In a blink, Severus and Hermione's father were wrapped up in a conversation about highly technical medical shite — apparently, healing charms didn't automatically sterilise things, so it wasn't unusual for non-Healers patching themselves up from minor wounds to give themselves infections...though since mages were also more resistant to infectious illnesses, it wasn't often a serious problem. (There were special charms for that Healers used, though, just not the sort of thing non-Healers learned.) And then they were babbling away about surgery in general, which, despite the shock she'd seen from magic-raised kids now and then that muggle doctors cut people up, mages did actually do. Which did make sense: it was very difficult to cast magic on something you can't see. They just did it for fewer conditions, with a shorter recovery window due to healing charms and potions, and also obviously didn't use knives to do it, they had charms for that. Apparently, open-heart surgery was even a thing on the magical side — after all, a Healer could only fix problems with someone's heart if they could physically see it — and had existed for centuries, there were specific spells that had been invented to crack a person's chest open, it was a whole thing.
(Liz mostly didn't pay attention to their conversation, but she did check in for a little bit when she overheard something about charms that cracked people's chests open. Not dangerous, though, it was finicky and slow and dependent on other underlying spells such that it could only be used in a controlled environment, not something someone could just whip out, it was fine.)
Liz and Hermione were poking through the books while the men talked — Severus had politely stopped as soon as Daniel started talking, the two of them now sitting down instead. Some of them were in English, but most were in Cambrian. Hermione was pretty decent with Cambrian — better than Dorea, anyway, it was actually one of Dorea's worst classes — though her pronunciation wasn't perfect, what Liz suspected was a French accent slipping in. (Which was funny, because Hermione didn't speak English with a French accent, didn't know how that happened.) Her reading was just as good as Liz's, though, maybe even slightly better, so it wasn't difficult for the two of them to figure out what most of the Cambrian books were. There was some history and stuff here, but it seemed like the shelf was filled with mostly fiction, split roughly evenly between poetry and novels.
They even had the first few Ciardha Monroe books, though in a Cambrian translation. Liz hadn't realised there was a Cambrian translation...which was stupid, when she thought about it. Obviously there would be, since such a large fraction of British mages spoke it as their native language. (It might even be a more common first language than English, but she didn't know for sure, the mages' census was widely acknowledged to be terrible.) And, when she thought about it longer, the English ones might even be a translation in the first place — the Monroes were a mostly Gaelic-speaking family, Ciardha Monroe might have written it with a Cambrian-speaking audience in mind, it was very possible the books had originally been written in one of those two instead of English.
...And now she was wondering if there was anything lost in translation, the books were very technical and complicated...
Anyway, Hermione was mostly focused on the poetry — she was surprised that the mages seemed to have a tradition of epic poetry she knew virtually nothing about. Liz knew very little about epic poetry...or poetry in general, honestly. Other than that it was supposed to rhyme? Hermione was slightly horrified when Liz admitted that, and went on a long ramble about everything from classics from bloody Ancient Greece all the way up to some English bloke named Milton. Liz came out of the conversation with several recommendations of things to read, which, that was fine, she'd almost finished all the Ciardha Monroe books anyway. (She'd started nearly a year ago now, but there'd been a few delays where she hadn't been able to get the next one right away, and there really were an absurd number of them.) There were even specific translations of the old ones that Hermione said were best, she should really send Liz a letter with a list, there was no way she was going to remember all of this...
Eventually, the Walkers turned up — or, just Dorea and Richard, actually, Gail had put the boys down for a nap before dinner. Not long after Richard joined them the men were mostly talking about music instead, and Dorea was hilariously intimidated by the idea of trying to read poetry in Cambrian. There was a slow trickle of other parents and kids after that — more parents than kids, actually, Liz had the feeling at least partially to talk to one of their kids' teachers (though she didn't really get why they cared) — enough people coming in that it started to get a little bit crowded in here. Maybe they should move out into the courtyard, that might be better...
Before it started bothering Liz enough it was worth saying anything about it — though both Hermione and Tracey were giving her little glances, had probably noticed she was getting uncomfortable — there was a clangoring from out in the courtyard, like the ringing of several bells overlapping each other. Sophie — not Hufflepuff Sophie, who was also here whispering and giggling with Sally-Anne, but Tracey's mum Sophie — raised her voice to say the bells were to call them out into the courtyard, it must be time for dinner. (Tracey and her mum had spent a lot of time at the Greenwood before.) Liz was a little surprised, she hadn't realised it was that late already. Though she guessed she should have, a glance toward the courtyard showed the sun had set at some point while they were in here, whoops...
