Light filtered in through the window onto her bed, shining golden slants that somehow managed to find exactly the wrong angle at which to fall into her eyes. Guinivere Marlowe turned over and closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the fact that it was morning. Summer was a time for sleep and relaxation, though the kitten seated on the foot of the bed had other ideas. The gray cat extended a thoughtful paw, batting lightly at Guin's foot where it tangled in the sheets. When this failed to rouse her owner, the feline unsheathed her claws, kneading the girl's foot thoughtfully. With a yelp of pain, Guin shot upward and glared at her cat. "/Liadan/!"
"Mrrow?" the cat purred innocently, twitching her tail demurely around her tiny figure. She exuded naiveté with a palpable aura, sickening, especially if one considered the impish gleam in her eyes. Guin flopped over on her side and began to drift off to sleep once more. Stretching extravagantly, Liadan made small contented noises and returned to savaging her mistress's ankles.
"LIADAN!" Guin exclaimed, swiping her hand at the cat, "That hurts! I'm up, I'm up!"
Liadan waited until Guin stood up, and then jumped off the bed, purring in a satisfied-sounding way. Muttering to herself about ungrateful felines, the girl staggered over to her closet, peering into it thoughtfully. During the summer she preferred to wear Muggle clothing; it was much cooler and more practical in such activities as climbing trees and flying broomsticks. For though Guinivere Marlowe was a pureblooded wizard, the scion of two families that were almost the magical world's equivalent of noble blood, she was above all pragmatic.
Off came the over-sized T-shirt and boxer shorts; on went a sleeveless blue top and baggy cargo shorts. While running a brush hastily through her hair, Guin wiggled her feet into heavily beaten up sneakers, dropping the comb on the counter of a table. Cluttered on its surface were various odds and ends collected over the years: a perfect nautilus, several interesting pebbles, a tail feather swiped from Angeline's giant great horned owl, movie stubs from outings with her best friend Rilla, and a necklace she had woven herself.
The brush instantly became lost in the chaos, though as Angeline was wont to point out, it never looked as though Guin /used/ the thing, anyway. Whenever she said those words, there was an unmistakable irony to her thin smile; Angeline's sense of humor was dry and cutting and showed itself seldom. Not that her words bothered Guin, either, she cared as little for them as she did for the appearance of her hair, and her toes poked comfortably through the front of the left sneaker.
Liadan was batting at her leg again, and Guin turned, about to scold the cat, when she noticed that Lia was trying to call her attention to something. At the window was perched an owl, rather hawkish in appearance, more so than most of his species. Bright yellow eyes peered into the room as he turned his head sideways, attempting to catch Guin's focus. Raising an eyebrow, she opened the window to admit the bird. It was Kerwin, L'Argent's familiar.
Now why would he be sending her a letter, let alone two? "The owlery is near the plum trees," she informed Kerwin, "If you'd like a drink or something to eat. Thank you." Kerwin nudged her hand in an affectionate sort of way, to Liadan's evident disapproval. The cat hissed and laid her ears back at the bird, which flew off in a haughty manner. Guin took the letters and flopped onto her bed to read them. She carefully ran her thumb underneath the fold of the envelope, cursing softly and receiving a paper cut for her troubles.
Sucking the bleeding slash on her finger, Guin read. L'Argent's handwriting was abominable; it was an untidy scrawl that had no refinement whatsoever. In fact, it was quite difficult to actually read, and several times she was forced to squint in order to better decipher a word.
Hey Marlowe.
What've you been up to this summer, besides annoying the hell
out of everyone that you talk to? Sorry. Don't glare at me for
that. (Guin was glaring, but soon stopped after reading that line.)
Mum and Dad weren't too happy about Uncle Henry, well, Da
more then Mum 'cos that git was his brother and all.. They reckon
he's going to be in Azkaban for a while. Anyway. I sent Kerwin
with a letter 'cos I thought you'd want to know what happened,
and also because I thought Rilla would want to write a letter to
you and I know that she doesn't have an owl. So that's what the
other envelope is. It's a letter from Rilla. This is really going no-
where but I can't seem to stop writing. It's odd. I know I don't
talk all that much in real life but there's so much stuff to say
here. It's been as quiet as could be hoped, but Matilde and Ma-
rthe are being terrors as usual, and they've been bullying Mer-
rick something awful. Mum's been in a bad mood 'cos of that
but otherwise it's business as usual. You and Rilla can meet me
in the Leaky Cauldron if you want sometime in July.
L'Argent.
