[melbourne] safety net don't hold me now [sylvester]

march 2002

This was shaping up to be a very nice weekend, even if she was in Australia. She had taken the whole week prior off from work, visiting with her family as she made her way east across Russia before taking a turn south and heading toward Melbourne. She had been awarded her Platinum Cauldron the next evening, only staying in the country for an additional day to do a bit of job shopping. The Walker Institute of Sports Injuries Healing and Research: it was a mouthful to say but they were hiring, looking for someone with a teaching background, specializing in plants and poisons -- apparently there were more and more potions-related incidents these days and the healers weren’t being properly trained. It was almost too fitting to pass up.

The interview went perfectly, because of course it did. It went well even if one of the men on the interview showed up late, apparently fresh from quidditch practice (and he certainly smelled like it). But when it became apparent that his uncle was the ‘Walker’ of the Walker Institute, she did her best not to mind. It was ‘S. T. Walker’ to be more precise, but the name had to be a coincidence. The S. Walker she knew wasn’t important enough to have an entire institute of education named after him, even if he did seem to think he was.

Things shifted to small talk, which was always a sign of a good interview. The uncle was brought up again, and before she could second guess herself, she had agreed to dinner with him. The final part of her interview -- she wanted the job, after all, as now that she had achieved her platinum cauldron her research load was suddenly less for the time being -- was bound to go just as well as the first part.

Besides, it was a good excuse to shop for a new dress. If the one she found wasn’t so low cut, it could be mistaken as professional: matte black silk and only two pieces of gold jewelry, her earrings and a bracelet. With her hair pulled up and out of her face and her makeup not done to its full extent, it was obvious to anyone that knew her that she was still going for the professional vibe as much as possible. Much to her dining companion’s dismay, she was sure.

Varya showed up perfectly on time, only to discover that this Uncle Walker didn’t have the same courtesy. She was given the choice of being shown to the table or waiting in the bar, and she made the easy choice: bar. The interior of the restaurant was modern, with shiny surfaces, gold detailing, and low lighting.

There was just enough time to take a sip of her drink before her final glance at the door: in walked @Sylvester Walker, the very S. Walker she didn’t think could possibly be involved in this evening. He had no business being involved in a healing school, even if it did specialize in sports injuries. She was still determined to meet with someone else, to play this off as a chance encounter. Simply a bout of bad luck. This S. Walker would meet his own dinnermate, and she would be left to enjoy this final step toward an additional job with her own S. Walker.

The healer crossed her ankles, turning herself just slightly on her perch to watch with slight horror as he approached her. Even then, she didn’t want to believe that she had agreed to dinner with him, not after how they had left things between them. She straightened her back, almost involuntarily, as he got closer, her left hand still lightly wrapped around her glass. “Mr. Walker,” she said once he was close enough, once again emphasizing his name with her accent, drawing attention to how much she disliked it.

The Walker Institute of Sports Injuries Healing and Research was looking for a new lecturer, someone with a teaching background, specialising in plants and poisons, and there just happened to be a potioneer with a newly awarded Platinum Cauldron in Melbourne. While it was a very convenient situation indeed, everything happened too fast, the interview feeling especially rushed, at least in Sylvester’s opinion. He was a busy man with many meetings each day, with a schedule sometimes so packed that he barely had time for his five o’clock tea.

The interview that day had been far too much for him to handle, as Sylvester had a meeting at the Rudd Institute of Diricawl Research and Farming. Therefore, he simply requested his nephew, Hefin, to drop by the Walker Institute when he’d have time, after practice. Hefin did as told and, of course, later on informed Sylvester of how the interview went. In his nephew’s opinion, the witch in question was more than suitable for the job, and while Hefin could’ve made her an offer on the spot, he decided to leave Sylvester seal the deal. The part Welsh mentioned something about the witch being a hot Russian blonde, exactly Sylvester’s style, and just couldn’t deprive his uncle of meeting her in person. Typical Hefin. Not that it bothered him, for Sylvester always enjoyed meeting a beautiful intellectual.

Consequently, his nephew arranged a dinner for them at Sylvester’s favourite restaurant, informing the potioneer in question that it would be the final part of the interview, but telling Sylvester that it was actually him wanting them to meet, for they would look great together. For someone who did the best to be the worst at his own arranged dates, Hefin certainly enjoyed arranging such meetings himself. He was undoubtedly Heather’s son. But, yet again, he wasn’t complaining.

Due to the fact that he had to sign some contracts, Sylvester was a bit late to the dinner. However, it was only a few minutes, and the wizard was sure the potioneer wouldn’t terribly mind it. In the end, she believed it was the second part of the interview so, if anything, she would be more nervous rather than irritated. Arriving at the restaurant, the Victorian gave his coat to one of the boys, revealing his simple, yet elegant outfit, red silk with golden embroidery, and instantly receiving some compliments from the waiters. These boys definitely knew how to keep their clients.

