London, Early July 1995
Althea rocked back and forth in her high heels. Her head tilted back, she took in the impressive white stucco terrace house. That I should've stumbled into a gutter in Belgravia, she mused, the disguised Cairn Alley was an exceptionally serene street. She sighed loudly. Best to complete this mission and be done with it, she thought and reached for the bell. Just as her finger hovered before the black button, she hesitated—it wasn't very stealth. She pressed the button.
"Right," she breathed and smoothed the skirt of her cream Chanel suit.
The door opened and a tall, well-formed and handsome footman appeared. I would expect nothing less, she thought, observing his impeccable powder blue silk breeches, waistcoat, and jacket. Pity the powdered wig hides a very fine head of hair.
Althea removed her wide-brimmed hat. "Lady Northfield for Madame White," she said upon stepping into the entrance hall.
The footman bowed and left her.
Light from the windows and the dome skylight poured into the entrance hall. Salisbury House was opulent. Gilded frames that housed the great masters of Wizarding art hung upon the white walls next to wall sconces of gold and lead crystal. Marble winged horses in varying stags of flight ascended the dome toward the skylight. Laughter echoed from a small sitting room to her right and a Time-Turner was added as a wager in a game of cards. If only the Ministry, she thought and frowned, it is the Ministry. The footman reappeared and beckoned for her to follow. Althea's heels clicked against the white marble floors. Piecemeal conversations permeated from the opened doors. Gossip, poetry, and debates (especially one that seemed to concern Dumbledore) drew her attention. Still, she followed the footman until he stopped at two large white doors. She recognized the room to be the conservatory.
The footman opened the doors and Althea entered. Lush dark green foliage obscured the glass walls and Althea inhaled the deliciously sweet scent of tropical flowers. It was the prized room of Salisbury House and Althea remembered the last concert she heard there. It was the night she reunited with Remus Lupin. She was at her most lonely and desperate, and he, defeated and shattered. The room, the house, was oddly foreign to her—as if she remembered the events that transpired from a second-hand account in a book rather than her own true memory. Probably the alcohol and Poppy Juice, she thought, while tropical finches chirped happily in gilded cages. Upon a white chaise, Allegra White sat—Althea's stomach tightened. Allegra held flirtatious conversation with a gentleman beside her—a handsome gentleman with mousy brown hair and crisp blue eyes. Althea internally groaned.
"Lady Northfield," the footman announced.
Solon Despard, the Undersecretary to the Irish Minister, and Allegra halted their conversation. Solon stood and—pleased at what was before him—smiled. Althea forced a feeble smile.
"I didn't know you frequented Salisbury House," he said, taking her hand.
"She doesn't," Allegra answered for Althea.
Solon faintly frowned, but mustered a smile. "And you are well?"
Althea nodded. "Yes, thank you. And you?"
Solon playfully narrowed his eyes. "On business," he whispered and patted her hand. "Thank you," he added, his eyes insinuating relief from Madame White. "I shall take my leave," he said and turned toward Allegra. "I'll send Minister Griffin your regards."
"Of course," Allegra replied and waved him goodbye.
"Althea," he said softly.
"Solon."
Once alone, Allegra stood—the emerald silk shimmered and cascaded about her. She had not aged and Althea was sure that she employed Ageless Charms and Potions. Her face had the hint of that tight, cat-like quality to it. Her brown hair, with large, soft curls, fell to her waist. She held out her arms for Althea.
"It has been too long," she said and kissed Althea's cheek. "Here by Dumbledore's orders and not of your own accord."
"You understand the importance, then," Althea replied, pulling away from her.
Allegra motioned for them to sit.
"That young man," she began, pointing at the door, "shall be Minister of Magic. Not a speck of scandal." She looked Althea up and down. "You would do well to ignore your grandmother's advice and avoid him."
"Don't worry," she said sardonically and crossed her legs, "I won't dirty him."