Guin grinned to herself as she read the letter, for some reason it amused her greatly. Rilla's missive was in a regular Muggle envelope, a white, flimsy thing that had been bent in half by accident, and was also pierced with claw marks. Her handwriting was neat, but her grammar was frightening to say the least.
Hi Guin!
I've been having a great summer so far and I was so surprised
when Mikael wrote, I didn't think that'd be something he'd do
anyway it just didn't seem like him. Ma and Da have gone tem-
porarily insane, I think, because they won't let me out of their
sight and Ma keeps crying sometimes when she looks at me. I
guess a near-death experience isn't great for relations with
parents, but I mean, really! I can take care of myself and I'm
not a helpless little baby like they seem to think. I'm really
really sorry to complain to you, but all my friends from the
Muggle school I used to go to seem kind of boring and dull and
I don't really want to talk to them right now. Anyway, how are
you? I'll talk to you in Diagon Alley. Okay? I'll see you later.
Lots of love!!!
From Rilla
Guin leaned over the edge of her bed and reached underneath, pulling out a locked trunk. It was quite old, though well kept. Made of red leather, it had tarnished silver gilding on the handles and an argent rendering of the Slytherin serpent stamped on the front. Also on the front was a small lock, it looked rather flimsy, as though a paper clip could wiggle the thing open, but Guin had been improving it. Even the standard Alohomora charm wouldn't work, it took a special incantation that only she knew. The trunk held all her most personal items: stories half-finished and forgotten, letters from her friends, a stash of Muggle comics by an author named Neil Gaiman, and a picture of her father that she'd stolen from a photograph album.
She whispered the charm under her breath, holding her face close to the lock and tapping it with her wand, a length of ebony containing dragon heartstring. With an obliging pop, the catch snapped open, enabling Guin to twist it off from the handle and pull the lid open. Inside, the contents were arranged a bit more neatly than those on her desktop. As she carefully tucked the letters from her friends into the depths of the trunk, Guin withdrew the crumpled photo, smoothing it out and looking at it.
As in all the wizard-world pictures, the subject was moving. Edmund Marlowe was a tall man, rather slim, but with a lanky sort of musculature. Straight dark hair shaded his eyes, which were also dark: serious pools of shadow fringed by sable lashes. A faint hint of humor touched them, crinkling the edges in a sardonic smile, as the man looked off into the distance, glancing sideways. He had something of the "thousand yard stare" so common of World War II veterans, but the youthfully smooth face seemed younger and innocent. Her father was sitting on a white picket fence underneath a plum tree, the same one that was near the owlery. Guin examined every detail minutely, though she had it memorized. Edmund Marlowe wasn't the most active of pictures, though a slight breeze ruffled his hair. He seemed to be thinking deeply on some subject, pensive gaze unfocused.
With a small sigh, Guin smoothed the picture out again, and replaced it into the darkness of the trunk with a care that was almost reverence. Both Edmund Marlowe and his wife, Angeline, had been Death Eaters, supporters of the evil wizard Voldemort. The difference, however, was that Edmund had recanted, a deathbed conversion, for he had been disappeared soon after turning in several high-ranked Death Eaters working in the Ministry.
Guin had done research before, and found old issues of the Daily Prophet, which spoke of the captures and Edmund Marlowe's subsequent death. "Marlowe, who is a lawyer, is married to the Ministry witch Angeline Hunter. He courageously exposed the names of several Ministry officials closely tied with Voldemort....unavailable for comment, Mr. Marlowe told a Daily Prophet reporter to 'piss off and nose around someone else,' though his rudeness may be attributed to stress," read one issue. Another one, with a slightly more ominous tone: "Death Eater-turned-hero, Edmund Marlowe, was reported missing yesterday. Ministry officials confirmed this report....his estranged wife, Angeline, was busy caring for their newborn, and was unavailable for comment...."
The light was shifting as the sun moved. At the door was a house-elf, dressed in a neat tea towel and a fuzzy cap that had once graced the top of a golf club, shyly inserted her head into the room. "Miss Marlowe? We is having breakfast now," she said, and slunk away before Guin could reply. The soft patter of bare feet in the hallway faded, leaving Guin and Liadan alone in the room.
Guin had never liked house-elves. Their servile, cringing mannerisms annoyed her. Much preferred to the ugly little creatures was a woman who was in charge of the house, a former witch named Sarah. She was a plump matron with graying hair and a cheerful smile, and, incongruously enough, a large, red scar on her throat. While Guin never found out exactly who Sarah had once been, or what had happened to her, the woman was devoted to the girl and fearful of Angeline.
