Chapter Seven
Atop the largest and loneliest hill in the Blackdown Hills stood a rather imposing home which swung in the breeze; white-washed stone was hardly seen amongst the sprawling ivy and yew which consumed each of the reaching spires. Each spire stretched towards the heavens, and at the tallest spire there was a single, lonesome window. A young girl sat at that window each day, gazing out onto the overgrown garden with its fountain that no longer held water, and a tire swing which now only swung with the wind, and the drooping willows which marked the end of which she could see.
The room's walls sat hidden beneath a line of shelves, shelves which overflowed with books. Wonderful books, new books, old books, books which sung when opened, and books that could not be opened. In the centre of the room sat a comfortable sofa, its cushions worn from use and groaned when sat on. This too was piled with books. Although, despite all of the pages which opened to greedy, curious eyes, the girl refused to touch even her favourites.
The breeze which remained ever present in these windy hills broke past the opened shutters and past the young girl. She shut her eyes to the wind, flinching at its chill. The robes which she wore were simple and plain and a pointed hat sat firmly atop her blond, lightning-bolt curls. She was fair in ways that others were not, with a sharp chin and a pointed nose she gave the appearance of a rather pretty elf. Although when her eyes fluttered open at the tentative knock at the door, her reflection in the glass was met with a pair of sharply coloured eyes. A pale blue which seemed to catch the light in a way that made her look as though her stare fixed on something which most eyes could not see.
The door swung open, and a young man stood in the doorway –he had not yet reached his thirtieth year, although the appearance of many scars and sun-aged skin gave the man a much older look. He sighed, running a hand speckled with shiny welts down the fresh scars marring his face.
"Briar," he called her attention, and he grimaced when she turned. Tears still clung to her pale lashes, and her expression threatened another fit of tears. "Briar," he said again, his tone was cautious, "I suppose it was the shock –she was rather old, you know." Briar's chin fell to her chest, and her hat slouched over, hiding her expression. "I know," she responded, her voice thick.
The man, Rurik, noticed the sleeve of crackers he had given her lay untouched, and he sighed again. "We've got to go, do you have all your things?"
When she nodded, Rurik held out a hand for her to hold, although he expected her to refuse. "Come on then, shut that window up and we'll go." Briar drew up, closing and locking the shutters. With a gesture of her hand, the curtains flew shut, effectively darkening the room. Rurik knew better than to scold her at this point in time, he bit his tongue. And to his surprise, Briar shyly accepted his hand.
With the old, swaying house sealed up, and mounds of luggage piled around the pair, Briar and Rurik stared back at their home. Briar, with her eyes to the future, she couldn't help but notice that her father's lay in the past.
"Where is she, dad?" Briar asked him. Rurik blinked, shaking his head. With a swollen finger he pointed to the largest drooping willow, and beneath that willow lay freshly dug dirt, and a polished stone which read, 'Poppy.'
Briar hiccoughed, seemingly choking on her own tears. Rurik took her hand yet again, spinning on the spot and the pair disappeared with a crack.
"So what'd you think, Briar?"
Briar blinked sharply –she set the mug of coffee she had been sipping from aside and cleared her throat, "S-sorry, what was that?"
"By the willows there," George said, staring at her from over Fred's shoulder. They were currently occupying the upstairs flat of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. "What about the willows?" Briar asked, tugging absently at her fang earring.
"Blimey, Briar," Fred stressed, "Have you been listening at all? We were wondering if the wedding should be held at the Burrow or at your house."
"Oh, er-" Briar sputtered, "I think at the Burrow –it's always so windy at home, the tent would blow away if we tried to set it up there."
"Good point," George hummed, "by the way how're those Briar's Beloved Brew's coming along?"
The brew in question was currently sputtering atop the stove, spewing purple all over the kitchen. "Shit!" Briar cursed, scrambling to a stand and knocking over her cup of coffee in the process.
As she stirred the brew back down to a simmer, Briar recalled that she ought to hand out a few invitations to some work friends –"George!" she called out over her shoulder.
"Yes, love?" George appeared in the doorway of the kitchenette. "I'll need some invitations to take to work tomorrow morning, is there some left over?" she asked him.
"Hardly," George snorted, he entered the kitchen and coiled an arm loosely around her waist, resting his chin atop her shoulder, "Mum's sent out so many already I'll be surprised if there's even a spot left for the bride herself."
"Shouldn't we have set the location before we sent out the invitations –we're going to be so unprepared!" Briar groaned. George gave a shrug, "Mum'll handle it. She's already gone into a fit about the wedding being at the end of the month –I suspect she's going to bleach the chickens once she finds out the wedding's at the burrow."
Briar managed to crack a smile –and focused her attention on the potion before her. Since a certain incident in their last year involving a rather hazardous brew of Amortentia, Briar has been their primary supplier for most potions for sale –when she has the time of course.
"What do you smell?" Briar asked him. George leant over her shoulder and took a great sniff. A dreamy look crossed his face, and the arms around her waist tightened, "I told you before haven't I? Broom polish, mum's cooking and perfume."
"You never did said whose perfume you smelled," Briar teased him. George grinned, his hands splayed across her stomach as he spoke, "Obviously it's from the line of smells the Weird Sisters brought out," he teased her, "Something like O'du Odor? Or P.U. Pungency?"
"Perhaps, B.O. Oh Boy!" Fred chimed from the other room. Briar laughed, nudging George's side with her elbow, "Quit it, you jerks!"
George prodded her back, "You didn't tell us what you smelled either!"
A blush rose to Briar's face, and she laughed nervously as she blew away the smoke was which beginning to rise from the brew. "Well, you know," her cheeks darkened, "Spearmint, old books and –and." "Come on, we're dying to know," George pressed, grinning. Fred appeared in the doorway of the kitchen with a matching grin. Briar huffed, and slammed the lid over the cauldron "–Oh whatever, I'm marrying you anyway. It was the smell of our old house elf's cooking!"
"Eh!?" Both Fred and George shouted in unison. "Blimey, I thought you were going to say my shampoo or something!-""-You had a bloody house elf? How rich are you!?"
"I never said anything because I was really frowned upon!" Briar huffed. "I didn't want anyone thinking I was a spoiled brat."
"Well you were, weren't you?-" "-Bloody well off is what you were!" "-Imagine even having a house elf, you'd never have to lift a finger!-" "-All you'd have to do was shout, and bam a servant at the ready!"
Briar groaned, throwing off George's arm, "It really wasn't like that! She just took care of me when dad went off to work, I didn't have a mother like you two!"
The pair fell silent at once, and they both simultaneously remembered how Briar's side lacked in numbers. George looked on guiltily, while Fred scratched the nape of his neck and sheepishly replied, "Well us Weasley's can make up the numbers, don't worry too much about it, Briar."
"Yeah," she mumbled, turning her eyes to the window, peering out over the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. "Yeah, I know."