The nerve of that woman, she thought and pulled at the hem of her skirt. Althea blinked with surprise. How unnerving to think such as Gran! Indeed, Gran did not hold Madame Allegra White in such esteem. According to some, she was a woman who slept her way into ownership of the prestigious Salisbury House. The dastardly courtesan with a design to have her hands in the trousers of every powerful magical male in England! In truth, Allegra White enjoyed being the center of the world and hovered just above the gossip. By her bed was a portrait of her beloved Francis.
Allegra leaned close to Althea. "No," she whispered and slowly smiled, "you won't."
Althea refused to play. "You understand why I'm here, don't you?"
Allegra, disappointed, reclined against the chaise. "Of course, I do," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Dumbledore."
"Then you will—"
"No," she said firmly.
Althea sat forward. "We need an ally such as yourself, your connections—"
"Will not be betrayed by me," she finished—her face had become cold. "Dumbledore is a fool."
"Please—"
"We have not spoken for almost ten years and you return to my home not to speak of niceties or attachment, but to convince me to join that doomed club!" she said and slammed her palm against the chaise. "I, who—"
"Indulged my murderous appetite," Althea countered, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. "Don't retell all the kind, generous things you have done for me because I might seek to repay you."
Allegra swallowed and tugged at her sleeve. "My, how you've become Agnes," she sniffed. "I had thought you my friend, my deepest confidant…my affections for you were true."
"Then as your friend—"
Allegra shook her head. "Friends write, visit," she explained over Althea, "even that despicable Floo…"
"Will you not consider it?" she asked, placing her hand upon Allegra's hand.
"Consider it?" she repeated, retracting her hand. "I considered it twenty years ago and I refused him then, and I will refuse him again. The 'greater good' he said to me—ha! I am not his chess piece to control." Her violet eyes met with Althea's. "He does not need me to defeat that wizard. He does not need you. He needs none of you."
Althea, uncomfortable, stood. "When Voldemort—"
Allegra winced.
"—comes for you," she continued, "because he knows what has become of his most beloved…you will seek me, but I doubt you'll have the time to do so."
Allegra's lips quivered into a smile. "Is that a threat, Althea?"
Althea shook her head. "He knows what I've done," she said lowly. "Told me so while he tortured me—"
"And you lived?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"They've already infiltrated and I wouldn't doubt a servant or two might be cursed—"
"Lucius Malfoy is too obvious," she drawled and rolled her eyes.
"Will you not consider—"
"Good day, Lady Northfield." Allegra raised her wand and, with the flick of her wrist, the footman entered.
Althea quietly growled.
"Tell him that I will entertain no such offer," she said and forced a smile. "Good day."
Althea solemnly nodded. "Good day."
Once the front door closed behind her, Althea let out a frustrated growl.
"That odious woman!" she muttered through clenched teeth.
Aware that she could be watched, she kept up the appearance of frustration. Althea knew such an endeavor to convince Madame White to side with the Order was futile, but Allegra's refusal still provided much intelligence. By her hubris she confirmed Lucius Malfoy's presence, and would—no doubt—examine her servants and staff for the Imperius Curse. As she rounded the street corner, she frowned. Why would Solon Despard visit Allegra? I want nothing to do with him if he pays her court, she thought, alert that she was no longer alone. Althea quickened her pace and pretended to fumble through her purse.
"Where is that bloody lipstick?" she whispered, grasping her wand.
Immediately, she wheeled around with her wand drawn and the contents of her purse spilled upon the cobble street.
Her eyes widened. "Blood hell, Black!" she whispered heatedly, lowering her wand.
"Don't lower your wand!" he chided, raising his hands. "How d'you know I'm really him?"
"Because only you would be thick enough to follow me here," she said, poking his chest with her wand.
He leaned so as only she could hear, "I am in disguise, but you've just announced to any Death Eater—"
"Why are you here?" she asked, folding her arms.
"You never go on a mission alone," he said and stooped to pick up the contents of her purse. He frowned at her silver compact. "Still works, I think," he murmured, pressing the clasp. He patted the breast pocket of his grey linen jacket. "It does."