Their guide was Heli Babbling again, this time with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the evening chill — it didn't actually cover much more than her weird wrap dress thing, though, Liz assumed it was enchanted. After gathering everyone together and doing a headcount — they were delayed for a bit, waiting for younger siblings to be woken up and prepared to leave — they set out back through the archway.
It wasn't quite properly dark out yet, the sun below the horizon but night not yet having fully fallen, and there were enough lights in the town to see without too much trouble. They were definitely magic lights, though, steel-and-glass lamps Liz hadn't noticed on the way in, tinted such to give the light a cool reddish tone, bright enough to follow the road and spot the buildings here and there but still allowing shadows to gather. There were rather fewer people about now, presumably having gathered wherever they went for meals, the evening quiet but for the murmur of distant voices, the occasional bark of a dog, the faint crackle of wood fires.
Down the street back the way they'd come (Liz thought?), a turn onto a side street, and a brief walk further brought them to one of the more peculiar buildings Liz had ever seen. It was circular, and unenclosed, stone pillars carved in imitation of slender trees placed every few metres with no wall between them whatsoever — though there were curtains, intricate zigzagging patterns woven along the edges and in the middle images and scenes that Liz assumed would be meaningful to people who knew more about the Greengrasses and Mistwalkers in general. (That it was all historical or religious stuff seemed like a reasonable guess.) The curtains were heavy enough that Liz couldn't see beyond them, save for narrow glimpses when the light breeze sent them wavering.
Climbing up a few steps and walking through the curtains inside, Liz found the building wasn't a circle, it was a ring: there was a second line of pillars on the inside, a circle of ceiling in the middle cut out over a large fire. Liz hadn't been able to hear it before, there must be privacy spells embroidered into the curtains, but she definitely could now, that constant low hiss of flames broken with the occasional sharp crack, loud in proportion to its size. There weren't curtains between the inside circle of pillars, but there were panels of stained glass stretching a couple feet down from the ceiling, the fire painting colourful blotches of light on the polished wood overhead, wavering as the flames shifted. The floor was all glass tile, a long mosaic running all the way around (Liz assumed) in a twisting, meandering pattern, every ten paces or so depicting an old-fashioned wooden wheel in the middle of the floor, flowers and stalks of wheat woven between the spokes — a Greengrass thing, Liz knew.
"Come in, everyone, come in," called a tall blonde woman, waving them on through the curtains with both hands — Liz didn't recognise her at first, took a few seconds to realise it was Ailbhe. Liz had only met her once, and she did not look the same. In Diagon Alley, she could have passed for an ordinary mage, if a slightly eccentric one — her summer robes had been too plain for a Lady of the Wizengamot out in public, and most would have worn a hat — but now she could pass for one of the locals (appropriately so, she was one), in one of their weird wrap dress things, piercings in her face and beads in her hair. The biggest difference from the rest of the locals was this odd colourful cloak/cape thing, worn skewed over one shoulder, hung from a half-ring of silver hooked over her opposite shoulder, the intricately-engraven surface glittering in the firelight — Liz assumed that meant something, maybe something their leader was supposed to wear?
Honestly, she looked different enough that if Liz wasn't able to feel her mind, she probably wouldn't have recognised her at all.
"Welcome, everyone!" she called once they were all through. "My name is Ailbhe, Lady of the Noble House of Greengrass and Guardian-at-Arms over the Greenwood. I apologise I couldn't welcome you to our home myself, I'm afraid state business called me away for much of the day. Go ahead and pick a seat at any of the tables you wish. You are free to move around throughout the meal as you like — an old custom we've held on to here, I hope you'll find it tolerable. I'm certain I'll have more than enough time to speak to each of you before the evening is through. So come," waving them on again, "eat!"
There wasn't just one big table for everyone to sit at, instead maybe a dozen scattered about — which seemed like a lot, but there were a lot of people here. Most of their group seemed a bit uncertain of where to go — Liz got the feeling they'd expected a single big table, she caught an explicit thought from one of the mages that they'd expected assigned seats, which was slightly ridiculous — so she was one of the first to start moving, aiming for one of the tables at the edge near the fire. Though Severus wasn't far behind her, and they were quickly followed by the Grangers and Tracey and her mum, kicking the rest of the group into movement.
