[tdp] childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies | edith

The Grosvenor family often kept their noses out of the Daily Prophet even though their name often appeared in it. The wizarding newspaper did a decent job of keeping the community abreast of the on goings in the magical world and for as long as the younger witch could remember, remained one of the most trusted news outlets in Europe. However, the grossly exaggerated accounts of her and her family’s personal life and dark affiliations in the gossip section had all but turned her off from the publication and aside from the read-through she gave it for the sake of a good laugh; Genevieve rarely took anything they said seriously anymore.

To make matters worse, the Prophet’s desire to reflect what they seemed to think was the popular opinion also made for some controversial articles to be published, many which criticized her traditionalist values. Nevertheless, the young woman was steadfast and determined not to allow such tomfoolery to affect her personal opinions. Taking everything said with a grain of salt, her indifferent attitude towards most of the Prophet did make it for an occasional enjoyable read, particularly over breakfast, her laughs met with curious glances from the staff as she ate her porridge with mirth.

It was all business as usual, at least until she reached an article that compelled her to read it in its entirety. The author was unknown to her, someone that before today had not even factored into her universe at all. Even though the two women had never met in the past, her jaw clenched in pure indignation as she took personal offense to the words written on the paper before her eyes. Tolerating them until justice could be served was one thing but this call for attention only resurfaces the traumatic past which she had experienced at their expense. The bitter taste of her acrimony for past deeds that had yet been unaccounted for made her feel sick to her stomach. And it was with tears of anger in her eyes brought upon memories of the loss she had suffered that she demanded to meet this woman in person as soon as possible.

It took several hours for Genevieve to muster the strength to make it down to the office, her feet seemed to drag at the thought of meeting with someone that she was certain would not understand an ounce of the pain that she had experienced. There were many compatriots whose personal sufferings she held in high regard but this woman’s was not one of them. Nothing would come of it, Genevieve knew as much deep down, but it needed to be said. Walking up to the woman at the front desk, the young witch held her head high, a cold expression on her face serving as a façade for the storm brewing in her heart.

“I am here to speak to a Miss…” she started, pulling the copy of the Daily Prophet she had tucked neatly under one arm and unfolding it to take a glance at the name, “Holthouse,” she said after several moments of silence, the anger in the pit of her stomach rising once more as she remembered the contents of the article in her hand. Her name had not been committed to her memory because her heritage made her practically insignificant to the social circles that Genevieve was accustomed to.

Reminding herself of such fact gave her an odd sense of pleasure as the thought that she would soon be in the same room with her made the heiress cringe. Maybe it was the mudblood effect. “I sent an owl just this morning, I was assured that she would be in to meet with me about her…article,” she explained. “Her little sob story has resonated with me, you see, and I find myself compelled to hear how our great pureblooded wizarding community can be of more service to the wretched witch,” she explained bitterly. The woman gave her a curt nod but asked that she wait in the waiting area, for she was in the middle of something and would get to her as soon as possible. There was no need to ask politely, Genevieve Grosvenor was in no mood to wait and as such, slammed the copy of the paper against the desk, the witch’s blue-grey eyes widened in contempt. “I haven’t the time to wait. Unlike others who take pleasure in wallowing in their fabricated woes, I’ve many things to attend to. I demand to see her immediately. Unless of course, this woman doesn’t even exist and this another sad attempt to push some traitorous political agenda.” 

@Edith Holthouse

Even though the Sunday Prophet had the highest readership -- she had been reassured of that multiple times -- it was the day the Prophet offices were quietest. It was nice, she figured, that her first real day in the office was an uncrowded one; Edith had showed up mid-morning, and she had run into maybe a handful of people. She hadn’t been assigned a proper desk until now, considering her use of a pen name had made it pretty obvious she needed to work from home, but now that it was out there, here she was. There was an E. Holthouse nameplate and everything, the only personal touch to her cubicle that was more or less the same to all the all the other cubicles in the journalist pool.