He was then informed that his companion was waiting at the bar, not having desired to go ahead and order. Sylvester then headed towards the bar and, as soon as he reached it, his gaze fell on nobody else but his least favourite potioneer. Varvara Zakharova, who had incidentally also been awarded with the Platinum Cauldron the other day; he did read the news, of course – Oh. Sylvester instantly realised that she, in fact, matched the description perfectly. She was the potioneer he was going to meet up with. A condescending smirk appearing on his face, Sylvester made his way towards the bar.

He immediately took notice of her attire – if she thought this was a business meeting, then it only revealed that Varvara hadn’t changed at all, wanting to get the attention of rich men at all costs. It was truly a pity, since she was seemingly doing quite well on her own. However, it seemed she was unfortunate enough to not desire to be an independent woman. But, alas, it wasn’t his problem anymore. If anything, he was going to absolutely love interviewing her for a job at his healing school.

He elegantly took a seat next to her, gracefully crossing his legs in the process, leaning his elbow against the bar’s counter while he turned to face her, as she’d addressed him. “Well, well, what do we have here.” He remarked, equally teasingly and condescendingly. “Never thought I’ll see you in my corner of the world, Barbie.” Sylvester commented, deciding to wait and see whether or not she was aware that he was the man she would be meeting that evening. In the end, if she’d arranged herself so unprofessionally (let it be incredibly sexy and elegant), Sylvester highly doubted that Varvara knew she would be meeting him.

However, not knowing that the Walker Institute would be his was a bit far-fetched, especially for a successful potioneer such as herself. He was now genuinely curious as of how this would evolve.

If he knew what was good for him, he’d stop this dinner before it started. He could just inform him that she wasn’t the right fit for the position, she’d admit she had only shown up out of professional courtesy, and they could continue never seeing each other again. Of course, that was giving his common sense far too much credit.

He sat next to her; Varya refrained from expelling the sigh that had built up inside her. Instead, she mimicked his body language, turning to face him but folding her hands in her lap. Self control was important now and she didn’t need to make reaching for her wand any easier than it already was. She studied his face, trying to discern any clues that could prove he wasn’t in the dark about this situation like she was. But if he was just as surprised, he was handling it annoyingly well.

Varya didn’t want to show her surprise, and she thought she was hiding it well enough as she fixed the slightest smile upon her lips. “I certainly was not trying to surprise you.” She raised a well manicured eyebrow as she shrugged one shoulder. Dropping her gaze from his face, she focused on her drink, taking the small straw in hand and lazily stirring the glass’s contents. His smirk and that way he said ‘Barbie’: she refused to believe that he was unaware he would be meeting her. She should have been aware that he was the same S. Walker as the one she had been expecting, and know that she thought about it, he and his nephew shared similar unfavorable qualities. She would never forgive herself for this minor slip up.

Thankfully, she didn’t really need this job. But for all he knew, she wanted it.

“I was in the neighborhood,” she replied with a smile, not feeling the need to expound on reasons why. If he had properly prepared for an interview he would know she had just been awarded the Platinum Cauldron. “And it’s hard to ignore corners of the world when they have such excellent healing schools.” That, and the school had reached out to her for the interview.

She lifted her drink to her lips and took a small sip, her eyes flicking down to the arm that had sent him to St. Mungo’s a month prior. “I trust you’re feeling better, considering the risk of spreading the rash to others.” Pity it hadn’t spread and marred that smirky face of his.

Each gesture she made was filled with nothing but elegance and refinement, and Sylvester found himself consciously checking her out as she shrugged one shoulder. Varvara seemed to be feigning ignorance, and while beautifully executed, he wasn’t really buying any of it. Truth be told, he was highly aware the Russian wasn’t that kind of woman, superficial, shallow, and not endowed with high intelligence. If anything, he wasn’t underestimating the enemy. But why then was she acting as if she didn’t know the situation at hand?

“Well, you succeeded without even trying then.” Sylvester commented with no emotion in the tone of his voice, as he shifted in his seat, eyes moving from her and towards the rest of the chamber. While apparently indifferently, in reality he looked around quite meticulously, just in case there was someone he knew around. It would have given him a great opportunity to talk to a third party, and further push their interview. If anything, he wanted her to be in pure agony over the fact that it depended on him whether or job she would get a job. And one of academic nature, as a matter of fact. Surely, she was much better at reprimanding students than showing kindness to patients. He knew the latter was true from personal experience.

Unfortunately for him, there was nobody worth saluting nearby. Disappointing.

“Ha.” Sylvester let out a sarcastic laugh at her remark. Just in the neighbourhood? Nice one, Barbie, just happened to be in the opposite side of the planet. He didn’t say anything else, but slowly turned his gaze towards her, as she complimented his healing school. Sylvester involuntarily arched an eyebrow at the comment, perfectly mimicking her earlier expression. Accordingly, he also shrugged one shoulder, as he replied to her statement. “If you say so.” Sylvester wasn’t going to take the bait. In the end, if she acknowledged the school’s excellency, it was because it was true. He needn’t point out it was by far the best healing school in the wizarding world; her choice of words had been more than enough.

