Best Laid Plans
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Pride and Prejudice. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Part One: The Defence Association
Chapter Seven:
Breakfast at Grimmauld Place is succeeded by Morning Tea in Blackthorn Park. They - that is, Helena, Sirius and Emilyn, Leo and Phoenix and Carina, Aunt Andromeda and Dora - set up in a walled garden Helena's grown to love, surrounded by blooming flowers, by the fragrant smell of jasmine and gardenia, by the sound of birdsong and the breeze through the trees. They sip on tea and coffee and fruit presses, nibble on muffins and crumpets and scones, catch up on each other's work and school and life. It's pleasant, the company and the scenery and the refreshments, and Helena is happy.
It won't last. Without even trying, Great-Grandfather Pollux and Great-Grandmother Irma will make sure of that.
"I hear you've decided to move James and Lily into in-home care."
Aunt Andromeda's expression is a familiar, mingled blend of curiosity and shame and regret and resentment. She - like the rest of them - has never been able to forget that Bellatrix Lestrange was one of the arbiters of James and Lily Potter's incapacitation - her sister, James' own cousin, a bloodtraitor of the worst kind - and she's spent years of her life attempting to gain absolution for Bellatrix's transgressions.
As one of the last scions of the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, Helena understands the pressure and obligation to uphold one's family honour, but she doesn't understand Aunt Andromeda's resolution. Bellatrix Lestrange killed Ted Tonks during the war - not before making him suffer for the 'crime' of eloping with her sister, mind - and a betrayal like that ought to absolve Andromeda from any degree of dishonour by association. In theory, that is.
"We have," Sirius confirms, "We start interviews for a couple of carers tomorrow."
Sirius hasn't wasted any time. He'd contacted an employment agency the day after they'd met with Healer Pendleton, and there were advertisements for the position in the papers the day after that.
In the days since then, Helena, Sirius, and Emilyn had also determined that Peverell's dower house, Isolde Cottage, would be best suited for her parents' residence. It's smaller, lacking in the antique decor, in the near-priceless artefacts and portraits, in the lifetime's worth of (potentially triggering) memories locked away somewhere in her father's ravaged mind. It's still within the inner-most layer of wards surrounding Peverell's park though, still saturated by the family's magic, and Helena's optimistic that the magic will make them feel at home, safe and comfortable and loved. As much as they are able, at least.
"Hallie will be joining us for the interviews," Emilyn contributes, oddly boastful.
"And how do you feel about that?" Aunt Andromeda addresses Helena.
"Kind of terrified," Helena admits, "Like I don't feel old enough for something so important."
"Well, I'm pleased you'll be involved," Aunt Andromeda opines as Carina's shrieking laugh resounds through the garden. She plays under the watchful eyes of the nanny elf, Sola - Leo and Phoenix do, too - and Sirius, Emilyn, and Andromeda watch them with nostalgic, wistful smiles. "It's only right that you know who your parents' carers are. It's no small thing you'll be entrusting them with."
Helena bites down on her irritation. Aunt Andromeda's wisdom is entirely unsolicited, but she means well. She's helpless, too, unable to visit James and Lily - her striking resemblance to Bellatrix continues to cause the pair no small degree of distress - but that inability to visit with them doesn't make her care for them (and Helena) any less.
"No pressure, or anything," Dora offers her a theatrical wink. Not slated to work until evening, she's coloured her hair a bright, electric purple today, and Helena envies her cousin her confidence.
"No pressure," Sirius agrees, "We just want your input. Remember, you'll have to work with these people for a long time. Indefinitely, even."
"I know," Helena sighs. They've gone over Sirius' and Emilyn's expectations for her already, ad nauseam, and the conversation doesn't bear repeating. "It's still daunting, though."
"You'll get used to it," Emilyn informs her, "You'll make a lot of important decisions in your life. This is just one of many."
Helena's expression is deadpan. "Lucky me."