"Thank you," she said and closed her purse, "but I doubt—"
"You never go on a mission alone," he repeated solemnly and offered his arm.
Althea refused him. "I have more business in London," she said and Sirius was dubious. "An investor from Geneva," she explained, slipping the clutch beneath her arm. "Boring stuff, really—"
Sirius sighed loudly. "I understand," he said and bit the inside of his cheek. "It would be unwise for me to parade about London."
"My love—"
"I understand," he said, shoving his hands into his grey trouser pockets.
"I'll join you at Northfield."
"Right," he sighed and, with a pop, he Apparated.
Althea entered the nave to the sound of tourists' footsteps echoing around her. She furrowed her brow—a plethora of plaques and monuments surrounded her and hid in every alcove. This may prove difficult, she thought, slowly turning. Major John Dumont, a beloved solider of his time, was now an obscure mention in a history book. She frowned. Did they move monuments? Her hands firmly clasped behind her back, she began to explore. Her eyes narrowed, she read every plaque and examined every cherub. It was humbling, and Althea was struck by the ephemeral natures of fame and importance—at least the portraits at Hogwarts talked to remind one of their great accomplishments. In a dimly lit recess, Althea spotted a weeping Britannia in repose. Below the marble statue was a relief of Major Dumont's capture. The barefoot captors wore frayed breeches. Althea bit her lip to stifle her giggling.
"At least they spared the man cherubs," she whispered, stepping closer to inspect the monument. She raised an eyebrow at the inscription. "This is absurd," she breathed, taking another step. "I could only imagine the embarrassment Althea Louisa would've felt if she had to look upon this—"
He was no longer hers, she thought, focused upon his figure cut in cold stone. How could one overcome that? Althea Louisa had lost her beloved John Dumont to the cult of mourning. Solidarity swelled within her breast for she understood losing those one loved to circumstances beyond oneself. James and Lily were unfeeling statues in Godric's Hollow. The man she loved was not a national hero—transformed from an ambitious, bright soldier to gallant gentleman-warrior—but was cast as the villain and the epitome of darkness itself. Surprisingly moved by the monument before her, Althea wondered if loving to the point of one's own destruction was a Morrigan trait. Althea Louisa refused food, gawking visitors, and died in mourning clothes beneath the window frequently used by a teenage Althea to sneak out with an insolent boy on a motorbike.
"Mind your feet."
Althea gasped and looked down—her toes were an inch from a small brass plaque designating Dumont's burial. Behind her, the gentleman laughed.
"Sorry," she began and spun toward him, "I—"
Althea let out a quiet laugh of surprise. He was singularly beautiful. Grey and somewhat transparent, his 18th century regimentals were well tailored and impressive. He suited the role of solider to perfection, and despite death, there was liveliness in his expression. Couldn't have charmed your way out of the gallows, she thought, staring at the ghost of Major John Dumont.
"Good God, a Morrigan!" he remarked and laughed again, hovering a few inches above the floor.
"You—you're a wizard?" she whispered with humorous disbelief.
"Was," he said and bowed. "Major John Dumont, your Ladyship."
Althea swallowed—to engage a ghost in the presence of Muggles…
"Althea," she answered quietly. "I think it best—"
He closed his eyes. "To hear such a beautiful name once more."
Wary of a Muggle stumbling upon them, Althea began, "Major Dumont, I think it best we leave—"
"We will not be bothered," he said and sadly looked about him. "No one has paid much attention to me in over one hundred years."
She feigned surprise. "Really?"
Dumont nodded. "The last Morrigan to visit was the General Lord Northfield…at one time I was his aide-de-camp, you know," he said, his face bore a hint of bitterness. "He blamed me for Miss Althea's death."
Althea remained silent, as Dumont had grown more agitated.
"But, I didn't!" he pleaded, about to take a hovering step forward, but thinking better of it. "My actions—"
"I know," she said. "You were betrayed—"
"I was there. I did not want to leave her," he said and drifted toward her—Althea shivered. "I watched her slip away, and I did all that I could…but she could not see me…or touch me," he explained, silvery tears slid down his cheeks. He gazed upon her with forlorn hunger. "To see such eyes again."