“Of course.” Sylvester replied to her observation regarding his own poisoning. He didn’t bother looking at his arm, or moving it, or doing any gesture of any kind – the Victorian was aware that she was looking at it, and moving it would imply making her conscious of the fact that she was actually taking him in, regardless of the reason. If anything, he’d enjoy it more if in a day or two she’d realise on her very on the fact that her gaze lingered on him. It was the best kind of torture, the slow psychological kind. It him people when they least expected it, and gave Sylvester the upmost of pleasure.

“It takes more than a third-rate poison to get to me.” He let smirked, letting out yet another condescending laugh. “I’m the type of man who can hold his poisons.” Sylvester revealed, gaze turning from her and focusing towards one of the waiters, as they approached him quite carefully, with equal diplomacy inquiring if he – Mr. Walker – wanted to go to his table, now since both he and his companion have arrived.

“Well then, I guess we’d better get your interview started. For that excellent healing school you mentioned.” Sylvester commented as he got up from the stool and offered Varvara his hand, to offer his help, like any gentleman – they were in public in the end, and when on his territory, he enjoyed keeping a very good public image. Also, he just happened to offer her the arm she was so intensely looking at only moments ago. Obviously, such a coincidence.

He was mimicking her gestures; while annoying, it also meant that he was paying close attention to her and the slight enjoyment she got from that was equally as annoying. Varya didn’t alter her expression, save for one corner of her mouth lifting slightly. As close to a grin as she was going to get, she was sure. She simply shrugged one shoulder again, ignoring his disbelief that she was just popping by this interview as a courtesy.

She brought her gaze back up, having let it linger on his arm for far too long. She was met with a smirk, and she raised an eyebrow as he commented on how strong willed his immune system apparently was. It was a good thing she didn’t produce third-rate poisons, she mused silently, already compiling a list of possible things with which to test his resolve. Not even ten seconds had passed and she had already thought of fifteen different things, at least four of which were proprietary blends she had come up with herself.

He must be so very important to have enough experience to figure out which poisons he could handle. Else, he was so very stupid. Maybe a little of both.

Still, she couldn’t quite discern if he had made his comment in the first place because of something he knew about her. He had, no doubt, done his research on her after their incident years ago, just as she had done on him. He didn’t seem like the type that wouldn’t have ‘let it slip’ if he was privy to any of her less than savory hobbies, either to someone with authority or to herself in some sort of twisted blackmail scenario. She was uncomfortable not knowing what he knew.

“You are every healer’s dream, I am sure.” Varya returned his smirk very briefly, interrupted by the re-appearance of a waiter.  “Excellent,” she replied, not hesitating before taking his hand, though solely for appearance’s sake and not for any sort of support; she didn’t grip it any tighter than necessary. She managed a simple, “Thank you,” not overdoing it at all. Leaving her drink, half empty, behind on the bar, Varya readjusted her hand to his arm; she needed to focus if she wanted to get through this evening without acting on her earlier thoughts of poisoning him. Worse still, vodka might have made the evening enjoyable.

They were led through a set a heavy, mahogany doors which, once closed, blocked out the ambient chatter from the restaurant, the noise that had been making this situation slightly more tolerable, she realized a second too late. The setting was bordering on intimate: the table was small enough that they would still be within an arm’s reach of each other even when seated directly across from each other, and there were just a few candles lit in the center. If this was a tactic to intimidate her through the interview, then the joke was on Sylvester; Varya looked spectacular in candlelight.

One waiter poured wine as the other seated the Healer, and after a quick flurry of other waiter activity, they were left alone, the silence painfully obvious. She left her wine untouched, hands folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle, and gaze on the excellent Mr. Walker of that excellent healing school. “Shall we?” She asked, referring to the interview and surely, nothing else.

Her unexpected remark caused him to arch an eyebrow in surprise, rather than disbelief. If anything, a man of his status was everyone’s dream, not only a healer’s. And, naturally, he’d been her dream, as Varvara went as far as to lie to him about her identity so she could charm him. A vixen indeed, however she wasn’t speaking lies, but only the solid truth. It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask whether or not she knew it from personal experience. Instead, he took an equally truthful approach. “Oh, really now? Am I?” He sighed, obviously disappointed, only a tiny bit theatrical. “And here I was hoping I’m everyone’s living nightmare.”

As expected, but also a bit startlingly, she respected the minimum required protocol. Not the part in which she had to act with grace and elegance and take on his offer of both helping off her stool and leading her to their table, but the part where she left her already half-empty glass of vodka on the bar. The fact that she’d been drinking before an interview denoted her (lack of) professionalism, nonetheless, Sylvester decided not to comment on the matter. Yet. In the end, she had been decent enough to leave it there and not have it in one go – as many other Russians he knew did.