Mercifully, the conversation drifts, and time passes. Before she knows it, Helena's on her way to Diagon Alley, to enjoy a couple of hours with a few of her friends before she's expected at The Graces' Tearoom.
"Remember, two o'clock. Don't be late."
"I'll remember."
Cassiopeia is a stickler for punctuality. As far as she's concerned, there's nothing remotely charming about being 'fashionably late', and if she's left to wait for Helena's company, then the younger witch will never hear the end of it. If only to avoid the misery that would inevitably cause, Helena has already set an alarm on her watch. She'll arrive at the Graces' Tearoom no later than fifteen minutes early.
"You've got your wand?"
Helena rolls her eyes. "Yes, Sirius, I have my wand, and my cloak, and my emergency portkey."
"All right, all right," Sirius grumbles. He helps her into a lightweight cloak - she won't be heading anywhere non-magical today - and tugs the end of her braid, "The attitude is uncalled for, Prongslette."
"Sorry."
Sirius doesn't roll his eyes, but it's probably a near thing. "Sure you are."
Helena pulls a face, Sirius smirks, and Helena reaches for the pot of floo powder before she says something that will actually get her in trouble.
"I'll see you at two o'clock."
"Stay out of trouble."
"Who do you take me for? Leo?"
"Should I be offended?" Sirius wonders, "I feel like I should be offended right now."
Helena laughs despite herself, drops a pinch of floo powder into the crackling, heatless fire, and watches as the flames turn emerald, surge upwards, and subsequently connect to the network.
"I'll see you later, Godfather." She waves, steps into the flames, and calls, "Diagon Alley!"
The last glimpse she receives of Blackthorn Park is the sight of her godfather in the manor's receiving room, his arm raised in a returning wave, a small, fond smile on his face. She's struck by a wash of fondness for him - he who has loved and raised her as his own, who has done everything to provide for herself and her parents, who never fails to make her laugh when she needs to - and Helena can't imagine a life without him.
Although she can't explain the maudlin direction her mind as taken her, Helena prays she'll not have to for a very, very long time.
-!- -#-
As planned, Helena arrives at the Graces' Tearoom fifteen minutes early. It's a charming establishment, generally frequented by the more traditional members of their society, known for their excellent tea and coffee, and for their even better cakes.
Unsurprisingly, Helena's (Great Great) Aunt Cassiopeia is already there, situated at a table in the back corner of the establishment. Beside one of the bay windows, she has an excellent view of the restaurant, as well as the flourishing flower garden behind it.
As she approaches the table, Helena determinedly does not acknowledge the woman's scrutiny.
She certainly doesn't take it personally.
Not anymore.
"You're on time," Aunt Cassiopeia acknowledges, "Good."
"I wouldn't dare disappoint you, Aunt," Helena replies, tongue firmly in cheek.
The older woman rolls her eyes, unimpressed, but nonetheless accepts and returns the obligatory round of air kisses. Aunt Cassiopeia is hardly the affectionate type, but she's a firm believer in the sanctity of tradition, and the pleasantries must be observed.
"Thank you for the present. It was… Interesting."
"Please, I beg you, curb your enthusiasm. I can't bear it."
Helena grins despite herself. "I'll do my best, but I make no promises."
Cassiopeia nods, satisfied. "And how has your birthday been, thus far?"
"It's been enjoyable," Helena replies. She doesn't mention Neville's present, uninterested in another lecture about the importance of alliances and everything else, though the parcel has been on her mind, "How has your day been?"
"Oh, you know," Aunt Cassiopeia waves a dismissive hand, "Discovering secrets, destroying lives. Nothing particularly noteworthy."
"Business as usual, then."
Helena's fairly certain Aunt Cassiopeia is an Unspeakable with the Department of Mysteries, though she hasn't indicated as much. Rather, she continues to insist that everything she does is in pursuit of her own entertainment, and although Helena is sure that is entirely true, she's not convinced it is the whole truth. No one is about to confirm Helena's suspicions, however, and she's just about resigned herself to the reality that she'll never truly know.
