they had been. Genevieve had enjoyed her time away immensely, “It was a two year expedition but you know how it goes, if I stay away too long people will forget who I am and we cannot have any of that,” she reached for her teacup, resting the saucer in the palm of her hand as she straightened in her seat, “So, tell me then, is that ministry job of yours full of excitement and adventure? I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, I’ve considered taking a job until I’ve decided on magizoology school,” she explains, “I obviously don’t need the money but I’ve just been back a few hours and am terribly bored,” she added, looking up at her friend expectantly as she took another sip from the teacup.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” answered Nathalie with a half-smile, deliberately avoiding Genevieve’s grey eyes in an attempt to not fall about laughing. Yes, she had been exaggerating. Between the two of them, when they were both being lighthearted, they had a tendency for their conversations to extend into the realms of the ridiculous and the silly and the bawdy, and Nathalie was pleased to feel that nothing significant had really changed between her and her friend; that despite Genevieve’s disappearance, it was as if they were back in the Slytherin common room during her final year.

“Awfully bored,” she echoed Genevieve lightly. “Yes, indeed . . .” She thought to herself, if only life had been quite as dull, because those strange meetings with those unsavoury individuals, apparently preparing her some something she was as yet unsure of, had been everything but enjoyable. And when Genevieve went on to mention her expeditions in South America, a flicker of near-envy had flashed across Nathalie’s pale face.

Genevieve always had it easy; at least from the perspective of financing. She wanted for nothing; and so, instead of starting off as a low paid intern or dogsbody like the rest of her peers, the brunette was participating in such things as fully-funded “research expeditions”, which were, as Nathalie smiled sceptically back at her friend, probably no more than excuses for all-night drinking marathons with young men who should have known better, and the only Magiczoology being studied was most certainly skewed towards the reproductive activities of the lesser-spotted spoilt witch.

“Dugbogs and Nogtails, you say?” replied Nathalie, between sips of steaming tea. “And I’m sure they weren’t the only creatures you were studying.” She met the blue-grey eyes of her compatriot through the vapour. “Or did Genevieve Grosvenor discover a sudden coyness in the Peruvian Amazon?”

When her friend questioned Nathalie regarding the Ministry, she returned her cup to the saucer that sat beside her upon the tabletop, as if freeing her hands for the necessary gesticulations that would be required, and she rolled her eyes to the heavens. “Oh Merlin, the Ministry . . . it’s chaos, complete chaos,” and she sighed for more dramatic effect. “There’s this protest . . . I’m sure you read about it in the papers, it’s all over the place at the moment. If you ask me, it’s just the wastrels being workshy, but whatever . . . anyway half the bloody Ministry spends their time standing down in the Atrium waving placards. Apparently I’m a scab because I refuse to participate in their childishness. Well excuse me for having a Protestant work ethic . . . of course, it started in France . . . quelle surprise . . .” Nathalie adjusted herself in her seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. It seemed strange for her to describe the pointless monotony of the Ministry of Magic to a woman who had no real reason to participate in its byzantine mechanisations, bar an escape from the boredom of living in a huge, beautiful mansion, being waited on hand and foot by a small army of servants. Instead she returned a smile to Genevieve. “But, should you finally join us in the real world, I’m sure they can find something for you to do there; for example, we have many filthy toilets that need cleaning,” and she giggled momentarily at the idea.

The blonde ran her hand through her hair, leaning her head to the side to consider her friend a little more closely across the table. Naturally, the gap between them was vast; and at times in the past the only thread that tied them together was nothing more than the blood flowing within their veins and a shared ideology drilled into their heads from their parents. And yet, they were, even at those times, naïvely friends. Nathalie could remember clearly the first time she had been invited to Dorfold Manor; how she could simply not get over that feeling of awe that someone she herself knew (and in person!) could live in a house so colossal. Hogwarts, despite all its flaws and inaccuracies, was democratising. It forced the children to all live under the same roof, in the same rooms, carry the same books, eat the same food. Nathalie had never experienced the petty pangs of adolescent jealousy quite as virulently as the first time she had stood in the grand reception hall of the Genevieve's home.