It was a bit of a mess, people wandering all over the place, and noisy as they talked about where to go and who wanted to sit with who, but luckily Liz had gotten out ahead of the centre of the chaos, she was able to mostly ignore it. Approaching the table she'd picked out, she frowned a little, looking over the dishes already laid out — she didn't recognise any of them. Well, that wasn't entirely true, obviously bread just looked like bread, and she knew what the major ingredients were in some of them, at least, but nothing looked entirely familiar. Even the bread had bits of shite in it, and... Well, Liz could be picky sometimes, if she didn't know what something was it was much harder to guess whether she'd be able to stomach it. This might be a problem...
Liz picked a spot angled so she was facing most of the rest of the tables, the fire just to her right (fire was pretty), continued looking over the food set out while everyone else settled in. Now that she was looking closely, she didn't see any meat at all, though there was cheese here and there — which wasn't really a surprise, she recalled the Greengrasses were vegetarians. (She assumed for religious reasons, but she'd never asked.) There was a hesitation before the Grangers and Severus — and also the Walkers and Susan and Hannah and her mum, who'd all ended up at their table — started serving themselves, since it was pretty obvious they weren't waiting for anything, but Liz kept looking over the table, her fingers idly tapping at her fork.
Severus, being not an idiot, realised what her problem was pretty much right away. "I can spoon off small tastes for you to try, if you like."
He didn't need to do it for her, but, "Yeah, we're probably going to have to do that. I don't know what—" She felt Daphne coming around the table, cut herself off, turned to—
She froze, staring — Daphne hadn't come with them to the guest hall, and apparently she'd changed at some point in that time. She was in one of those odd local wrap dresses, beads dyed in deep, vivid shades adding a bit of colour to her sunny blonde hair, glittering like rainbow stars in the firelight. Okay, Liz still thought the local style was a little weird, but holy crap she was pretty...
There was a flicker of surprise from Severus, Liz realised he'd probably caught some of that and correctly interpreted what it meant — shite, she hadn't wanted Severus to know she was pretty sure she was bent, didn't know how to... — but she didn't have time to worry about that, before she could hardly process the thought Daphne had already gotten all the way here. "Hello, everyone," she said, smiling around the table. "Excuse me, Hermione, can I have this chair? I was going to help Liz find things she can eat." Oh good, someone had thought of that...
Hermione twitched, glancing at Liz almost guiltily. "Oh! Oh, yes, of course. One second—" She abruptly switched to French as she turned to her father, Liz didn't understand a word of it, though she knew because of cheater mind mage reasons that she was asking if they could all scoot over one spot. They did manage it, eventually, though Richard had to plonk the elder of Dorea's baby brothers into his lap — the younger had already been in Gail's — but they didn't seem to mind, it was fine.
Daphne swished down into the opened seat, jingling a little from all the beads. "Okay, Liz, I know it's sweet things you don't like, but was there anything else to keep in mind?"
"Um, there are some vegetables that are bad, but no, it's mostly sweet things."
"Right. A lot of the main dishes will be sweetened with berries, but there are some things here that should be fine..."
It turned out to be not that much of a problem. There was a creamy mushroom soup that was good — very flavourful and intensely herby, definitely thyme and oregano, but there was more to it, hmm... — some flatbread stuff she got to go with that — there were seeds and little clumps of spices in it, which was weird, but it wasn't bad, actually went with the soup pretty well. Most of the bread had berries in it, so she shouldn't bother, though Daphne thought that rye bread right there might be good, if she wanted to try something else. Come to think of it, "Doesn't bread usually have egg in it? Do you eat eggs?" She didn't eat meat, so...
Daphne grimaced a little, something shifting unpleasantly in her head. "Not normally, no — so long as they aren't fertilised, eggs are technically acceptable, but I prefer not to. It is possible to make bread with substitutes — none of the bread here have eggs in them — but when taking meals elsewhere it often can't be helped. The bread at Hogwarts almost certainly have eggs in them, but there are no other options."
There was the option of just not having any bread, but fine. Good to know, Liz guessed. And she was now very certain it was a religious thing, not eating meat, but it didn't seem worth it to ask just now.
Anyway, there were a few other things she found that were edible — a kind of baked beans and vegetables thing; something that had various greens in some kind of mushroom gravy stuff, which was really good, actually — so she found more than enough to eat, it was fine. Drinks were more of a problem, as they were mostly juice from various fruits, cider (apple and pear), and wine (mostly cherry, but also a few different berries, with little actual grape, which was funny, Liz had thought it was only called wine if it was made from grapes). There was also tea, but no coffee, they couldn't grow that here. Liz asked if they did grow tea, but the drinks Daphne had first called "tea" were actually herbal things, so no. (It belatedly occurred to her that everything on the table had been grown here at the Greenwood, which was kind of neat to think about.) It wasn't at the table, not something they usually drank, but Daphne could go get her milk if she wanted, but drinking milk straight actually made Liz a little nauseous — no, she wasn't sensitive to dairy in general, she had no idea why that happened.