For the briefest of moments he’d forgotten that he hadn’t arranged the dinner, but Hefin. Sylvester found himself letting out a slightly irritated sigh as his eyes fell upon the setting; it was too intimate. He took note to remind his younger sister that Hefin could use two arranged dates per week, and not just one. If he had to suffer tonight, Sylvester would definitely make sure that his nephew would also join him in Hell. At least he looked incredible in candlelight, and this would make the interview even tenser for Varvara. Oh well.

He took a seat at the table, as one of the waiters poured them wine. Sylvester cleared his throat as he crossed his legs under the table, and then the waiter brought him another beverage, non-alcoholic. If Varvara wanted to drink wine, then he wouldn’t comment on her questionable professionalism until later on. He elegantly grabbed the glass in front of him, and started drinking very slowly, lifting up his index finger, to point out to Varvara that he desired to drink his beverage in peace, thank you very much.

“Mmm.” He let out a soft moan, smirking at the glass as he placed it back on the table, fingers gently tapping against its edge as his gaze raised towards her. She looked spectacular in candlelight, almost as perfect as he did. Too bad that this wasn’t a date. For her, as Varvara was definitely missing out. Her loss, definitely not his.

“It seems that you have a very passionate love-hate relationship with your alma mater.” Sylvester stated, leaning against the back of his chair, as he let his left hand fall on his knee, his right one’s fingers still gently tapping now against the edge of the table. “First you quit, then you go back, then your subject is taken off the curriculum… Your past reveals quite the lack of commitment. Or perhaps fright to commit.” Sylvester smirked with the tiniest bit of satisfaction, as he shrugged one shoulder.

“One would wonder why you would be interested in a teaching position. Again.” He stated with a lot of calm in the tone of his voice, yet with the smallest traces of snootiness. Sylvester now elegantly gestured towards her, encouraging Varvara to explain herself. In the end, his inquiry had been legitimate enough. Nobody wanted a professor who couldn’t commit for their school.

Varya narrowed her gaze the slightest bit, watching with a strange mixture of repulsion and admiration as Sylvester wordlessly ordered himself a second drink, making a show out of not drinking the wine they had been provided. She could abstain too, she noted, and she could do it without drawing so much attention to it. Her gaze followed the glass as he set it on the table, though she brought it back up, catching his eye with her own. Already this evening they had spent more time together than they had in years; she had cut short his previous hospital visit, and he had ended early the one before that.

She wasn’t enjoying being in such close quarters with him, not when he wasn’t suffering from some sort of painful affliction. She was almost to the point of regretting those two glasses of vodka she had consumed before leaving her hotel. Almost.

He wasted no time getting straight to business, which was so unlike him, she recalled with an inward smirk. But Varya couldn’t afford to dwell on that now, especially as her former school was mentioned. She had rehearsed the information that was public knowledge about her first departure from the institution, but that didn’t mean she could afford any kind of slip up now. She was still in the dark about what he knew and didn’t know about her, after all.

She had quit Durmstrang twice, both times just before they found cause to let her go. The first incident had been a bit personal in nature, involving a student finding himself unable to attend classes any more, through no fault of her own, naturally. It had sent her to Neroli, armed with an assumed name, a well-executed dye job, and poor decisions about her romantic life. Varya assumed that he didn’t need her to go into detail there.

“It’s hard not to hate your alma mater when it no longer values the things you once loved.” Teaching without restrictions, classes full of test subjects, halls devoid of muggleborn propaganda.

The second incident, however, was certainly through no fault of her own, unless one could count her refusal to teach in Bulgarian a reason for termination. She hadn’t flat out refused to teach the Koldovstoretz students, but she had made no secrets about the Durmstrang students being able to use their new classmates as practice dummies. Thinking about it now made it nostalgic for the high quality teaching of days past. She knew, of course, that her usual method of instruction would not be tolerated outside the bounds of Durmstrang, which only proved her point more that she was bored and thought this job could fill some of her free time.

“I’m not sure how much news reaches this continent, but it was the…” she paused to pick her description for the woman she was thinking of. Bulgarian? Muggleborn? Certifiable? Which was worse? “Esteemed former headmistress of Koldovstoretz that eliminated my position. They surely felt that their own students wouldn’t be able to grasp the intricacies of Melioration, nor possess the skills required to master it.” She shrugged one shoulder, a move that was becoming commonplace even in this short-lived interaction.

“But no, I would not call it being afraid of commitment. Perhaps just a commitment to better opportunities.” She nodded slightly, “As evidenced by me interviewing for this school, and not Dilys Derwent.” She was stretching the truth on that, of course; she would have interviewed at DDS if the opportunity had arisen, but that was an insignificant detail.

She got straight to the point, which was so unlike her, as he recalled. Sylvester abstained himself from condescendingly smirking at the thought, instead just paying attention to her reply. He didn’t have an alma mater, for he was home-schooled, nonetheless Sylvester had never heard anyone talk about their former academic institution in such a way. Many of his family members, and his friends, prided themselves with their former schools, so being in the presence of someone who spoke in such a unswerving manner was slightly intriguing.