But the Grosvenor's had been good to her, and that extended to more than the sheer extent of their hospitality when she visited. At first she did not understand why her mother continually reinforced the need to be “nice” to them; to ensure that she was always a reliable and strong friend to the brunette. And yet when her mother was struggling to find employment (an impediment that the wife of an imprisoned Death Eater may have, should she not belong to the upper classes), they wanted for nothing. As Nathalie became older, the significance of the Grosvenor’s to her childhood security became clearer. What that in turn did to the relationship between the two girls, was another issue. Perhaps Genevieve knew nothing of her family’s patronage.

“But you need to be careful, Evie,” said Nathalie, demolishing the remains of her Jésuite before the brunette could take the remaining half. “If you do succumb to your exquisite boredom, you’ll turn into an Abercrombie, and then you’ll be even more unbearable than you are today.”

She smirked at the woman’s insinuation, “Oh Merlin no, it would be unnecessarily cruel for me to hold back from exploring all that South America had to offer and between me and you,” she leaned in a little, dropping her voice to a whisper, “I’ve made many promises to return back so if you have the time, let’s make a trip to the Amazon and I will introduce you to some of the many friends I’ve made,” she said with a smug expression on her face. “You are still single, right?” before leaning back in her chair and giggling at her question, “Of course, of course you would have sent me a howler if anything as drastic as that had happened, I should hope,” she mused to herself before leaning to take a macaroon off of the silver plate, a satisfied expression on her face as she took a bite.

Genevieve listened as her friend spoke of the ongoings at the Ministry. She had read of the protests in the paper, even though she was away she had ensured that a copy of the Daily Prophet was delivered to her room every morning, it was part of her job, as it were, to keep up with the news and well the young witch was curious as to the gossip that was circulating in her absence. “Oh no, Nathalie, I am quite jealous of how simple your life is, I suppose even cleaning a toilet would relieve me of all this stress, could I have one of the servants do it, they are after all trained for those sorts of things,” she sighed dramatically. “You cannot even begin to imagine how complicated all the research was and the head researcher was such a bloody tyrant about all the paperwork, so I couldn’t possibly play as much as I normally would."  It sounded almost comical coming from the young woman but her expression made it obvious: she was very serious. It was not the first time she had said something similar to her friend, and was almost certain that it would be met with an expression of disdain. “I’ve so much to attend to all the time, the galas and social events, this and that, people always clamoring for our family’s attention on several matters,” she sighed, rubbing her fingers against her temples as if the gesture would somehow demonstrate how taxing her very privileged life was.

“If I did something simple like working at the Ministry, a desk job you know, filling out paperwork and the like,” she added unnecessary details for effect, “I suppose I would save myself a world of trouble, you don’t even need to be overly qualified to do what you do, yes? I suppose a couple O.W.L.’s would get you a decent wage and fill your schedule from nine to five or six in the evening?” she asked. In all honesty, Genevieve knew very little about what her friend did at the Ministry, she had been raised with a particularly strong grudge against the governing body of the wizarding community and had made it a point to not look too much into it lest she too begin to protest but for an entirely different matter: stripping muggleborns from their rights to owning magical creatures, for example, or more importantly, the release of her father from Azkaban, who had been unjustly incarcerated for his association her mother, a convicted Death Eater.

The young Grosvenor took pride in such a reaction, it somehow made her feel powerful to remind the older woman of the differences between them. She did like her, as much as she liked anyone outside of her family which was very little, but Genevieve would be foolish to think them ever to be equal and as such, made it a point to remind her of the very obvious gap between the two of them. In her mind, it kept things in order, it would not do to have someone in her position give a woman of a more…common upbringing the idea that they were on the same level, even Genevieve would never be so cruel. The importance of hierarchy had been a concept deeply imbedded in her upbringing, the difference between her and others a daily reminder of the accomplishments of her family as well as the purity of her lineage. And well knowing that she had some sort of power over her, even if it was the difference in their classes, was enough to make Genevieve a little more comfortable with sharing part of her personal experiences. Even then, the young woman kept more secrets than not.