"Mrrowl," Liadan exclaimed, and Guin laughed. Sometimes she found that she could almost understand what her familiar was saying, or perhaps it was just the closeness that had developed between the former stray and her young mistress. Now, Liadan was indicating that she was /hungry/ and she wanted to go eat, and Guin could think later. Food was the most important thing right now, especially bacon with crispy fat nodules and scrapple, maybe, yummy pig parts that no human in their right mind would devour...
"Liadan, you are truly disgusting," Guin said lightly, scooping the gray kitten into her arms and running down the stairs of the manor. It was a large place, and by the time Guin had pelted down several staircases and through a few corridors, Angeline was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading the latest issue of the Daily Prophet ("Anniversary of Muggle-Born Girl's Death at Hogwarts" one of the headlines read) but folded it when her daughter entered.
"Good morning, Guin," she said with a light smile, "It's good to see you've finally decided to get out of bed?"
"Well, it wasn't really my choice," Guin said, as Liadan squirmed in her grip, finally hopping on to the table, "Fuzzball here chose to tear my feet to tatters, and wouldn't stop until I did."
Angeline laughed, scratching Liadan on the head. "Good girl. You know when lazy girls are taking advantage of their poor, helpless mums."
Guin looked disbelievingly at Angeline. "You, helpless? Mother, I didn't know you had such a sense of humor."
"Ah! My only daughter, and you see how she speaks to me!"
It was rather odd, Guin thought. Since she had returned from her first year at Hogwarts, Angeline Marlowe had been.. different. Though always beautiful, there was now a special vitality about the woman's features, a rose-colored tinge to cheek and lip; a smile on her face. She had always been closed, though now, in the last few months, Angeline opened, blossomed, turned into what Guin had always thought a mother should be. It at once frightened and delighted her. Scared her because the cause of this sudden transformation was not known, and delighted her for obvious reasons – the nagging question in the back of her mind ("What was Angeline up to?") was silenced in the face of her mother's kidding.
"Don't worry, Mother, I'll take care of you when you're old and senile."
Angeline's pale green eyes, of which Guin's optics were exact replicas, closed, as if in pain. "When I'm 'old and senile,'" she said tragically, "You expect me to turn into a doddering old fool so soon?"
Guin helped herself to eggs and bacon, sneaking a piece to Liadan, who was now lurking underneath the tables. "The way you're heading, definitely," she replied, mouth full of fried potatoes.
"Don't sneak any more food to that cat, or she'll turn into a plump little thing," Angeline warned, nudging Liadan with one toe. "You greedy little beast." Her voice, however, held a faint tinge of affection. She had always been more compassionate towards cats than she was towards people.
They finished their breakfast in relative silence. Guin, for one, was not about to stint her appetite like some girls approaching their teens, she wolfed down three eggs, several pieces of bacon, a pile of potatoes, and two slices of toast. Angeline, on the other hand, delicately ate a grapefruit and sipped at a dainty china cup filled with herbal tea. She had always been an aesthetic at heart, and the meager meal appealed to her sense of the romantic.
"Mother, I'm going out to the grounds to practice flying," Guin said.
"If you wish, dear. I'll be leaving for work soon, if you need anything, go to Sarah," Angeline said absently, scanning the pages of the Daily Prophet again, making a small tutting sound with her tongue. "..My! Disgraceful, these new taxes.."
The grounds of the Marlowe family mansion were expansive, to say the least. Rolling green lawns surrounded the old Tudor home, with many additions in stone and other styles. It was a conglomeration of the years; each inhabitant had added rooms to suit his whims, and the result was a mismatched grandeur to be unequaled anywhere. There was a small duck pond surrounded by willow trees off to one side, and at the perimeters of the grounds rose a high, stone fence and a cast-iron gate patterned in snakes, and cedar trees hiding the rest of the place from view.
The ideal home of the country gentleman, situated comfortably outside of a small, provincial village with an equally quaint name, steeped in the ancient habits of nosiness and tradition. Guin seldom ventured down there, she found that the children her age were rather stupid, and they all seemed to have little ambition: most wanted to work for a boy, Brendan, picking Brussels sprouts on his father's farm, which he was to inherit once he came of age.
The Marlowes had always been a subject of extreme curiosity to them, and a topic of gossip that came up again and again. When her father had disappeared, the villagers talked of nothing else for weeks. ("She done it, I know it. That woman, she's a bad 'un.") However, given the Marlowe family slant towards love of privacy, the furious speculation gradually died down. It was a good thing, Guin supposed, that there were such tall trees and fences to keep curious town-dwellers from seeing into the grounds: it probably would not be beneficial if they saw a green-eyed figure on a broomstick, practicing Quidditch maneuvers.