“Go on.” He mentioned rather disinterested, despite quite enjoying the fact that she was obviously suffering, being displeased of Durmstrang to the point that she actually hated it, as Varvara worded it herself. Knowing there was something that made her so miserable, to the point of hatred, was little said satisfying. Sylvester’s gaze once more focused on her figure, hoping that it would add more pressure on her. In the end, criticising something one used to love and pride themselves with in front of a potential superior was quite intimidating. However, Sylvester knew she was shameless, so he wasn’t quite sure it would work on her as well as on others. Despite being an intellectual, her personality was rather lacking, and quite vulgar at times. In the end, she did drink before and during an interview, so his hopes for her weren’t that high, quite on the contrary.

Nonetheless, as Varvara explained, Sylvester sighed, realising why she had left her alma mater. Truth be told, the news did reach him, but at that point he refused to comment anything regarding the matter. It had been their choice to ruin a perfectly good school for elites. The merge hadn’t been a success so now Koldovstoretz had been reinstated as far as he knew, but Durmstrang still had to earn back its prestige. In the end, letting muggleborns walk inside a school filled with elitists was quite the unfortunate feat on both ends. Hogwarts, for example, provided a nice environment for all, but Durmstrang provided a nice environment for blood purity and success of keeping magic within the inner circle. If anything, Sylvester’s own ideology was similar to the respective school’s.

Consequently, he could only assume that Varvara also held similar beliefs, so her next words didn’t surprise him. Of course a muggleborn headmistress would mistreat a person who enjoyed their purity. He could only assume that was the true reason why a woman of Varvara’s intellect was so easily dismissed. “You mean the mudblood.” He shrugged one shoulder, mimicking her own gestures on more, fingers drawing their way back to the glass, and, as Sylvester picked it up, a smirk appeared once more on his face. “You can talk openly here. In the end, since we are during an interview, I naturally disagree with the former headmistress.”

Sylvester arched an eyebrow, before taking another sip out of his drink. Varvara was many things, however she was not uncultured, and she excelled in potions. Healing as well, as much as he disliked to admit it. Nobody could contradict that, hence her being awarded the platinum cauldron as well. He sighed, and elegantly shifted in his seat, as he swallowed his sip. Glass still in his hand, his eyes narrowed slightly as they fell on her once more. “Very well. The circumstances were quite unfortunate. As far as this better opportunity goes…” Sylvester paused, and offered her a disapproving nod.

“Second question.” He suddenly added, placing his glass back on the table. “Let’s say that it’s just me being quite passionate about poisons.” Sylvester let out a soft chuckle, his smirk widening it a bit, as it became even more sarcastic and pompous than before. He drew closer to the table, and placing his right elbow on its edge, the Victorian let his chin on his hand’s knuckles, fingers gently stretching out underneath his chin. “What is your favourite and why? I’m rather curious of your preference.” His eyes narrowed once more, his demeanour becoming a little more teasing. “As someone who develops cures, of course. You must have a poison that fascinates and motivates you, to become a better potioneer and healer.” He nodded once in approval, let it be more cynically than initially desired. Nonetheless, Sylvester was quite curious as to what her answer would be, especially because he was aware of some of her previous affiliations to dark magic.

This was going to properly become quite entertaining. For him.

Varya arched an eyebrow, the corners of her lips almost twitching into a small smile. She appreciated the distinction that English made with the term, using ‘mud’ to describe the nature of the blood, rather than the lazy ‘dirty’ term Russian used. That was too vague, she thought. She almost moved to pick up her own glass as Sylvester did the same, regretting immediately her decision to not drink wine if he wasn’t going to. She had forgotten that boring little detail about him -- his preference for no alcohol -- and the reminder of it now wiped that unwanted hint of a smile cleanly away.

She stayed still save for the tilt of her head, as close to a nod as she was going to get. “Naturally,” she repeated, not returning his smirk, growing rather tired of seeing it in the first place. At least he was honest about this one thing, even if his words so far that evening had been laced with smaller untruths, like how he never thought he’d ever see her here, how he could hold poisons, how she was afraid to commit. It was almost comforting to know that she wasn’t the only one he held a grudge against, even if it was for such glaringly different reasons.

He mentioned her ‘better opportunity’ back to her, and she arched her other eyebrow to match the other. He nodded, yet with a grim look; either he was already shooting her down for a job she didn’t really want or he was disagreeing that this school was any better than the last. Varya wanted it to be the latter option. She wanted to be the one to turn him down, when the time came.

Sylvester smirked again. She had to refrain from frowning, both at him for making that expression again, and at herself for somehow starting to enjoy the expression all over again. Varya relaxed her face, of course not being overly interested in the subject of poisons, nothing more than an academic fondness for them, not at all quite passionate. She decided she would wonder about his word choice at a later date.