“You must be thinking, Oh Genevieve, you’ve so much money, how could you ever want for anything?” the young witch said, mocking the way her friend spoke as if to prove a point, “but unlike you and your family, I have much to think about, my family expects great things from me, I cannot live as easily as you do,” she continued. “It’s quite a struggle setting an example and all that, I may have the funds but you can certainly enjoy your freedom, and no amount of money can buy me out of this constant boredom,” she continued. It did not help that Genevieve was aware that the relationship between her family and the Wilkins went far beyond the friendship between the two girls. Nathalie had not been a friend that Genevieve had gone out of her way to seek out, she had more or less always been around and it had always seemed strange to her but she had never been one to question the motives of others. But her family was not only rich they were quite generous as well, especially when their magnanimity would benefit their stance on the many issues the Grosvenors were involved in.

She laughed at Nathalie’s words, shaking her head as if to deny that such a thing was ever possible. “Me? Unbearable?” she teased, bringing her hand to her chest in mock offense. “Now, now, don’t say such unkind things or you’ll hurt my feelings. I know very little of these Abercrombies, well apart from what comes up in the papers, but if you say that they are much more unbearable then I, well now I’m intrigued. What’s your business with them?” she asked, finishing her tea and loudly tapping the glass against the saucer, causing one of the maids in the corner to rush over to refill the cup, muttering an apology. Genevieve glared at the young woman, “Do you see what I mean by the silly things I have to deal with? You can’t even get a servant to serve tea properly, you’d think that they’d work harder for the type of wages they earn,” she complained, her eyes following the young woman before she shrugged, picking up the cup of tea and bringing it to her lips for another sip. "Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, tell me more about the Abercrombies and why you find them so unbearable."

“Single . . .” replied Nathalie a little absent-mindedly, waiting just a beat too long, unsure how to best answer her friend. At Hogwarts, such a topic would not have caused either of them to bat an eyelid - discussions of their more intimate dealings had been a lingua franca between the two, almost to the point of sharing notes and stratagems. Together, they were always rather laissez-faire regarding the boys that they had come across. But what exactly was Harvey Landsdowne now to the blonde? A project, she had initially decided all those months ago. Unfortunately emotions had that awful tendency to slightly get ahead of themselves and go off on their own tangent and thusly he had become certainly much more than that to her, despite her best attempts to the contrary. And yet . . . why was she suddenly loath to mention him to Genevieve? Nathalie’s eyes skimmed across the face of the brunette; always so familiar and yet she would always feel one step away from that true bond of deep friendship. Though she would never openly admit it to herself, there had often been moments throughout their shared past when the little green eyes of jealousy would pop over Nathalie’s shoulder with regards to her friend - she was only human after all. And Genevieve always seemed to have that little bit extra, seemed a little more gifted, perhaps, when Nathalie would reluctantly compare herself to the brunette - the Grosvenor girl always disgustingly beautiful, having a rather more ethereal presence than the blonde. And she bore those wonderful eyes of infinite longing and that chestnut hair that hung about her alabaster face, permanently in a state of perfectly arranged abundance. And she had a way of behaving towards men; her inherent, unrestrainable nature, perhaps; that made those simple creatures go a little unfocused, as if they had been stunned or slapped repeatably - desire had a tendency to visibly enervate the male of the species, as Nathalie knew only all too well - and to witness this enchanting effect all one had to do was spend half an hour sitting beside Genevieve in a public place and watch carefully. The blonde herself had been such a spectator countless times at Hogwarts. However, Nathalie was, above all, officially and publicly Genevieve’s friend; standing there loyal and steadfast by the brunette’s shoulder. Any yet . . . she would never share her new toy with her. A tinge of jealousy flashed through her upon hearing Genevieve’s covert boast. All the more reason for Nathalie to remain in her self-declared singledom.

Genevieve went on, stating rather frankly to Nathalie (because they often would let their guards down when alone together) about her position of inherited privilege, and Nathalie nodded along, and her grey eyes glazed over ever so slightly. Genevieve sometimes (as Nathalie had often mentally noted) had the tendency to forget herself in her presence; to infer that her rather special world was everyone’s world; to blindly speculate that the blonde to could empathise with her self-diagnosed difficulties. And as her friend, Nathalie would always appear to be there by her side commiserating, even if the best she could give her was a slightly off-handed remark and a smile.