That was what she was planning to do, after stopping at the owlery and scribbling off a quick response to Rilla and L'Argent. It was a small building, dark so that the birds could enjoy settings closer to their natural habitats, and not particularly crowded. Angeline kept several owls of different sorts, for all occasions and weather. There was a fancy snowy owl with beautiful ebon eyes, for impressing people; the great horned owl which she used on difficult deliveries, and a small round hoot owl for stealth. Guin had her own signature owl; an average sized barn owl. He wasn't the brightest of creatures, but got the job done.
She hadn't even been able to name him. Mr. Eeylops, of Eeylops Owl Emporium, said that the dealer he'd been brought from had named the bird Anatoly, and he was unable to learn to remember a new one. Anatoly took wing cheerfully enough, however, once she'd tied the missives to his legs, but accidentally bumped into the wall on his way out the door. Sighing, Guin hid her face and hoped he'd be able to make it to his destination without severely injuring himself.
It was with some relief that she left the dim and musty shed and emerged into the sunlight under the plum trees. It must have been here, about fourteen years ago, that Edmund had sat on that very fence, the one painted every year with new white paint, shining brightly in the small grove of fruit trees. Guin hurried away from the place, it had an odd quality to it, as though a hint of the past remained in the present, one finger inserted to mark the page of a book.
Carrying her Cleansweep Seven off to a grassy expanse in front of the house, Guin settled on to it easily. There was of course a cushioning charm in effect, so that she could sit on the length of wood without pain, but she hardly noticed, as it was of course invisible. There was a new Nimbus line out now, but Guin wasn't jealous of people like Potter, who had been the owner of a Nimbus 2000 since last year. There were always new models coming out, it was impossible to keep up with them, and she was sincerely fond of the Seven.
Kicking off the ground, she soared into the air, careful, of course, not to rise above the protecting line of trees. It would have been more fun, she thought, if there were someone else to play with, to throw a mock-Quaffle to and catch it in return. But even solitary, the sheer joy of the flight caught Guin in its thrall, and she swooped and dove with a lighter heart. It always comforted her, somehow, to have her hair streaming out behind her as she nudged the broom faster and faster, swerving and dodging as though to avoid another Chaser or perhaps a Bludger.
A running, imaginary commentary in her head accompanied the girl as she flew. "Marlowe with the Quaffle! Ooh, a narrow miss by a Bludger! Excellent flying by Guinivere Marlowe, tapped for the English National team – one of the younger Chasers – dodges a Chaser – a little more speed, perhaps – shoots – SCORES!" Clutching the broom handle, Guin executed a neat loop-the-loop, stomach lurching as the ground and sky flipped around in an endless circle.
Finally she returned to the ground, returning the broomstick to the house. Slightly sweaty and hair messy, Guin decided that as there wasn't much to do, she might as well work on an essay for Muggle Studies, which she would be taking next year. In order to write it, however, she needed to actually speak to some Muggles. But where to find them? The answer, she saw, was staring her right in the face.
Slipping out of the gates was no problem, as Angeline had already left for work at the Experimental Magic department of the Ministry. It was a decent-length walk down to the village, but she had been sitting down so long that her legs were up to the workout. The summer sun beat down on all, but a slight breeze ruffling the trees enabled her to enjoy the day as it so deserved.
The children were playing some sort of game that involved two teams throwing a bean-filled leather bag at the opposite crew. She recognized several of them: Victoria, Brendan, Anthony, James, and a girl named Elisabeth whom she couldn't stand. "Hey," she greeted them, causing a momentary lull in the activity. The assignment was to observe how they acted, how they dressed, their habits. It was a stupid paper, she knew, but that was the work.
"What are you doing here?" James asked, suspiciously.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Guin said pleasantly, "And I missed all your lovely faces."
"Right," Anthony said.
Brendan was usually friendly, and grinned at her. "Welcome," he said, with a dramatic sweep of the arm, "To our humble home. We're playing a game that Vicky made up."
Victoria made a face. "For the last time, it's Victoria. Not Vicky!"
"Sorry, Vicky—"
Victoria swiped at the futures Brussels sprouts farmer with the flat of her palm, but he dodged out of the way, grinning widely. "Aww, c'mon, Vicky, got to do better'n that!" He moved sideways abruptly as Victoria attempted to elbow him in the stomach.
Anthony whispered to Guin, "They /fancy/ each other."
"We do NOT!" Brendan and Victoria interrupted at the same time.