"I'm fine with just water, you know." She mostly only drank water and coffee, really...
Daphne let out a low hum, frowning a little. "I suppose, but I wouldn't want— Oh! I have an idea, I'll be right back." Before Liz could protest she was fine, really, Daphne was on her feet, waltzing away. Liz noticed there was a gap in the folds of her not-dress thing over her lower back, the shadows such that Liz could just barely make out the curves of her spine...and a few glints of metal, the same line of piercings Liz had seen so many of the locals had — woah, had those always been there? Liz had had no idea...and now she couldn't help wondering what other piercings Daphne might have...
Liz eventually caught herself staring, but only because Severus caught her staring, Liz could feel his attention on her. She wrenched her eyes back to her bowl of soup, her stomach squirming and her face beginning to burn, ugh, dammit. Severus watched her for a moment, Liz trying not to shrink into her chair, but he turned away at something Hannah's mum said, once again not saying anything about, well.
Even after the his thoughts had clearly moved on to something else, Liz still felt inexplicably nervous. She didn't know why it was happening, or how to make it stop, it was very annoying.
Luckily (for a certain definition of the word), Daphne returned swiftly, carrying a wine bottle — the shape of one, that is, Liz seriously doubted there was wine in it. She plucked up the empty glass at Liz's place, poured out a tiny bit of whatever that was in there. "Here, try this."
Liz honestly didn't care to, she was fine with water, but whatever. The stuff was a dark bronze-ish sort of colour almost glowing a lighter honey brown when in front of the fire. Tentatively, Liz took a sip of it, and— "Hey, that's pretty good, actually." It was a sort of sharp, astringent, and... Well, Liz couldn't possibly guess what it was made of. It was really flavourful too, but she couldn't exactly say which flavours. There were probably herbs and spices in it, but in such a mix it was hard to pick out which, and she couldn't begin to guess what the base was. There was a bit of sweetness to it, but not too much, and the back of her throat was burning just a little, so it must be alcoholic, but... "What is it?"
"Ah, I can't remember if there's a specific word for it in English. Spiced mead." Taking the glass back from her, Daphne started to fill it properly this time.
"...Isn't mead made from honey?" Did they keep bees here too? "That isn't really very sweet at all."
"It is, but most of the sugars are fermented." Daphne set the bottle and the glass back down, sank back into the chair next to Liz. "You should take it slowly, it is quite strong — similar to a strong wine, I think."
And getting drunk for the first time at a dinner party with all her friends' parents would be terribly embarrassing, obviously. "Right, thanks."
"It was no trouble at all, Liz, I'm glad I could find something you like. I'll remember."
...Liz had the feeling Daphne was going to start sending Liz spiced mead in addition to the occasional dark chocolate. (Which they could do, there wasn't a minimum drinking age in magical Britain.) Not that Liz was complaining, this stuff was pretty good...
Dinner ended up being fine, for the most part. Liz retrospectively thanked herself for finding a spot at the edge of the tables — after eating for a while, people started moving around, first only a few people in fits and starts but then more and more, just occasionally shuffling from table to table to talk to different people. Dinner was cleared from the tables eventually, replaced with finger-food for people to pick at if they felt like it — by servers, because they didn't have elves (mostly human, but Liz spotted at least one nymph) — and over the course of the evening Liz's sense of some of the minds around her grew fuzzier and more...brightly colourful, she supposed (thought it wasn't colour, exactly), more laughter, a small handful of them getting downright silly. That would be the alcohol, she guessed.
Liz didn't move from her spot, preferred not to have people moving around behind and around her — she didn't need to see them to know where they were, but still, better to not be surrounded — but pretty much everyone else did, a rotation of girls in her year dropping by and leaving and then appearing again, seemingly at random. A fair number of adults kept showing up too, mostly to talk to Severus, because he stayed at this table as well. He did move partway around, so people could sit around each of them more comfortably — in a way that didn't call attention to what he was doing, going to another table to get a different bottle of wine and then sitting back down in a different chair, because Severus was weird about things like that sometimes.
(He was so damn awkward all the time, she had no idea how other people didn't notice how huge of a bloody nerd he was.)