“You must be thinking, Oh Genevieve, you’ve so much money, how could you ever want for anything?”

“Yes I do,” interrupted the now smirking Nathalie, impressed at her friends rather good impression of her, before the brunette went on. Nathalie continued to listen intently, nodding where required, pretending that yes, to not be obscenely rich was certainly a better position to be in than the sheer unadulterated horror for a beautiful young woman to have nothing to do for a few hours in the afternoon.

“Evie, you set such a wonderful example to witches across England - and I for one am eternally awed to be in your presence.” And she burst out laughing. Very few could get away with such a blatant disregard for Genevieve’s feelings, but Nathalie had crossed that bridge many years before, and nearly felt at this stage that Genevieve almost appreciated the doses of reality that the blonde would bring her. No one else would.

“Oh, the Abercrombies,” answered Nathalie. “Well, it’s . . .”, how was she to explain; there was too much, and too many of the details not suitable for public consumption. But surely Genevieve was not the measly public? And, slowly, although she did her best to mask her visage, it dawned on Nathalie that Genevieve too, could potentially be marked, her parent’s being what they were. Nathalie stopped short, mouth open a little, eyebrows raised just a little too much. She couldn’t be . . . not my Evie, no . . . Her eyes glanced momentarily upon the brunette’s forearm, unable to help herself, before they were interrupted by the poor maid who, after a stern reprimand, was sent skulking off into the corner again with her teapot. For a moment, Nathalie pitied the girl, realising that Genevieve’s attitude was a twenty-four-hour a day state of war that had to be dealt with. She nearly said something, nearly leaned forward to put her hand upon Genevieve, but stopped herself. The blonde considered it a waste of time; Genevieve would never change, and it was hardly worth troubling their friendship over something as slight as a maid.

“Well,” began Nathalie, somewhat diplomatically, the tone of her voice attempting in some way to assuage Genevieve after her tea-related near-disaster, “Farren Abercrombie, the heiress of the family, the one who is in the Prophet all the time, I know her - she was, in some way, indirectly related to me getting a role at the Ministry.” Nathalie’s eyes locked with Genevieve’s gaze, “She helps run a little organisation to support . . . to support those who suffered because of the war. From which she adopted me.” She made a face, as if appalled. “I think she may have pulled some strings behind the scenes.” The blonde was instantly embarrassed, and her cheeks flooded amaranth in response. “Or . . . something like that. Anyway, therefore she’s a constant thorn in my side now. I suppose she wants to see how her little investment is doing. It’s purely for information from the Ministry, you see; it’s the only organisation left that terrifies them, I think. She always wants reports.” She stopped for a moment to sip her cooling tea. It felt inappropriate to sit there in front of Genevieve and critique the Abercrombies; they were cut from the same cloth, after all. She wracked her mind for something positive to say about the family. “Well, I was lucky enough to meet Spenser, her grandfather. Was on the Wizengamot years ago. He’s actually . . . quite nice, surprisingly. I was nearly shocked.”

She had mentioned the patronage of the Abercrombies, and realised for a moment she had accidentally led the conversation into somewhat difficult seas - the thorny topic of parents. With her face fixed, and the tone of her voice delicate, she enquired softly, “And how are your parents doing?” It was an uncomfortable yet necessary subject to broach - for the both of them.

Genevieve frowned a little at the pause in her friend’s words. It was almost comical how terrible of a liar she had become. They young witch had a talent for these sorts of things, an expert spokeswoman, it had become her second nature to not only tell lies but tell them in a believable manner and in order to do so, one had to always be mindful of timing. “Are you still? That's quite unfortunate,” Genevieve scoffed reiterating her earlier statement for emphasis and ignoring her friend’s suspicious behavior. It did not matter regardless, she was a woman of very refined tastes, especially in the department of the male species and while in the past the two of them may have shared stories of their conquests or even the men themselves, things were quite different now. 