Her article -- that article -- had run that morning, and she had a copy sitting on her desk. But she hadn’t unfolded the paper, hadn’t searched the bylines for her name, avoiding it, most likely. Almost as if she could still take it all back if she didn’t see the printed proof. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? She wasn’t just sitting and staring at the paper, though; she was also sitting and staring at the growing stack of mail now occupying half her desk. It seemed easier than reading the mail, anyway.

People weren’t really meant to read the article -- she could count on one hand the people she wanted to actually read it -- and she was trying to hold on to the hope that the sudden influx of letters was someone unrelated to the publication. Her editor was supposed to be in later, ‘to talk’ -- she tried not to focus on that, either.

“Few more.” The words made her jump, and she looked at the man who had the unfortunate pleasure of sitting next to the closest window with an apologetic smile. “Thanks.” She took the new letters, four maybe five of them, and rifled through them. She might not have expected anyone to read the article, but she was still seeing some sort of evidence that one particular someone had read it; of course, Edith had no idea what Dennis Creevey’s handwriting looked like, so if she wanted to see if anything was sent by him, she’d probably have to start opening some mail.

She could think better with some tea, she figured. Standing up, Edith retraced her steps back toward the front of the building, stopping just short of the reception area as she ducked into the little kitchenette. Tea bags, perpetually hot water, mugs in the dish rack that clearly belonged to colleagues she had never met. She selected a mug with a cat moving across it -- magical pet tributes, who knew -- and what she could only assume was the cat’s name in bold lettering: WHISKERS. Edith took her time, only distracted by measuring out the milk by the sound of her name from the hall just a few feet away.

Edith moved with her cup to the edge of the kitchen, still out of sight but close enough to hear what was going on. She had been assured of a meeting with Edith? Really? But she didn’t have time to wonder if she had some secret calendar no one had told her about; sob story was followed closely by great pureblood wizarding community and probably the best part: wretched witch. A smile twitched across her face; she really, really hoped this woman had practiced that little speech before she had shown up. At the very least, Edith was sure she would have stumble over ‘wretched witch’ no matter how much practice she had done.

But fabricated woes? This was probably the sort of situation Elias had expressed worry over, the kind of thing that had made him offer to come to work with her, the sort that made her wonder if he was loitering in the alley waiting for any sign of trouble. She probably had an out, if she wanted; apparently, there was a possibility that she didn’t exist. She hesitated for a second, thinking that was the way to go, before that dumb Gryffindor part of her dragged her into the hallway.

Edith pushed her glass back up the bridge of her nose and took another couple of steps forward, her hand outstretched to welcome her lovely visitor. “Hi, I heard someone was wanting my autograph?”

Genevieve’s anger was perturbed by the voice hailing from somewhere behind the desk, causing her to look up in utter shock when the words the woman before her spoke registered completely. It was not fear, she decided, because the very words she spoke so openly to the woman at the front desk were in theory the same message she had conveyed through her letter earlier that morning and the same one she hoped to convey to Edith should they have the pleasure to meet. Nevertheless, the young witch had always been a little more bark than bite, even she was well aware of this fact and while she would eventually work up to telling the woman exactly how she felt, it felt odd to simply have the woman stumble upon the conversation. How much has she heard? she wondered quietly but only paused for a well measured beat before looking down at Edith’s hand and arching an eyebrow in interest. The very thought of touching her was slightly repulsive. Oh the perils the young woman put herself through for the sake of her beliefs. Hesperia Lovecraft would surely be proud.

In one way or another, Edith Holthouse defied her expectations. She had somehow expected her to look different; the way she carried herself with such confidence did not sit well with the teenaged witch. In a way, Genevieve had expected the woman to look haggard, overwhelmed by the idea of meeting what was surely one of the thousands of critics. The young witch had not been pleased with the article and had sent a strongly worded letter in response however it had still been done with a modicum of politeness. She had been raised by proper witches, not by heathens, after all. However, there was much pleasure to be found in the thought that Edith might have encountered several letters that had not commiserated with her words but rather opposed them zealously.

The cause might have been silenced but it certainly was not dead among the masses. However the energy with which Genevieve was greeting only added proof to her belief that Edith was enjoying the attention. It made sense, no great writer’s career was ever complete without a few death threats. Whether Edith Holthouse was a real writer or someone who simply put together sad words for the sake of making ends met was yet to be determined.