She was momentarily distracted as he shifted positions, watching his hand as he raised it to his chin. It was nice of him to forego the gloves that evening, she realized, thankful she didn’t have to be distracted wondering where the rest of his glove had gotten off to. “My preference?” She needed to appear to be taken aback by his question, and she thought she did a rather nice job of it. He clarified, and Varya smiled, because of course poisons motivated her to become a better potioneer and healer -- they actually did, considering that the poisons she created were also creating job security for herself.

“Because you are quite passionate about poisons, of course,” she started, her hands remaining in her laps as she switched which leg was crossed over the other. Varya didn’t take her eyes off of him, not terribly minding if her own passion for poisons was misconstrued as any other type of passion -- for healing, for him, for the recognizable lack of food service -- and she smirked. “There was one I encountered--” in her own laboratory, when she had made it “--that slowly boils the victim from the inside out, with no other symptom but excruciating pain.” She paused for slight emphasis, almost forgetting who she was talking to. “It’s unclear what has happened until it is too late.”

Varya knew that the muggle doctors had no way of seeing what was wrong, having accompanied one lover to the hospital when he had started suffering from it. None of their silly tests had been able to spot anything; even his temperature was normal. She left out that it was also completely untraceable magically, not wanting to give him any reason to question how she knew about it.

“Surely you must have a preference of your own, seeing you are so passionate.”

Sylvester’d taken note of the slight change in her features, and he had not enjoyed the fact that she had seemed to take pleasure in his openly stating the word ‘mudblood’. Naturally, he knew she would agree with him, for, in the end, an inferior human had managed to make her leave her alma mater. While he indeed would never know how and why one would get attached to their school, Sylvester understood that he wasn’t keen on pleasing her any longer. The slight gesture had irked him, but Varvara was flawed enough for him to exploit another weakness of hers – alcohol. As he picked up his own glass, the Durmstrang alumna seemed to want to mimic his reaction, moment in which Sylvester smirked at her with evident dominance. She did not pick up her glass, and her smile faded. Beautiful. Sylvester thought as he took a sip out of his drink, satisfied that he was not only pulling her strings, but also causing her misery.

His gratification only grew as Varvara seemed fleetingly sidetracked by him changing positions in his seat. He’d remarked how his gaze was not especially fixed on his face, but on his hand. It was of the few moments when Sylvester was not wearing his trademark gloves. She was not the first, nor will she be the last, to be fascinated with his hands when bare. Ever since he’d been a chaser, Sylvester had always taken care of his hands, one of his most prized features – not that he wasn’t perfectly handsome overall. Nonetheless, the man had always made sure his hands were always tended to, and never went out without his manicure done, forever matching whatever attire he would be wearing the certain day. He was the Walker, so the Victorian always had to look flawless, just like he was. Sylvester was burning with pleasure, seeing her so fascinated like that by seemingly a small and insignificant detail regarding his appearance. And definitely not the most appealing, as she herself unfortunately knew. Nonetheless, it seemed she was taking too much pleasure in seeing his hand outside its usual fashion.

Sylvester let his fingers linger underneath his chin, eyes focusing on her figure as Varvara seemed to be taken aback by his question regarding poisons. The fake reaction wasn’t obvious, but he knew it was. Of course, he hadn’t been aware of the person the interview this evening was going to be with. Sylvester couldn’t have. Nonetheless, he had done his research on her in the past, and the Victorian knew still how different the woman in front of him now was from the person she’d presented herself to be, Ioana. For starters, he most definitely preferred driving blondes into pure desperation, much more than sharing passionate moments with brunettes.

“Of course.” He repeated her own words immediately, arrogant undertones being especially noticeable once more. She wasn’t taking her eyes off of him which, naturally, he did enjoy. She was analyzing him – trying to see what he knew, what he didn’t, how she should approach the situation. Interviews were delightful that way, for it seemed that the person in front of him was always caged, always forced to be as diplomatic as possible, whereas he could afford each and every luxury. Fate had it that Varvara ended up his prey. Dark brown eyes glancing at her silhouette in the candlelight, Sylvester arched an eyebrow as she answered, feigning the shallowest level of curiosity and concern. Nonetheless, the potion she was talking about was interesting indeed. He narrowed his eyes, his smirk becoming more devilish as she explained.

“Sounds like an” – lusciously – “agonizing death.” He commented, his casual nonchalance ever-present. “I suppose though, there is a certain poetic beauty in extremely painful demise – burning from the inside out.” Sylvester remarked, then letting out a soft chuckle at her final observation, as she tried to cover up her own delight in talking about her passion. He enjoyed that; having her talk about a subject she invested in, and yet not allowing her to speak about it openly. It must be rather frustrating. “What is the name of the certain potion?” He inquired. “I assume you are, at least, researching it on the side. For science.”