“Nathalie Wilkins, are you mocking me, dear?” she said rather haughtily, looking at her friend with mock offense at what regarded as unkind words. It seemed comical for the young witch to say such a thing, considering that the Grosvenors did not compose the majority but rather the select few—the surnames of what remained of the pureblood aristocrats of old had been immortalized in a genealogy book that her family kept for reference. Many young witches and wizards alike had made their fortune recently, the noveau riche, but riches did not equal respect of tradition or proper manners and because of this the young witch at times felt trapped by her status. The protocol needed for an afternoon outing alone was enough to give her a headache and so if Genevieve did not think to schedule things in advance, which she rarely did, the young woman believed the idea of planning in advance to be on the same level as absolutely boring, she was subjected to afternoons of nothing to do.

And as expected, she had begun to feel quite restless, in need of adventure, and unbeknownst to many of her closest friends, she had begun sneaking out at night, finding her way into bars and flirting with lonely strangers in invitation-only clubs. Even so, Genevieve felt little fulfillment with her escapades. Boredom was not a good look on the teenager. “Jokes aside, you ought to be honored to be in my presence, if I were slightly more traditional, I’d have you sitting here at my feet as we had tea,” she points to the floor rather rudely, “a place appropriate to your position,” she adds with a malicious smirk as she leans over to take another macaroon from the tray in front of her. She took a bite, savoring the taste for a moment before sighing heavily. “As I suspected, you wouldn’t understand, but that’s quite alright, it’s a much needed reminder of how different our stations in life are. I must say, I do envy how simple your life is but enjoy the benefits enough to persevere in mine”.

And the woman left it at that. It was no use attempting to explain how she longed for more freedom or how she felt suffocated by her position. Those words were better understood coming from someone from Augustus, and even her older cousin would not say them to anyone but her, in the privacy of their own chats away from prying ears. Genevieve risked very little by complaining, and did not expect Nathalie to find her way into her uncle’s office and inform him of the young witch’s dissatisfaction with her life—the last thing she needed was more boring responsibilities to attend to. She listened closely as her friend spoke of the Abercrombie family. Of course she had heard the name before and as her friend spoke more of their position in the circle of pureblood families, the more she began to understand. “Ah yes, she was in a bit of scandal a few years back, yes?” she tries to recall exactly what it was, “I can’t quite remember what it was but it seems to have to have been about marriage,” she said, unsure of the connection but feel there was one regardless.

She laughed a little as her friend’s cheeks reddened in what she assumed to be embarrassment, “Oh Nathalie, do you mean to tell me that you were incapable of securing a job at the Ministry of all places on your own? Haven’t you seen the sort of heathens employed at that place? You’d think they’d hire just about anyone, brain or not,” she jeered. She nods as Nathalie continues, “But I suppose if she’s done this with the intention of keeping this organization secure…it seems rather rude to critique her need for reports, does it not? She’s done you a great favor, I support anyone attempting to protect our kind,” she watches her drink her tea before continuing, “All of this would be avoided if you had taken charge of your own future rather than relying on the help of others,” she sighs, "I should hope that's quite obvious".

Genevieve swallowed softly at the mention of  her own parents, it was an uncomfortable topic and the sure way to tone down her pompous attitude down, even if for just a few moments. She glared over at the maids in the corner who, made nervous by her sudden attention, straightened their backs and averted their eyes. Clearing her throat and taking another sip of tea, she shifted in her chair uncomfortably before responding, “My parents are doing…well, I assume, as well as anyone can be doing in Azkaban. My father will have been there…four years this summer,” she explains with a polite smile, “but I’ve yet to see them. My uncle and Augustus have promised to set to it that my father’s conviction is overturned but well, I am yet to see it happen,” she looks down for a moment before looking back up at her, “He’s not guilty, you know, it was a matter of circumstance because he was married to my mother who bore the Dark Mark,” she explained but there was no need, it was all but public knowledge, something that had been told over and over, especially when the Daily Prophet attempted to report otherwise. It was a story that Genevieve had told herself so many times that she believe it to be true, and it was, at least her father had never done anything to rise suspicion in her. She leans a little forward, her voice dropping down to a whisper, “Between you and I, I intend to see my mother, try to schedule a meeting with her and if that’s successful maybe my father, I’m tired of waiting around and doing nothing about it, I’ve the world of resources at my disposal, it’s the very least I can do. But it may be best I avoid causing my family any unecessary attention, there hasn't been any talks of it just yet but I assume that my fiancee and his family won't be too pleased should I make too many strides on my own without their approval.”