“Oh, you must be the infamous Miss Holthouse,” she replied with a small smile on her face, though there was not even a semblance of sincerity written on it. It was difficult to pretend nowadays, something that the heiress found became even more difficult with age. Genevieve looked down at the woman’s hand again, and frowned ever so slightly before forcing herself to extend her own hand in return. Even at war, one must all be a proper lady, she reminded herself. “Quite the contrary, really,” the heiress replied calmly, her voice dropping just a hint as she walked a little closer to the woman in front of her. “In fact, rather than your autograph, I’d ask that you stop writing all together but I suppose we all have to eat somehow,” she said, shrugging the idea off.

Genevieve would know nothing about that, having a job seemed like a waste of time when there was so much to accomplish in the world. If the woman was so bold as to write about her personal life in such detail for everyone else then it was obviously done out of some sort of desperation. It seemed like the Prophet paid just about anyone to write a sensational article for the sake of publicity; it was a shame that @Melissa Knox  was the only proper witch left to set things straight, but the heiress was confident that the older woman would continue to be a shining example of honesty and grace.

“I take it that you’ve not been informed of my letter?” she wondered out loud, glaring at the receptionist at the front desk with misdirected displeasure. “I’ve taken notes here, you see,” she continued, turning her personal copy of the paper in the direction of the woman so that she may see for herself. Genevieve had spent most of the morning underlining obsessively, writing small notes in whatever empty corner she could find as she sought for connections in the message of the article. “I’d like to discuss your…sad tale here and offer any assistance that I might be able to give. Show you that we aren’t as terrible as you claim,” she added for effect. “Might you be able to spare a few minutes for one of your biggest fans?” she inquired sarcastically, a mischievous smirk gracing her features.

Edith followed the other woman’s gaze down to her hand, glancing back up with both eyebrows raised. She wasn’t going to drop her hand; already it seemed like that would give her too much satisfaction and while she wasn’t a huge fan of stereotypes, she figured she knew why there wasn’t an immediate return shake. “Edith,” she corrected her gently, matching the smile, hand starting to get a little tired. Their smiles were both full of shit, and they both knew it. She might have approached the situation with a bit more caution, but maybe it was the sleep deprivation or the sheer absurdity of that little speech that was spurring her on. Still, she thought she ought to be congratulated for ignoring the ‘infamous’ part of their little introduction.

She may have put a little more force into the handshake than necessary, but that was probably the least of her concerns. Quite the contrary. Edith didn’t roll her eyes -- again she should have been congratulated -- as she stayed still, dropping her hand from the shake to hang right next to her pocket, inches from her wand. Just in case. She nodded, as if she was seriously taking the suggestion -- stop writing altogether -- into consideration. “I do eat sometimes, yeah.” She didn’t add that McDonald’s had a pretty spectacular value menu, so she could probably write far less and still have enough for a cheeseburger.

“Sorry, can’t say that I have,” she nodded again, drumming her fingers against her leg -- she was wearing jeans -- before shrugging. She may have seen the letter, but she hadn’t opened any and now she was feeling much better about that decision. Edith hadn’t been provided with a name, but she didn’t need one -- she was sure she’d be able to find it in one of those big, dusty tomes someone had felt the need to write to share information with all the people who didn’t need it, much like Edith and her article, apparently. Those family tree compendiums surely held more weight than her column did for the other woman but that was an issue for another day, hopefully.

Edith glanced down for half a second at her column, her column with notes everywhere, before bringing her attentions back up to her face. How thoughtful she was, really; that was more effort in editing than her editor had made. She raised her eyebrows, not sure which part of the next sentence to focus on first. ‘Sad tale’ had some merit -- it certainly wasn’t a happy one, and she hadn’t tried to hide it -- but her offer of assistance had equal charm. But when she added that she wanted to show Edith they weren’t ‘as terrible as she claimed’, Edith almost laughed. Christ. She had expected something like this, of course she had, but this was just ridiculous.