Varvara returned the question, and Sylvester slowly wet his lips. There were two options. Firstly, he could deprive her of an answer. Obviously, she would be dissatisfied for he got to know more of her and yet she knew little of the real him. But, on the other hand, should he talk about his own favourite poison as ardently as possible, then that would cause her both frustration and delight. The idea that he could talk openly and she couldn’t won, deciding that it was for the best to not only talk about a subject that lit a spark within her, but also rub it in her face that he could actually openly talk about it, as he was in a position of clear superiority.

“The name is unknown.” Sylvester stated, his smirk becoming especially cheeky, if not even a little pleasurable. “It’s quite popular in my corner of the world.” He added, emphasising where needed. “Just a drop, and it turns the victim’s veins into vines.” The Victorian elegantly shrugged one shoulder. “Hibbertia scandens.” Quite intriguing how the certain poison turned veins into snake vines. It was, obviously, one of the potions Sylvester had enjoyed resorting to throughout the years, when he encountered minor difficulties. “It’s being researched at the school, you might find it rather fascinating, should I hire you. Of course, it’s a pity you’ll never see it in action either way.”

“It does seem to be agonizing, yes.” Hearing Sylvester speak again interrupted her thoughts, brought her back from the edge before she dived into unbridled passion for talking about poisons, thankfully. He certainly had an interesting effect on her -- not that she was willing to admit he could do anything for her -- somehow able to encourage her to talk freely about the subject while simultaneously making her want to be on the receiving end of such a potion. “There is a certain artistry to it,” she agreed, almost reluctantly, though she didn’t let her expression falter.

She shrugged one shoulder, regretting not letting her hair down for the evening because she knew how good it looked when her locks moved with her shrug. “It has no name. I daresay that assigning one to it would only draw unwanted attention to it, and no good poison wants that.” Varya shifted again, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them at the ankle. She hadn’t named it for exactly that reason: for any new potion that was anything less than completely good and legal, she assigned a number, a letter, organizing her notes accordingly so that any cursory glance wouldn’t reveal any information. She was incredibly well organized when it came to covering for herself, but unfortunately, that was one skill she couldn’t elaborate on for her CV.

“I have done some preliminary research, of course. For science,” she emphasized after Sylvester did. “However I must dedicate the bulk of my research to my own original potioneering. The guild, after all.” She referred to the potioneer’s guild, which had just awarded her a Platinum Cauldron for her ‘substantial contribution’ to the wizarding world. “The hospital has certain needs as well; patients are genuinely poisoned far less frequently than one would think.” Her gaze flicked to the man’s arm for a second before she brought it back to his face; he knew as well as she did that the two occasions they had seen each other at St. Mungo’s, it was for a plant-induced injury and not a potion one. Pity.

He considered Varya’s question -- she commended herself for not glancing down as he licked his lips -- though she was less than thrilled when he decided to answer her, the smirk coming back into play with full force. She raised an eyebrow as she listened, taking silent offense to his corner of the world and its implied superiority in the art of poisons. Hibbertia scandens wasn’t innately familiar to her, but it also wasn’t something she was hearing for the first time, she was sure.

“How unfortunate,” she added, noting that while it was certainly flashy, it might not be the best for any less than savory purposes; it would be clear what had happened to the victim, and if Varya wasn’t familiar with the particular species of plant, that made it almost positively not an Asian or European cultivar, which only narrowed down the options for the poison’s origins even further. But it fit, she supposed, that he would enjoy the showy death, rather than the more effective one. There was a reason she made the bulk of her living through this research, and not him.

Sylvester brought things back around to the interview, another reminder that she really should not be enjoying herself. She wasn’t, of course, though the temptation was there, every so often -- for talks about poisons, of course. “Should you hire me,” she started, straightening her back just the slightest bit and bristling at the fact that he had the ability to control her future at all, “That would certainly be a pity.” She was referring to never being able to see the potion in action, of course, rather than the idea that he should hire her. She wanted the offer -- but only so she could turn him down.

“I am good at what I do, however,” and no matter what she was talking about, he was well aware of just how skilled she was, “And the school’s research output would increase, without having to sacrifice any staff or space. I have my own workspace.” She had a small lab at St. Mungo’s, and it was that lab she was referring to, rather than the much larger, seedily-sponsored laboratory in an undisclosed location. “I can sacrifice a few hours a week to lecture,” she continued, keeping on the topic of the actual job and not letting him distract her any further, “But have countless more for research, which is a priority for the school, I am sure.” It was hard not to look away, but she kept her focus on him, even if that was making it harder to not take a drink.

“Indeed.” Sylvester commented, slowly nodding in approval once, as he grasped her words. It was true; no good poison wanted to draw undesired attention to it, nonetheless, the name assigning was an entirely different issue. Generally, researchers who conducted work for personal gain – meaning actually using their work on others – did not register their potions. In the case of a poison, for it to be recorded, there was a need for the creator to be driven by a true yearning for academic appraisal, along with an affinity towards objectivity, their only purpose being evolution of science. Sylvester wondered if Varvara was the former type; she definitely was familiar with dark magic enough to work with unregistered poisons, and even create her own. Her words had revealed her logic – no good poison should be named.