Genevieve had noticeably changed; to resurrect the ghostly memories of her parents had a tendency to do just that, and Nathalie, to her eternal shame, was almost thankful she had that one stick to prod the girl with, because the younger girl had been growing steadily more and more irritating. Nathalie understood very well their interactions, and underneath Genevieve’s often thoughtless comments there lay the sturdy foundations of a friendship forged through fire, and over the years she had grown used to sitting stoically whilst Genevieve would wax lyrical on their social differences as if the blonde was nothing more than a stuffed animal, there to listen to the wealthy young lady again and again list their expansive differences and reply with nothing more threatening than a wry smile or a little droll comment. In some ways, Nathalie missed having Hogwarts for the two of them - living together in the Slytherin dungeons had been democratising for their relationship, and without the school they both most certainly would not have travelled in the same circles. Still, life had a funny way of arranging things, and thusly Genevieve and Nathalie had been thrown together, and had, despite everything, bonded. Yet the older and more world-weary Nathalie had become, the harder it was becoming for her to sit politely during Evie’s boorish barbs. The trials one had to go through to support a friendship . . .

Nathalie watched the brunette carefully as she answered. It was constantly difficult to know exactly the fluid situation regarding Genevieve’s parents. A mother in Azkaban for cold-blooded murder; a father lately interned there for a crime that the Grosvenor’s claimed was non-existent. Nathalie herself had her own suspicions regarding the meaning of Leonidas Grosvenor’s detention - to those who had been on the so-called losing side of the great war; Leonidas was one of the most extreme victims of the corrupt Ministry’s cruelty - a man snatched away from his family on the most false of pretences. To this day he still languished there, and this miscarriage of justice had never been corrected. She could sympathise with Genevieve’s suffering. And, as the ashes of Hogwarts had cooled during that horrific autumn of nineteen ninety-eight, their shared suffering - the loss of a father each - had only strengthen their companionship. However, what had been all too clear to all was Hesperia’s brutality, and the blonde did find it difficult to understand exactly why Genevieve would want to see her again, especially since the girl had last seen her before her incarceration in ninety ninety - so much had happened in the interim. Blood apparently was thicker than water.

The blonde nodded carefully in response to her friend, sipping at her tea. She carefully placed her empty cup and saucer upon the table, and ran her open hands across the taut fabric over her thighs, as if stalling for time somewhat. A silence had fallen over them.

Nathalie slowly got to her feet and turned to the little gathering of maids, who were still standing to attention in the corner, awaiting any request no matter how bizarre or inconsequential from their mistress. “Ladies, could you perhaps . . . give us five minutes?” she asked calmly and politely, and added a smile for good effect. It always helped to be nice to them, for they lived constantly under Genevieve's reign of terror. All three nodded sharply and scuttled out together, the huge door clicking carefully shut as they went. The blonde perched herself upon the arm of Genevieve’s exuberant chair, looking down on her from her slightly elevated position.

“If you wanted, Evie, I could help.”

It was a strange thing to say; a stranger offer to make. Nathalie herself was not entirely sure she really wanted to do such a thing. But it had been playing on her mind for several months; and had meant to broach the topic before Genevieve had decided to vanish on her little galavant across the world. If Evie wanted to go to Azkaban now, it could happen.

“I mean, I’ve been there a few times. With work. It’s easy for me to go. But it’s even easier for me to arrange for someone else to go. There are documents required, of course. With the appropriate information, and a few stamps on the right pieces of parchment, you, or, someone bearing your likeness, could visit. And then, your family would not have to get involved at all.” She pushed a loose strand of Evie’s chestnut hair away from her face, and allowed her hand to rest upon her elegant shoulder. “If you really want to go there, I mean. I’m not certain it’s such a great idea. But perhaps it is important that you see your father. I wish I had the same opportunity.”