She was waiting for someone to jump out and yell, ‘Surprise! You’re on candid camera!’ and she was ashamed to say it took her more than a few seconds to realize why that wouldn’t be happening.

But she knew every word of that article, could recite every iteration of it. Edith knew for a fact that she hadn’t called out anyone; contrary to popular belief she wasn’t calling for Ministry reform, hadn’t mentioned the word ‘pureblood’ even once; she supposed all she wanted was to be heard, and now she was. It was clearly falling on some deaf ears, but she didn’t have time to worry about that, she supposed.

“I think I could manage a few minutes.” Edith didn’t return the smirk, instead motioning her head back towards the receptionist and the soda and few chairs that made up the little waiting area. “I’m afraid my office isn’t suitable for such honored guests.” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead taking the few steps over to the sofa and settling into the cushions, resting her tea on one knee. She made brief eye contact with the receptionist and hoped it was clear why she hadn’t led this woman back to her empty office space -- she wasn’t all there, was she?

“Please,” she motioned to the empty chairs next to her, “I need all the help I can get.”

Though Edith offered her first name, Genevieve was hesitant to use it. After all, it had not been with respect that she had called Edith Miss Holthouse but rather with disdain; a desire to place a clear distance between herself and other woman, something that could easily be done with a lack of familiarity. Genevieve held almost anyone who made her acquaintance at an arm’s length, reserving more of her better qualities, if there were any left, for those who had managed to gain her trust and undying loyalty. For people like Edith however, there was no need for such kindness. Genevieve might have felt guilty had the woman showed some genuine concern or interest of her own but there certainly no love lost between the two of them. In fact, the younger witch was almost certain that the only thing the two women shared in common was their derision for the other. But the hate had not grown so strongly that it had devoid the young heiress of manners; it was then that she decided that her politeness and undeserved kindness towards women like the writer would one day be the death of her.

Genevieve did not care for her brand of sarcasm and as such, the reply to her rhetorical question caused her to almost immediately wrinkle her nose in aversion. It seemed like a waste of time to write articles to incite the fury of the public only for the few galleons that could be made with such an occupation. A self-proclaimed writer herself, Genevieve saw her research as not only informative but particularly revolutionary in the field of Magizoology. To make matters even better, it had always been a sort of hobby from which she had never intended to make into a career. While it was possible that Edith did not have to work for money and wrote as a way to sort of relieve herself of insecurities or whatever she intended to do with that letter, Genevieve could not remember seeing mention of her surname anywhere that might suggest she came from the same privileged background that the younger witch did.

“That’s really a shame, I did want to give you time to prepare your defense,” she stated plainly in response, “…if you happen to have any that is,” she added, an over-animated smile on her face as she considered what sort of rhetoric the woman would come up with for the sake of defending her article. Genevieve had centuries worth of tradition on her side along with the systematic discrimination of her kind for the sake of accommodating those undeserving of any opportunity in the magical world. Edith had one small misfortune to rely on; Genevieve had lost both of her parents, Edith had lost a job and possibly some dignity. In her eyes, the scales were grossly unbalanced.

Her jaw clenched slightly as she followed the woman to take a seat. The conditions were certainly not ideal and while Genevieve did not like the idea of having such a conversation in public, she assumed that it would be for the best. If she was lucky enough, someone passing would be discouraged from writing something similar. But it was difficult to know for sure, while the Prophet finally seemed to be aligning to the proper views one would expect of polite British wizarding society, Genevieve could only assume that these sorts of articles also helped keep the Prophet ahead of the competition somehow. Either way, the witch took her seat, sitting towards the edge of the sofa, crossing her ankles under her as she sat particularly straight.

“Perfect,” she said, bringing her hands together in mock delight as she sat the article on the table between them. “So from reading your little rant here your purpose is quite unclear. What exactly is it that you are seeking, Miss Holthouse?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion. “Reparation for your little misadventure into our our universe? You talked about your muggle father and his…theater, surely your theatrics would be better suited for a play. I figure that someone with so many grievances against our world would simply disappear right out of it,” she continued, as if making sense of her words as she said them. “It must be so nice,” she sighed a little, “being able to hop in and out of one world when one feels like it, having one’s parents available, I must say, I am extremely envious of your position here and somehow you still find the time to complain about it.”