Guin glanced at her watch. She'd have to stay here for several hours, but it wasn't looking like such a grim prospect anymore. Relaxing, the girl turned her face back to the Muggle children who played around her, completely unaware of what this strange child in their midst really was, and what she could do. And she, in turn, found that it was somewhat of a relief, to forget, even for one afternoon.
"Mrrow?" the cat purred innocently, twitching her tail demurely around her tiny figure. She exuded naiveté with a palpable aura, sickening, especially if one considered the impish gleam in her eyes. Guin flopped over on her side and began to drift off to sleep once more. Stretching extravagantly, Liadan made small contented noises and returned to savaging her mistress's ankles.
"LIADAN!" Guin exclaimed, swiping her hand at the cat, "That hurts! I'm up, I'm up!"
Liadan waited until Guin stood up, and then jumped off the bed, purring in a satisfied-sounding way. Muttering to herself about ungrateful felines, the girl staggered over to her closet, peering into it thoughtfully. During the summer she preferred to wear Muggle clothing; it was much cooler and more practical in such activities as climbing trees and flying broomsticks. For though Guinivere Marlowe was a pureblooded wizard, the scion of two families that were almost the magical world's equivalent of noble blood, she was above all pragmatic.
Off came the over-sized T-shirt and boxer shorts; on went a sleeveless blue top and baggy cargo shorts. While running a brush hastily through her hair, Guin wiggled her feet into heavily beaten up sneakers, dropping the comb on the counter of a table. Cluttered on its surface were various odds and ends collected over the years: a perfect nautilus, several interesting pebbles, a tail feather swiped from Angeline's giant great horned owl, movie stubs from outings with her best friend Rilla, and a necklace she had woven herself.
The brush instantly became lost in the chaos, though as Angeline was wont to point out, it never looked as though Guin /used/ the thing, anyway. Whenever she said those words, there was an unmistakable irony to her thin smile; Angeline's sense of humor was dry and cutting and showed itself seldom. Not that her words bothered Guin, either, she cared as little for them as she did for the appearance of her hair, and her toes poked comfortably through the front of the left sneaker.
Liadan was batting at her leg again, and Guin turned, about to scold the cat, when she noticed that Lia was trying to call her attention to something. At the window was perched an owl, rather hawkish in appearance, more so than most of his species. Bright yellow eyes peered into the room as he turned his head sideways, attempting to catch Guin's focus. Raising an eyebrow, she opened the window to admit the bird. It was Kerwin, L'Argent's familiar.
Now why would he be sending her a letter, let alone two? "The owlery is near the plum trees," she informed Kerwin, "If you'd like a drink or something to eat. Thank you." Kerwin nudged her hand in an affectionate sort of way, to Liadan's evident disapproval. The cat hissed and laid her ears back at the bird, which flew off in a haughty manner. Guin took the letters and flopped onto her bed to read them. She carefully ran her thumb underneath the fold of the envelope, cursing softly and receiving a paper cut for her troubles.
Sucking the bleeding slash on her finger, Guin read. L'Argent's handwriting was abominable; it was an untidy scrawl that had no refinement whatsoever. In fact, it was quite difficult to actually read, and several times she was forced to squint in order to better decipher a word.
Hey Marlowe.
What've you been up to this summer, besides annoying the hell
out of everyone that you talk to? Sorry. Don't glare at me for
that. (Guin was glaring, but soon stopped after reading that line.)
Mum and Dad weren't too happy about Uncle Henry, well, Da
more then Mum 'cos that git was his brother and all.. They reckon
he's going to be in Azkaban for a while. Anyway. I sent Kerwin
with a letter 'cos I thought you'd want to know what happened,
and also because I thought Rilla would want to write a letter to
you and I know that she doesn't have an owl. So that's what the
other envelope is. It's a letter from Rilla. This is really going no-
where but I can't seem to stop writing. It's odd. I know I don't
talk all that much in real life but there's so much stuff to say
here. It's been as quiet as could be hoped, but Matilde and Ma-
rthe are being terrors as usual, and they've been bullying Mer-
rick something awful. Mum's been in a bad mood 'cos of that
but otherwise it's business as usual. You and Rilla can meet me
in the Leaky Cauldron if you want sometime in July.
L'Argent.
Guin grinned to herself as she read the letter, for some reason it amused her greatly. Rilla's missive was in a regular Muggle envelope, a white, flimsy thing that had been bent in half by accident, and was also pierced with claw marks. Her handwriting was neat, but her grammar was frightening to say the least.
Hi Guin!