Most of the conversations going on around her weren't particularly interesting — Liz had never been much for conversation in the first place. A few of her friends popping by now and then to talk about how neat the Greenwood was so far and some of what they knew about the Mistwalkers and randomly about something to do with the theory involved in some of their holiday homework was about the way she liked it. There were two with people's parents that stuck out, though.
It was in something of a lull at Liz's table. Hermione was here, though she'd moved around a couple times already, now on Liz's left side, mostly listening to Severus talk to a couple parents — Liz wasn't sure which, there were just too many to keep straight — a partially-filled wine glass she'd been slowly sipping at for a while now catching the light in one hand. (Hermione had far more experience with wine than Liz did, having been given little bits of it at dinners with her French relatives for years already, was far less likely than Liz was to accidentally have too much and make an idiot of herself.) Unexpectedly, Millie Bulstrode was sitting on Liz's other side. This was probably the longest amount of time they'd spent in such close proximity to each other, ever, though they'd hardly said a word, quietly listening to conversation going on around them — Millie was even quieter than Liz most of the time, looming over Pansy's shoulder like an impassive ginger shadow.
Liz kept cutting her glances now and then, curious. Millie had clearly cleaned up for their visit to the Greengrasses, if only a little bit. She was usually somewhat sloppy-looking, school robes often slightly dishevelled and red-orange hair scattered — out of apathy, Liz assumed — though now she was wearing somewhat nicer robes (if not quite proper formal wear), the material glinted a little in the firelight (meaning it was probably some kind of silk), her hair properly brushed and wrangled into a plait. It was still odd that she was here. Liz knew very little about Millie — they were technically distant relatives, Liz's great-grandmother had been a Bulstrode (which she only knew because she was also Dorea's great-great-grandmother, she'd mentioned that at some point), she'd been friends with Pansy since they were little, and that was really it. Oh, also, the Bulstrodes were part of the Allied Dark, the pro-Death-Eater people. Granted, that didn't necessarily mean anything, since the Davises were too and obviously Tracey thought all the racist idiots were full of shite, but...
The point is, so far as Liz knew Millie and Daphne had hardly ever spoken at all, definitely not enough for Liz to expect Daphne to invite her over for the holidays. It was very, very weird. And, well, they were off to the side of the crowd, with few people around, Liz might as well ask. "Hey, Millie, I've been wondering."
Millie's eyes turned to her, something in her head feeling almost...wary? What was that for? "What about?"
Liz belatedly realised Millie was worried Liz was going to bring up first year — Millie had been one of the people participating in the bullying against her, for which Liz had put a snake in her bed. Honestly, she'd completely forgotten about that, it was so long ago now. For a moment she wavered, but she had no idea what to say about that, so in the end she simply didn't say anything. "What are you doing here? I mean, I didn't think you and Daphne were friends, I can't imagine why she invited you."
That had been a rather blunt question, Liz realised, but Millie didn't seem offended. She glanced off into the crowd, toward where Daphne was sitting with Tracey and a couple of the muggleborns. "It's a message, I think."
Liz waited for a few seconds, waiting for Millie to go on, when she didn't, asked, "What kind of message?"
Millie didn't answer for a brief moment, but Liz could feel thoughts percolating in her head — trying to decide whether or not she wanted to be that honest with her, Liz guessed. "I think she wants me to know that, if Pansy and I never do manage to make up, that I will be welcome elsewhere."
...That was probably the single longest sentence Liz had ever heard Millie say.
Setting her glass down, Hermione leaned around Liz a little, so she could more directly look Millie in the eye. (She could have just looked over Liz's head, but that was maybe a little awkward.) "You know, I have been wondering about that. You and Pansy, I mean. I'm sorry, I know this isn't any of my business, but if you're willing to talk about it..."
Turning half away, Millie let out a light sigh. Not looking at them, her eyes pointed somewhere up on the ceiling, she said, "We had a fight about Missus Norris, months ago now."
Okay, that really wasn't much of an answer. "What about her?"
"Pansy thinks subhumans shouldn't be allowed anywhere near Hogwarts."
Colour Liz entirely unsurprised. She was a little surprised by the disdain Millie put on the word, though, because, "Isn't that a common opinion in the Allied Dark?" They were the crazy racists of the Dark, after all.
Millie gave Liz a look, the smouldering in her head more identifiable than the expression — exasperation? "My grandfather is wilderfolk."
...Oh. Um.