Oh, she wanted to give Edith time to prepare her defense. How well and truly noble of her, really. Edith wondered if she should thank her, or if this woman -- she realized now she hadn’t been given a name but Edith was far past the point of caring -- was the sort that expected thanks in a written format, a well thought out, carefully penned, monogrammed thank you card detailing just how grateful she was to have been graced with her presence but letting her know that she clearly had no ill will against her because she had wanted to provide her time to prepare her defense, after all.

Edith shrugged, not thanking her but also not exploring the full range of her emotions or opinions, either. She had probably congratulated herself  -- for not overreacting (or properly reacting, really) -- ten times in the last five minutes, but she didn’t stop herself from doing it one more time as she took a seat, conscious of the few seconds her back was turned.

“Perfect,” she repeated, clapping her hands together just as enthusiastically. But at the first question, she narrowed her gaze a bit; ‘rant’ aside, her purpose was unclear? She looked at the paper between them for a quick second, her written words playing in her mind: it’s for those who would stand against us, to let them know that we’re still here, and we are not alright -- there were other little points in that paragraph alone, but this point seemed the most applicable to the situation at hand  -- and Edith was about to question which part of that, exactly, was unclear. It wasn’t her turn to speak, apparently, so she bit her tongue, quite literally.

But it could only last for so long, because of course it could. Her muggle father had been brought into the conversation, after all. “Actually,” she interjected, her index finger pointed upwards as she waved her hand through her correction. “I get stage fright, you see.” She shrugged, crossing her arms across her chest. It was easier to dismiss that point, anyway, rather than all her numerous grievances against her world. Edith shuddered the slightest bit; she would have had more of a reaction had she not been slightly amused that she was being confronted quite like this after her article had been published for a handful of hours.

She raised an eyebrow, unsure where this conversation was going. First she had notes about the article, then she offered assistance, and now she was jealous that Edith was in a position to complain at all? Again she found herself wishing for that candid camera moment. “Yeah, well.” Edith shifted, propping her chin up on one fist, the other arm still folded across her chest. “It turns out I’m just not that good at disappearing.” She shrugged again. “That’s what you want, right?” She realized that she was jumping back a bit in the conversation, so she clarified: “That I disappear right out of your world?” The emphasis was not Edith’s.

“I do have to keep eating, as you said, so I can’t stop writing.” She shrugged again, then smiled like she had just had some brilliant idea. “Oh, is that why you’re really here? You think I should write for muggle papers, too?” If her visitor could be ridiculous, then so could she.

Genevieve, the young heiress who could not communicate with another human being without the use of sarcasm, could simply not stand the way in which Edith stood before her pretending to be unmoved by her angry words. Surely no one was that strong, particularly a woman who found it necessary to complain about the difficulties of her life to everyone in Britain. The young witch believed herself to be a survivor one of the most esteemed kind; in her mind, she had considered all, given Edith the benefit of the doubt, but simply could not find her argument logical or deserving of her sympathies. Not that Genevieve could ever grant her sympathy to anyone outside of the small circle of friends that surrounded her.

Selfishly oblivious to the hardships of others, Genevieve had fully expected to walk into Ms. Holthouse’s office, tell her how poorly written and ridiculously false her article was, and leave her in tears only to write a public apology the following day. I apologize for the error of my ways, she had imagined reading, if it had not been for the great Ms. Grosvenor, I would have never understood the weight of my false words, she had elaborated in her own head. It was a fantastical thought that demonstrated just how utterly absurd the young witch had become.

“Stage fright?” she wondered, confusion in her voice before a frown marred her features as she looked at the other woman, “Your personal weaknesses are none of my concern,” she added, rolling her eyes as if to add to her statement. “But since we are sharing, let’s give you another example then. I haven’t the talent for the Ministry nor Herbology, but you won’t see me delving into the world of mud—” she paused, “muggles attempting to find a place in the world. One must stick to what one knows, surely even muggles learn as much in the sad little institutions they call school,” she scoffed. Never allowed to know or attempt to understand the “other” side, Genevieve’s knowledge of what things were truly like were bits and pieces she had picked up in conversation or learned in Muggle Studies at school. Everything with an emphasis on how terrible it was, after all, she was a Grosvenor, she would never be allowed to understand it as anything other than that.