I've been having a great summer so far and I was so surprised
when Mikael wrote, I didn't think that'd be something he'd do
anyway it just didn't seem like him. Ma and Da have gone tem-
porarily insane, I think, because they won't let me out of their
sight and Ma keeps crying sometimes when she looks at me. I
guess a near-death experience isn't great for relations with
parents, but I mean, really! I can take care of myself and I'm
not a helpless little baby like they seem to think. I'm really
really sorry to complain to you, but all my friends from the
Muggle school I used to go to seem kind of boring and dull and
I don't really want to talk to them right now. Anyway, how are
you? I'll talk to you in Diagon Alley. Okay? I'll see you later.
Lots of love!!!
From Rilla
Guin leaned over the edge of her bed and reached underneath, pulling out a locked trunk. It was quite old, though well kept. Made of red leather, it had tarnished silver gilding on the handles and an argent rendering of the Slytherin serpent stamped on the front. Also on the front was a small lock, it looked rather flimsy, as though a paper clip could wiggle the thing open, but Guin had been improving it. Even the standard Alohomora charm wouldn't work, it took a special incantation that only she knew. The trunk held all her most personal items: stories half-finished and forgotten, letters from her friends, a stash of Muggle comics by an author named Neil Gaiman, and a picture of her father that she'd stolen from a photograph album.
She whispered the charm under her breath, holding her face close to the lock and tapping it with her wand, a length of ebony containing dragon heartstring. With an obliging pop, the catch snapped open, enabling Guin to twist it off from the handle and pull the lid open. Inside, the contents were arranged a bit more neatly than those on her desktop. As she carefully tucked the letters from her friends into the depths of the trunk, Guin withdrew the crumpled photo, smoothing it out and looking at it.
As in all the wizard-world pictures, the subject was moving. Edmund Marlowe was a tall man, rather slim, but with a lanky sort of musculature. Straight dark hair shaded his eyes, which were also dark: serious pools of shadow fringed by sable lashes. A faint hint of humor touched them, crinkling the edges in a sardonic smile, as the man looked off into the distance, glancing sideways. He had something of the "thousand yard stare" so common of World War II veterans, but the youthfully smooth face seemed younger and innocent. Her father was sitting on a white picket fence underneath a plum tree, the same one that was near the owlery. Guin examined every detail minutely, though she had it memorized. Edmund Marlowe wasn't the most active of pictures, though a slight breeze ruffled his hair. He seemed to be thinking deeply on some subject, pensive gaze unfocused.
With a small sigh, Guin smoothed the picture out again, and replaced it into the darkness of the trunk with a care that was almost reverence. Both Edmund Marlowe and his wife, Angeline, had been Death Eaters, supporters of the evil wizard Voldemort. The difference, however, was that Edmund had recanted, a deathbed conversion, for he had been disappeared soon after turning in several high-ranked Death Eaters working in the Ministry.
Guin had done research before, and found old issues of the Daily Prophet, which spoke of the captures and Edmund Marlowe's subsequent death. "Marlowe, who is a lawyer, is married to the Ministry witch Angeline Hunter. He courageously exposed the names of several Ministry officials closely tied with Voldemort....unavailable for comment, Mr. Marlowe told a Daily Prophet reporter to 'piss off and nose around someone else,' though his rudeness may be attributed to stress," read one issue. Another one, with a slightly more ominous tone: "Death Eater-turned-hero, Edmund Marlowe, was reported missing yesterday. Ministry officials confirmed this report....his estranged wife, Angeline, was busy caring for their newborn, and was unavailable for comment...."
The light was shifting as the sun moved. At the door was a house-elf, dressed in a neat tea towel and a fuzzy cap that had once graced the top of a golf club, shyly inserted her head into the room. "Miss Marlowe? We is having breakfast now," she said, and slunk away before Guin could reply. The soft patter of bare feet in the hallway faded, leaving Guin and Liadan alone in the room.
Guin had never liked house-elves. Their servile, cringing mannerisms annoyed her. Much preferred to the ugly little creatures was a woman who was in charge of the house, a former witch named Sarah. She was a plump matron with graying hair and a cheerful smile, and, incongruously enough, a large, red scar on her throat. While Guin never found out exactly who Sarah had once been, or what had happened to her, the woman was devoted to the girl and fearful of Angeline.
"Mrrowl," Liadan exclaimed, and Guin laughed. Sometimes she found that she could almost understand what her familiar was saying, or perhaps it was just the closeness that had developed between the former stray and her young mistress. Now, Liadan was indicating that she was /hungry/ and she wanted to go eat, and Guin could think later. Food was the most important thing right now, especially bacon with crispy fat nodules and scrapple, maybe, yummy pig parts that no human in their right mind would devour...