“If you wanted, Evie, I could help.” Nathalie’s words were simple yet had somehow manage to provide her the comfort she had been looking for what seemed like years. The response she received from the public after her father’s imprisonment was mixed—the newspapers had written terrible things about the Grosvenor family initially, her name appearing more times in association with her parents and their imprisonment than it had ever appeared before. It made sense, the Ministry wanted to demonstrate somehow that they were taking care of it, that what had led up to the war and those involved in provoking it would be done away with and cause no more trouble to the magical community. It had caused two great wars in the past, would the third time be the charm? Genevieve was not doubtful that the cause would rise again, there was always a sort of calm before the grand storm that would bring forth the change that many of them were waiting for. But what mattered most was that Leonidas Grosvenor be brought home after proven innocent and there was no matter that was more pressing than her desire to lay eyes on her father again, to hold him in her arms in a tight embrace, and to bring him back to where he rightfully belonged.

Family friends had offered their help for years, Genevieve figured that while their aid was generous, it was most importantly brought out in an effort to show sympathy. Much like how friends and acquaintances paid their respect at a funeral, some were distraught by the loss but the majority were simply there to show their support but intended to do very little about it. Therefore everyone’s offer to help had been met the same way Genevieve had responded to anyone who found it in themselves to offer kind words in regards to her situation: a forced smile of silent resignation and an effort to hold her tongue as she simply replied with a few words of gratitude and moved forward with the conversation. Nevertheless things had changed in the last few years and as time passed by, Genevieve had transformed herself from a mere spectator of her father’s fate into an active participant in his release. Her uncle and cousin had sworn to do something about her father but had neither the time nor the desire to do so, at least in the young witch’s eyes, nothing had been done and she had waited far too long to sit back and continue to speculate on her father’s health.

Therefore she looked up at Nathalie, forgetting for a moment that as she sat on the arm of her favorite chair, the witch that Genevieve had looked down on for so long had finally found the opportunity to look down on her. It was of no consequence, after all, the young Grosvenor had somehow developed into a woman that played many roles and this was the one she had been given in this particular moment. As long as Nathalie proved to be as useful as she claimed, then finally she would have proven her worth to the younger witch. She nodded at her words, a small smile gracing her lips, “I would like that very much indeed,” she uttered silently, looking down at her feet for a moment as she contemplated the best course of action. Should her uncle be made aware of her actions, she would surely be punished and so would Augustus, her older cousin had always had to bear the brunt of her actions. Nevertheless, Genevieve could no longer live with the guilt and it was in that moment that she decided that her father’s life was worth any punishment imparted on any member of her household.

“I would like to go myself, in fact, I would like to go as soon as possible,” she confessed, making sure to keep her words low and even in order to avoid suspicion should the maids be standing right outside of the door, leaning their ear against the door to bring something new to the gossip table as they did so often. “No one can be made aware that I’ve been there, I trust that I can impart such a grand responsibility to such a good friend,” she added, her expression softening in an effort to become more genuine. “If you manage this Nathalie, well it seems that I will be greatly indebted to you, I do hope that you will not disappoint me,” she continued before heaving a sigh and moving to stand up. She sniffled, the only sign that the young witch was on the verge of tears, the overwhelming feeling of finally being able to do something on her father’s behalf was too much to bear and it was in that moment that her emotions flooded her with an increasing desire to cry. It was something that she was much too proud to do in front of anyone else, especially Nathalie Wilkins.

She walked towards the door, looking slightly over her shoulder as if to conceal her face, “I will have one of the maids gather your things and escort you out, please do keep in touch, I’ve grown weary and must retire to bed, I apologize for cutting such a pleasant meeting short,” she said casually, the door opening as if by magic the closer she got to it, “Thank you for coming,” she muttered before the door was promptly closed upon her exit.
[/end]

“It’s okay, it’s nothing -“ but Genevieve was already off. Nathalie had the sensation that the girl was about to cry. “Evie, wait -“ but she was gone, half a farewell discarded carelessly over her noble shoulder. The blonde watched the door close softly with one quizzically raised pale eyebrow. Genevieve, too proud to even cry in her presence. Nathalie exhaled in mild frustration, and decided to make use of these few free moments. She got to her feet, and took a quick scan of the neighbouring sideboards that lined the room; all adorned with various elaborate trinkets; delicate Chinese vases that were worth certainly more than Nathalie’s annual salary; small statuettes of Roman gods in various poses of increasing Sprezzatura, and little expensive mementoes of importance to the Grosvenors. But Nathalie was searching for something more pertinent - an appropriate photograph of Evie. There were dozens, but none of her in the correct pose; all too poised and knowing. And then, at the very end; Genevieve and her father, with the girl looking straight at the camera; Leonidas at her side, hand on her shoulder. Swiftly, Nathalie extracted the photo from the heavy and ornate sterling silver frame, and, folding it, shoved it into the waistband of her trousers before the maids spilled back into the room.