"A broken heart," Althea said, "is a powerful thing—"
"'twas consumption, your Ladyship."
"Oh," she murmured and fiddled with the seam of her clutch. "You—you've spent the last two hundred or so years here, then?"
Dumont nodded. "After Miss Althea died, I stayed with my mama until she died as well…my sisters had families and I was most unwelcome…no one likes to admit a ghost in the family," he explained and pointed at the small brass plaque upon the floor. "By then, my body had returned to England and I spent my days here."
"You don't belong here."
Dumont smiled and clasped his hands before him. "I enjoy the company."
"They can't be much," she said and nodded toward a passing group. "They're Muggles, after all."
"Where am I to go? This," he remarked, turning his head—it was then Althea saw the rope marks on his neck, "has become my home."
A wave of pity enveloped Althea. "You could…come to my home?" she offered and gently bit her bottom lip.
"You—you would offer me your home?"
Althea hesitatingly nodded. What have I done, she thought—Dumont hovered further off the floor. A whinging Georgian ghost? Althea imagined Gran's displeasure and Prudence's delight.
Dumont, grateful, bowed lowly. "I am your Ladyship's most obedient and humble servant."
The music room had never been so jolly. Althea's fingers glided over the piano keys while Dumont's ethereal, pleasing voice sang of romantic eagerness for the battlefield. Sirius begrudgingly turned pages of sheet music and Prudence sat upon the sofa, enraptured with her new ghostly acquaintance. On the contrary, Gran was not averse to Dumont, but rather tickled at his arrival. She considered a haunted home to be lucky—especially one haunted by a ghost so loyal to the family. She wistfully reminisced about the ghost that haunted the Rynnes for three centuries.
"Business," Sirius murmured and turned to the final page.
"His father was a Swiss merchant," she whispered and smirked. "Oh, don't pout. It could be good for us…extra eyes upon our Prudence."
Prudence sat at the edge of the sofa; her grey eyes did not waver from Dumont's form. Althea knew she would contact Genevieve by Floo at the first chance. How she would delight in telling her friend his tragic fate! Major Dumont was her melancholy curiosity.
"Why the secrecy?" he whispered. "There should be no secrets—"
Althea's smile faltered.
"—between us," he finished and clapped loudly at the song's end. "A Muggle song, Major?"
Dumont nodded. "I sang it in this very room," he said, his eyes seeming to take in every feature, every painting and instrument in the slate blue room. "The night before we left for Boston."
"Boston?" Prudence asked, sitting forward.
"Oh yes, Miss Prudence," he said, and sat on the mahogany high back chair next to her. "With General Lord Northfield…I was but a captain with the light infantry." He frowned. "I never saw my Althea Louisa again."
"But you're a wizard," Prudence replied, arching an eyebrow.
"Indeed," Dumont agreed, "but she was a Muggle and I was bound by law—"
"How honorable," Sirius muttered derisively while rubbing his cheek.
Althea jabbed him with her elbow.
"—to conceal my true nature until the correct time," he explained—his stock obscured that his neck was subtly askew.
Prudence appeared concerned. "No owls?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No owls."
Prudence sighed mournfully. "It would take ages," she said, falling back upon the sofa. Her face was full of sympathetic distress. "I can't imagine."
"I cherished her letters all the more," he assured and crossed his legs.
Althea's neck and cheeks flushed. Housed in her personal library, the intimate letters between Althea Louisa and Dumont were so candid and proved Sirius's teenage letters silly. One would have believed that the General would have destroyed such letters to protect Althea Louisa's virtuous memory. It was only after Dumont's death that the circumstances of their clandestine engagement were exposed. An earl's daughter in love with one of the middling sort? Scandalous. He was a national hero, she mused while Sirius's fingertips caressed the small of her back. Maybe shagging him was considered an act of patriotism.
AN: Thank you so much for reading! Thank you for all the comments, PMs, and reviews. What is next? A lake monster.