"Liadan, you are truly disgusting," Guin said lightly, scooping the gray kitten into her arms and running down the stairs of the manor. It was a large place, and by the time Guin had pelted down several staircases and through a few corridors, Angeline was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading the latest issue of the Daily Prophet ("Anniversary of Muggle-Born Girl's Death at Hogwarts" one of the headlines read) but folded it when her daughter entered.
"Good morning, Guin," she said with a light smile, "It's good to see you've finally decided to get out of bed?"
"Well, it wasn't really my choice," Guin said, as Liadan squirmed in her grip, finally hopping on to the table, "Fuzzball here chose to tear my feet to tatters, and wouldn't stop until I did."
Angeline laughed, scratching Liadan on the head. "Good girl. You know when lazy girls are taking advantage of their poor, helpless mums."
Guin looked disbelievingly at Angeline. "You, helpless? Mother, I didn't know you had such a sense of humor."
"Ah! My only daughter, and you see how she speaks to me!"
It was rather odd, Guin thought. Since she had returned from her first year at Hogwarts, Angeline Marlowe had been.. different. Though always beautiful, there was now a special vitality about the woman's features, a rose-colored tinge to cheek and lip; a smile on her face. She had always been closed, though now, in the last few months, Angeline opened, blossomed, turned into what Guin had always thought a mother should be. It at once frightened and delighted her. Scared her because the cause of this sudden transformation was not known, and delighted her for obvious reasons – the nagging question in the back of her mind ("What was Angeline up to?") was silenced in the face of her mother's kidding.
"Don't worry, Mother, I'll take care of you when you're old and senile."
Angeline's pale green eyes, of which Guin's optics were exact replicas, closed, as if in pain. "When I'm 'old and senile,'" she said tragically, "You expect me to turn into a doddering old fool so soon?"
Guin helped herself to eggs and bacon, sneaking a piece to Liadan, who was now lurking underneath the tables. "The way you're heading, definitely," she replied, mouth full of fried potatoes.
"Don't sneak any more food to that cat, or she'll turn into a plump little thing," Angeline warned, nudging Liadan with one toe. "You greedy little beast." Her voice, however, held a faint tinge of affection. She had always been more compassionate towards cats than she was towards people.
They finished their breakfast in relative silence. Guin, for one, was not about to stint her appetite like some girls approaching their teens, she wolfed down three eggs, several pieces of bacon, a pile of potatoes, and two slices of toast. Angeline, on the other hand, delicately ate a grapefruit and sipped at a dainty china cup filled with herbal tea. She had always been an aesthetic at heart, and the meager meal appealed to her sense of the romantic.
"Mother, I'm going out to the grounds to practice flying," Guin said.
"If you wish, dear. I'll be leaving for work soon, if you need anything, go to Sarah," Angeline said absently, scanning the pages of the Daily Prophet again, making a small tutting sound with her tongue. "..My! Disgraceful, these new taxes.."
The grounds of the Marlowe family mansion were expansive, to say the least. Rolling green lawns surrounded the old Tudor home, with many additions in stone and other styles. It was a conglomeration of the years; each inhabitant had added rooms to suit his whims, and the result was a mismatched grandeur to be unequaled anywhere. There was a small duck pond surrounded by willow trees off to one side, and at the perimeters of the grounds rose a high, stone fence and a cast-iron gate patterned in snakes, and cedar trees hiding the rest of the place from view.
The ideal home of the country gentleman, situated comfortably outside of a small, provincial village with an equally quaint name, steeped in the ancient habits of nosiness and tradition. Guin seldom ventured down there, she found that the children her age were rather stupid, and they all seemed to have little ambition: most wanted to work for a boy, Brendan, picking Brussels sprouts on his father's farm, which he was to inherit once he came of age.
The Marlowes had always been a subject of extreme curiosity to them, and a topic of gossip that came up again and again. When her father had disappeared, the villagers talked of nothing else for weeks. ("She done it, I know it. That woman, she's a bad 'un.") However, given the Marlowe family slant towards love of privacy, the furious speculation gradually died down. It was a good thing, Guin supposed, that there were such tall trees and fences to keep curious town-dwellers from seeing into the grounds: it probably would not be beneficial if they saw a green-eyed figure on a broomstick, practicing Quidditch maneuvers.