————

It was the following Wednesday. Nearly seven p.m., and most of the ministry had already abandoned ship. Nathalie sat at her desk, alone, by the light of her lamp. Darun Singh marched out of his office, pulling his jacket over his shoulders as he strode towards her. He clapped loudly once. “Alright Nat; get your coat babes. We’re going.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she replied, not looking up from her work.

“Nat, babes, it can wait till morning.”

“No, it can not,” and she flashed him a look through her tortoiseshell reading glasses, pointing at the small pile of parchments stacked upon the corner of the desk. “This needs to be dealt with tonight.”

“Nat. Dahhrling. Open bar. Oh - Pen - Baaaarr. Does that compute? London Alchemy never has an open bar. “

“Half an hour.”

“Nat, Will MacAllister was just on to me over the Floo - old man @Jon Emerson Sr  is apparently behind the bar. Right now. Drinking shots and making cocktails. We have got to see this.”

“Half. An. Hour.”

“Nat in half an hour I’m gonna be sloshed. You’re impossible, babes. Okay here’s the deal. For every round we get, I’m gonna keep one drink for you, and when you get there, you’re gonna drink them all in front of me. And then, you’ll go and kiss Emerson.”

“Anything you want,” she replied icily, her eyes narrowed.

Darun backed out of the room with a wave, the rest of the department swarming about him. “HALF AN HOUR!!” he bellowed, before they scurried off, hollering loudly down the corridor; something about the free bar and various esoteric cocktails.

She waited two minutes, then sprang into action. She ran to the records room; dragged her finger across the many spines of personnel files that were lined on shelves; found the one labelled MATERNITY and pulled it out. She ran to the filing cabinet across the room; opened the bottom drawer and extracted an Azkaban Approved Visitor Request parchment. With both she returned to her desk, rolling the parchment across the platen of her typewriter. She opened the file and began searching; looking for any Ministry employee who was currently on maternity leave, and had also frequented Azkaban in the past. It took her five minutes to find a decent subject - Rose Paxton; twenty four; Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who had undertaken nearly weekly visits to the prison throughout the year 2001. She looked nothing like Genevieve but it did not matter - Azkaban administration was staffed by imbeciles and other DMLE miscreants who could not fit anywhere else. An extra visit for Ms Paxton would not be considered unusual, even though she was not due back at work for another month.

Nathalie began to type; entering Rose Paxton’s details carefully into the Visitor Request. When she was finished she took the document and ran into the little reprographics room across the hall, where a camera was mounted upon a copy stand. She took the photo of Genevieve from her pocket and placed it upon the base of the apparatus, then dropped the camera down upon its mount, estimating the distance required to make a Ministry-approved portrait from the original. She set the camera, loaded the plate, set the lamps and clicked the shutter remote. There was a flash and a puff of smoke. Immediately, Nathalie removed the plate; shook it, opened the cartridge and peeled the positive image apart from the negative. The result wasn’t perfect; the focus slightly off, but it was a close as she could get from using an imperfect source. She ran back to her desk, trimmed the image with a knife against a steel ruler, and stuck it to the right corner of the document. The final touch involved the liberal application of several Ministerial stamps; and she concluded by signing the document in the name of her superior at the bottom. Using the steel rule she detached the bottom section, which she placed in an envelope and addressed it to Genevieve at Dorfold. The rest of the document was placed into another envelope, upon which she hastily scribbled the infernal address of Azkaban prison.

Grabbing her blazer from the back of her desk, she left the office, dropping the two letters into the full Out-tray of the department as she went.

END