Genevieve considered the woman’s words for a moment, attempting to understand whether she was trying to be sarcastic or if she had finally understood what she truly wanted. “Disappear? Well unfortunately now you know too much—” she started, “But no, let me extend a small mercy to you on behalf of our esteemed pureblooded fellows,” she continued, her voice rising slightly as she became enticed by her own way of speaking. She would make a great wife to a man that had to address crowds, she decided.

“I think admitting that you’ve no place in my world is a good start, furthermore do take back those silly words of you not being alright. Of course you’re not alright, it was foolish of you lot to think you could play with fire and not get burned, you’ve gotten what you deserve, be grateful the Ministry—” she started before stopping herself. Genevieve was losing her cool, and it would do no good for the two of them to quarrel and for her name to appear in the papers tomorrow as some villain. Anyway, Genevieve could never be a villain, she was much too pretty for that, she considered.

Arching a delicate eyebrow in response to Edith’s question, she sighed heavily. “Do they hire just about anyone at the Prophet? And here I thought people were professionals. Here, love, I’ve outlined and written my notes, if you’re going to ask me silly questions, there’s no need for me to make my case here. You all are still deaf to the truth, I see,” she said angrily, thrusting out the paper in her direction.

Edith nearly smiled; instead she just rolled her eyes to match the expression pointed at her. Her ‘personal weakness’, she had called it. If she had to pick something as her personal weakness it probably wouldn’t have been stage fright, but this didn’t really seem like the time to get down to the nitty gritty of it all, especially not now that they were ‘sharing’. She raised an eyebrow as she stumbled over ‘mudblood’, presumably -- and congratulated herself again for holding her tongue -- nodding as if she was following the logic behind everything being laid down.

“Kind of sounds like a personal choice,” Edith offered with a shrug. “You just head out the Leaky Cauldron, take a left, go east a couple blocks.” She jabbed directions with her thumb over her shoulder. “British Museum is probably the best place to start. Lots of muggle history.” She nodded. “Free admission, too.” That was surely the most important thing on the other witch’s mind, the entrance fee.

And then-- was that-- that was a casual death threat. Edith raised an eyebrow, eager to hear what small mercy she was about to be offered, coughing -- stifling a laugh -- at the mention of ‘esteemed pureblooded fellows’. She’d have to remember that phrase for a later column, probably.

She nodded along, taking very detailed mental notes about everything she needed to do to get herself in this woman’s good graces -- not. Hearing ‘silly words’ necessitated a smile, and Edith gave one gladly. She tilted her head, grateful expression still on her face, taking in every word directed at her. She had played with fire, gotten burned, been dealt what she deserved. It made perfect sense.

Edith rolled her eyes during the dramatic pause in the woman’s demands. She had gone from thinking she was serious, to thinking she was off her rocker, back to thinking she was genuinely serious. It was a lot to take in, that much was for sure.

She took the papers without a second thought -- the second thought that she probably shouldn’t accept anything from her for safety’s sake -- and held them in her lap, not bothering to even glance at them. “I think I know a little bit more about the truth than you do,” she mused, maintaining eye contact for a few more seconds before shrugging. “I’ll need some time to go over your --” she finally looked down at the paper she was holding-- “Notes, really take everything in, ruminate on the proper wording of my apology, you know?” She looked up, nodded. “And to whom shall I credit my retraction?” She nearly lost it at her use of ‘to whom’ -- she was a writer but found some aspects of grammar hilarious -- but she kept her composure.

There wasn’t going to be an apology, a retraction, nothing expect more interviews, more stories out there for everyone to read -- or choose not to read. Edith had no delusions that everyone would love her column; she supposed that was sort of the point now, anyway. But crazy had to be dealt with crazy, she figured. “Thanks so much for helping me see how wrong I’ve been. To think, getting through that war and everything but it was you who really convinced me.”