That was what she was planning to do, after stopping at the owlery and scribbling off a quick response to Rilla and L'Argent. It was a small building, dark so that the birds could enjoy settings closer to their natural habitats, and not particularly crowded. Angeline kept several owls of different sorts, for all occasions and weather. There was a fancy snowy owl with beautiful ebon eyes, for impressing people; the great horned owl which she used on difficult deliveries, and a small round hoot owl for stealth. Guin had her own signature owl; an average sized barn owl. He wasn't the brightest of creatures, but got the job done.
She hadn't even been able to name him. Mr. Eeylops, of Eeylops Owl Emporium, said that the dealer he'd been brought from had named the bird Anatoly, and he was unable to learn to remember a new one. Anatoly took wing cheerfully enough, however, once she'd tied the missives to his legs, but accidentally bumped into the wall on his way out the door. Sighing, Guin hid her face and hoped he'd be able to make it to his destination without severely injuring himself.
It was with some relief that she left the dim and musty shed and emerged into the sunlight under the plum trees. It must have been here, about fourteen years ago, that Edmund had sat on that very fence, the one painted every year with new white paint, shining brightly in the small grove of fruit trees. Guin hurried away from the place, it had an odd quality to it, as though a hint of the past remained in the present, one finger inserted to mark the page of a book.
Carrying her Cleansweep Seven off to a grassy expanse in front of the house, Guin settled on to it easily. There was of course a cushioning charm in effect, so that she could sit on the length of wood without pain, but she hardly noticed, as it was of course invisible. There was a new Nimbus line out now, but Guin wasn't jealous of people like Potter, who had been the owner of a Nimbus 2000 since last year. There were always new models coming out, it was impossible to keep up with them, and she was sincerely fond of the Seven.
Kicking off the ground, she soared into the air, careful, of course, not to rise above the protecting line of trees. It would have been more fun, she thought, if there were someone else to play with, to throw a mock-Quaffle to and catch it in return. But even solitary, the sheer joy of the flight caught Guin in its thrall, and she swooped and dove with a lighter heart. It always comforted her, somehow, to have her hair streaming out behind her as she nudged the broom faster and faster, swerving and dodging as though to avoid another Chaser or perhaps a Bludger.
A running, imaginary commentary in her head accompanied the girl as she flew. "Marlowe with the Quaffle! Ooh, a narrow miss by a Bludger! Excellent flying by Guinivere Marlowe, tapped for the English National team – one of the younger Chasers – dodges a Chaser – a little more speed, perhaps – shoots – SCORES!" Clutching the broom handle, Guin executed a neat loop-the-loop, stomach lurching as the ground and sky flipped around in an endless circle.
Finally she returned to the ground, returning the broomstick to the house. Slightly sweaty and hair messy, Guin decided that as there wasn't much to do, she might as well work on an essay for Muggle Studies, which she would be taking next year. In order to write it, however, she needed to actually speak to some Muggles. But where to find them? The answer, she saw, was staring her right in the face.
Slipping out of the gates was no problem, as Angeline had already left for work at the Experimental Magic department of the Ministry. It was a decent-length walk down to the village, but she had been sitting down so long that her legs were up to the workout. The summer sun beat down on all, but a slight breeze ruffling the trees enabled her to enjoy the day as it so deserved.
The children were playing some sort of game that involved two teams throwing a bean-filled leather bag at the opposite crew. She recognized several of them: Victoria, Brendan, Anthony, James, and a girl named Elisabeth whom she couldn't stand. "Hey," she greeted them, causing a momentary lull in the activity. The assignment was to observe how they acted, how they dressed, their habits. It was a stupid paper, she knew, but that was the work.
"What are you doing here?" James asked, suspiciously.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Guin said pleasantly, "And I missed all your lovely faces."
"Right," Anthony said.
Brendan was usually friendly, and grinned at her. "Welcome," he said, with a dramatic sweep of the arm, "To our humble home. We're playing a game that Vicky made up."
Victoria made a face. "For the last time, it's Victoria. Not Vicky!"
"Sorry, Vicky—"
Victoria swiped at the futures Brussels sprouts farmer with the flat of her palm, but he dodged out of the way, grinning widely. "Aww, c'mon, Vicky, got to do better'n that!" He moved sideways abruptly as Victoria attempted to elbow him in the stomach.
Anthony whispered to Guin, "They /fancy/ each other."
"We do NOT!" Brendan and Victoria interrupted at the same time.
Guin glanced at her watch. She'd have to stay here for several hours, but it wasn't looking like such a grim prospect anymore. Relaxing, the girl turned her face back to the Muggle children who played around her, completely unaware of what this strange child in their midst really was, and what she could do. And she, in turn, found that it was somewhat of a relief, to forget, even for one afternoon.