Pursuing the Prince
Disclaimer: I don't own them; I don't know anyone who does. Oh, JK does but I don't know her :)
Rating: Umm…T
Summary: After hearing the news of what her only son has done, Eileen Prince motivates herself to do what Britains best Aurors cannot: find Severus and learn the truth.
A/N: Umm...geez i havn't written a fanfiction for a while, so I'm a bit rusty, but this has been rattling around in my head for a while so please tell me what you think, rubbish or not!
Phoenix
Half swallowed by a black velvet armchair, a demure, elderly witch was clutching a steaming mug, staring blankly ahead as the swirls of heat washed over her pallid face. Her black hair was greying slowly, the side-effects of age beginning to catch up with her, along with the tired lines etched around her eyes: years of torment crashing down on her delicate physicality.
Setting the mug on a near by coffee table she whispered something under her breath. There was a small pop and her long serving house elf appeared with a deep bow.
"Mistress?" it squeaked and the witch pointed silently at the abandoned mug. The elf snapped its fingers and the mug floated off the high table and into its clutching hands.
Noting that the liquid within had not been touched, the house elf sighed and walked slowly away from the dimly lit living room which seemed of late to be secluded from the rest of the house she had inhabited for over 40 years.
For a house that should have been immaculately clean and well polished due to the residence of the elf, the living room was gloomy not only in sight, but something deeper and more menacing lay unmentioned beneath the surface, too ugly to rear its head or to be summoned from too open a wound.
Issues of The Daily Prophet lay strewn around the chair, open to the pages dedicated to the 'state of things' and the Death Eater activities: pictures of glowering witches and wizards were staring at the high ceilings of the house. Freshly laid atop the others was a full sized picture of a wizard who she knew to be living his 37th year and potentially his last. His lip curled up in a delicate sneer that the witch knew so well, a curtain of black greasy hair draped over his face, his black eyes making unfathomable tunnels down into his soul.
The other furniture in the room was much the same, dark and old, sinking and threadbare in some places. There was a banging sound as a door somewhere in the house was being slammed into the frame. Eileen flinched and her fingers curled around her wand under the blanket that lay draped around her thighs; however her blank eyes didn't flicker from where they had conveniently settled on the leering picture before her feet.
Thudding noises came from the stairs in the middle of the house and she finally looked up from where she had fixed her glare.
"Don't give me that look Eileen," the hook-nosed man spat, standing in the doorway.
She looked into his cold dark eyes. Her's were of equal calibre, but before this week she never lacked the warmth and empathy that her husband had from the moment he had found out she was a witch, a gifted witch.
She glowered at him and pushed her hair out of her eyes, "He is your son too Tobias."
"That doesn't mean I should render myself useless," he snarled and straightened his black polo shirt, which had him previously camouflaged. "Trinny," he called and there was a stinging silence after which he let out a deep guttural growl in the direction of his wife who, in turn called the name of the elf. She appeared instantly to a livid Muggle and cringed at the sight of his narrowed eyes.
"Your bloody useless thing," he whispered as he stepped to the creature and peered over her in an attempt to frighten and subordinate. Trinny cringed and scuttled quickly toward her mistress.
"One would think that after forty years you'd have realised that she only listens to Princes: Only me and our son."
The aging muscles in Tobias's arms and back tightened as he rounded on the two females, both prepared and accustomed to his unwavering ill treatment. This was particularly true of the past few years, after their son had come of age and found the courage for retribution one warm June night…
"That son of yours isn't a Prince," he antagonised and kicked Trinny out of the way with the side of his foot.
"That son of mine has Prince blood in his veins," she said shrilly, sitting up higher in her chair, unfolding herself from its depths.
"Then you nurse the shame of what he has done and for God's sake woman," his hot breath cascading on the crown of her head, "get that thing to make me a coffee."
He kicked the newspapers aside as he stalked across the room.
Eileen's long tapered fingers slowly pulled the mahogany wand from her lap and in a flash of red light, her stalking husband hit the ground face first. She whipped the blanket off her lap and stood up in one swift movement. Waving her wand quickly around her head, a long red cloak materialised around her shoulders and a pointy black hat sank over her face. She pushed it up, and stepping over her stunned husband, she turned back to her house elf.
"Come along Trinny," she said levelly, "we're going to find Severus."