The fact that she was specialised in cures was also sketchy for a witch that dwelled within the dark arts. Perhaps, as Varvara so graciously phrased it, while shifting in her seat as well, it was desire to not attract attention. Who was to say that she did not cover her real work with the cures she was actually registering? In the end, for one to develop a cure, they had to be especially familiar with the cause. She tried too much to emphasise on her lack of knowledge regarding poisons, so much that one would say the witch was, indeed, hiding something.

He caught the sarcasm in her comment regarding poisoned patients, along with her glance towards his arm. Of course, Varvara wasn’t even hiding the sheer pleasure she’d had in healing him, and handling his cases. Who would, actually? He was Sylvester Walker, of course everyone would flaunt with the fact that they’ve cured him. His smirked widened slightly, and Sylvester leaned back against his chair. He uncrossed his legs underneath the table, and lazily started tapping his heel against the floor, so subtly that it made no noticeable noise. Her satisfaction annoyed him; Sylvester wanted her in pain, filled with rage and hatred, her blood boiling with frustration only at the thought of him. Her body instantly feverish the moment she’d set eyes on him. He wasn’t there to allow her gratifications, only wretchedness.

The conversation, however, was naturally conducted by him, so Sylvester had managed to turn it towards his favour. Varvara started praising herself, of course, like anyone would do at an interview. His smirk became more amused, and Sylvester allowed her to finish. Varvara clearly felt like she already had the job in her mind; already planning the working hours and everything. “Oh, Barbie…” Sylvester let out with stressed cynicism, while placing one of his hands on the table’s edge, gently tapping it, while the other elegantly ran through his hair, later on letting it fall on the chair’s arm. “I know about your Platinum Cauldron, and its status of ‘substantial contribution’ to the wizarding world.”

He paused, eyes gradually narrowing. “I’m not here to judge whether or not you are skilled. We both know you are, or we wouldn’t have met tonight in the first place.” Unfortunately, yes, she did cure him twice. What a bitter feeling it was indeed. “I’m here to see if you are good enough for my school. In the end, not everyone who’s talented and has academic success is suited for every position. The concept of ‘standards’ exists.” Sylvester elegantly shrugged one shoulder, and then languidly crossed his legs one more. “Your choice of words is rather… displeasing. What do you mean by ‘countless’ hours for research?” He paused, and straightened his back, arm stretching out so he could pick up his glass once more. “What is your limit, Barbie?”

Varya could feel Sylvester analyzing her and she did not like it. Every move she made had the gears in his head turning, she was sure; they were so alike in that way. He clearly assumed he was in control of this whole interaction, and while it was a job interview, she didn’t want him to be right. Of course, she couldn’t get ahead of herself, couldn’t focus too much on winning that she let her guard slip, couldn’t let him get under her skin. She hated herself for caring what he thought at all, for not walking out of this interview the moment she realized it was him, for taking so long to realize there could be some lingering, subconscious reason she had decided to stay, for thinking some subconscious reason could even be a possibility.

Oh, Barbie… Varya blinked slowly, the slight bedside-manor-smile still on her face; it took nearly every ounce of restraint she had to not stop him there; it wouldn’t do to poison him here, not now, not so obviously. A quick death was too good for him now, anyway. Her gaze didn’t leave his face, not even when he admitted knowledge of her Platinum Cauldron like it was something one could buy at the corner shop.

He knew she was skilled -- so why were they still here, having this conversation, at this table set for something clearly more than a job interview? He wanted her to be good enough for his school. Again, she wondered what sort of qualifications he had to have this sort of decision-making power for a healing school. Was the school that bad that they were desperate enough to want his name on the building? Or was that just simply the state of healing on this continent? There were so many compounding reasons that she shouldn’t want this job, but she also didn’t want Sylvester to win so easily. This was infuriating.

Standard. Varya arched an eyebrow; his choice of words was rather displeasing, as well. If she didn’t have standards, then he surely wasn’t thinking very highly of himself, was he? But if she did have standards… well, she didn’t want him to think very highly of himself. “What do I mean by ‘countless’ hours?” And here she was, thinking that she was the one who didn’t speak English as a first language. She ignored the next ‘Barbie’, still focused on having to explain his own language to him.

“‘Countless’ as in, ‘too many to count’.” She tilted her head slightly as she shrugged her shoulder. “I am more well acquainted with the inside of my laboratory than I am with my own home.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. She was sure he understood that focus on one’s career; or had it been so long since his quidditch days that he didn’t remember using his skill for something? She didn’t see the need to explain herself. He knew she was skilled, he knew about her Platinum Cauldron, he knew what sort of work it took to get to that level, how much must be sacrificed -- for the greater good -- by her and by others on her behalf.

If she wanted the job -- and she didn’t, she assured herself -- she would be doing the school a favor.