Aunt Cassiopeia smiles placidly. "Indeed."
The other attendees arrive - Great-Grandfather Pollux and Great-Grandmother Irma, Sirius and Emilyn, Aunt Narcissa and her nuisance of a son, Draco - and true to form, Great-Grandmother Irma sets about trying to ruin everyone else's day as soon and as efficiently as possible.
"I don't understand why we couldn't have arranged to have this at Blackthorn Park."
"For the love of Morgana, Irma," Cassiopeia rolls her eyes, "Get over it. No one wants to hear your whining."
As the two sisters (in law) squabble between themselves (mediated by Great-Grandfather Pollux, long-suffering as ever), Emilyn and Sirius peruse the menu, and Aunt Narcissa offers Helena a wrapped gift. Draco follows suit.
Her cousin looks worn, as though he's been experiencing the most difficult holiday of his life. Beyond a general sense of fatigue, it's hard to put her finger on what's different about him, but Helena assumes Voldemort's return isn't all what Draco had imagined it would be, and somehow, someway, he's suffering for it.
Despite herself, Helena wonders about how much - if any - contact her cousin has with Voldemort. The general consensus is that old mate has taken up residence in House Malfoy's ancestral seat, Mornington Hall, but Snape hasn't confirmed either way, and truth be told, Helena hasn't thought about it much.
It's hard to imagine Voldemort as a guest in someone's house, but that way lies madness, and so Helena opts to instead focus her attention on the gifts in front of her.
"Happy Birthday, Helena. I'm sorry we couldn't send you your gifts sooner."
"It's fine, Aunt. Thank you for the presents. You too, Draco. I appreciate the consideration."
Aunt Narcissa smiles. She appears as poised and put together as ever, but there's a tired pinch at the corners of her eyes that speaks of the strain Voldemort's return has put upon her, and Helena realises, belatedly, that the residents of Grimmauld Place aren't the only people reeling from and scrambling in the wake of the Dark Lord's resurrection.
"Are you going to open them" Draco prods, impatient.
Helena acquiesces, not about to deny herself. She's pleased by the perfume Aunt Narcissa gifts her, sweet-scented but subtly so, and produced by a predictably luxurious, expensive label imported from Paris.
Draco, similarly, gifts her with something expensive and tasteful; a woollen, mauve-coloured, double-breasted coat perfect for Winter in the Scottish Highlands. It's accompanied by a knitted scarf, cap, and a set of gloves in a complimentary shade of grey - ostensibly from Lucius - and Helena's sure Aunt Narcissa chose it all. Draco is one of the most fashion-conscious boys (her age) Helena knows, but he doesn't have a clue about women's fashion, never mind what Helena appreciates, personally.
"They're lovely, thank you," Helena exhales, touched, but also secretly, guiltily relieved that there's no sign of another set of gifts like Neville's. She already dreads the thought of the conversation she'll have to have with the Earl of Lockvale. SHe'd rather not compound that discomfort with another such conversation with the Malfoy Heir, as well. "Your taste is excellent, Aunt Narcissa."
"Yes, yes, we all know that," Great-Grandmother Irma interjects to a series of stifled sighs and unabashed, unapologetic eye rolls. Draco and Helena share a commiserating grimace, Sirius opens his mouth to say something caustic, Emilyn elbows him before he can make a sound, and he instead wheezes breathlessly, winded by his wife's effort. As such, Great-Grandmother Irma continues unimpeded, "Could we perhaps order now?"
Aunt Cassiopeia's tone is utterly deadpan. "Someone needs to record this moment for posterity: Irma's actually said something sensible."
And Helena, despite the flare of irritation she never fails to experience in Great-Grandmother Irma's company, despite the knowledge that Irma's just getting started, despite the fact it will be a miracle if there are no arguments had over coffee and scones and teacakes, laughs.