Hermione seemed to have no better idea than her what the hell to say about that, their side of the table falling into a tense, awkward silence. But yeah, Liz could see how being quarter subhuman could make a friendship with a crazy racist difficult. As the silence stretched on, Millie grew more visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. "Do I need to leave?"
That was out of nowhere, Liz had no idea what she meant, but Hermione figured it out much quicker. "Oh, no, it's not— It's not like that, we're just surprised, is all." Ah, worried they were having racist thoughts, okay. Hermione was just going ahead and speaking for the both of them, but that was fine, Hermione knew Liz well enough to know she didn't give a damn what species Millie's grandfather was, and honestly had trouble imaging why anyone would. "I had no idea! I mean... Is that common? I know there's little consensus on just how many wilderfolk there are out there, but..."
Still looking almost painfully uncomfortable, Millie shrugged. "I can't say. It happens more in the commons, maybe. My family is not like other noble families."
"...How so?"
Millie sighed again. "There are a large number of wilderfolk living on our lands. Red deer and swans, mostly. My grandfather is a deer." Sometimes the magical world was wild — it was kind of surreal to hear the phrase my grandfather is a deer and have it actually make sense.
"And how did that happen? I can't imagine the rest of the nobility would, well." Hermione meant to say that mages tended to be stupidly racist, and they would probably flip the fuck out if one of their people got it in their heads to marry a bloody deer.
"When she was a couple years older than we are now, my grandmother was incautious one day."
Liz couldn't help it, she laughed. Millie glared at her, it took a couple seconds for Liz to get enough control of herself to talk. "I'm sorry, just, incautious, that was funny."
Millie kept glaring at her for a few seconds, but then her lips started to twitch, reluctantly pulling into a tiny little smile — probably realising Liz hadn't been making fun of her or anything, that was just a funny way to say it. Had Liz ever seen Millie smile before? Honestly didn't think so...
As impolite as Liz laughing like that probably was, it maybe helped to loosen some of the tension going on. From there, the conversation was much more relaxed, talking about the Bulstrodes and her grandfather and wilderfolk and stuff. Supposedly, the Bulstrodes were well-known in certain circles for being close to a couple different old tribes of wilderfolk — and Pansy had even been aware of that, and had been told about Millie's grandparents, but apparently hadn't considered it relevant, since clearly Millie was a proper witch. (The way these people shifted their standards to suit their priorities in the moment never ceased to confuse Liz.) There'd even been a few famous cases in history where Bulstrodes ended up in life-long relationships with wilderfolk — mostly swans, deer didn't tend to mate for life the same way — there'd been a lot of art and stuff about that kind of thing in certain segments of magical society once upon a time. It wasn't so common now, especially among the nobility, they'd gotten weird about it since the Statute, but it was too big of a part of the Bulstrodes' history and their own internal culture to let go of it.
After all, it was hard to turn someone against the evil, degenerate subhumans when they had one for a grandfather. And Millie did know her grandfather — he was still around (wilderfolk had a human-typical lifespan), and while he did spend most of his time off in the woods with his wilderfolk relatives he did come up to the house to hang around now and then. He could be a bit odd — absent-minded, and a lot of even basic human social things went right over his head — but she liked him just fine, one of her favourite relatives.
So, yeah, seemed pretty likely that, if Pansy couldn't get her head out of her arse over the wilderfolk thing, Millie was going to be moving over to their faction in Slytherin instead. Which, fine, Liz didn't care, it wasn't like she had anything strongly against Millie, she just hadn't known what was going on there. That was all she'd needed to know.
Well, not all, she hadn't quite figured out how to word what she wanted to ask when Millie's father — just as red-headed as Millie, but somehow even taller, which was honestly a little ridiculous — came swaggering over. "Do I hear you girls talking about my father over here?" He plopped down into the chair next to Millie, took a sip of his drink before continuing. "Not anything I need to worry about, I hope."
"No, no, nothing like that," Hermione assured him, "we were just curious."
He didn't seem entirely satisfied with that, frowning just a little — knowing what the pureblood kids at school were like, Liz was willing to bet he'd gotten a lot of shite over his wilderfolk father when he was their age. Millie said, "They asked about Pansy."
Mr Bulstrode scowled. "Ah yes, that. I should hex that stupid girl's mother — I don't know what Devin is thinking, standing back and letting his wife fill their children's heads with that trash."
"Dad..."
"I know, love, I'm only saying, I know Devin knows better. It may be further back, but he's fully aware he has wilderfolk ancestors himself."
Shock ringing in her head, Hermione said, "Really? Pansy Parkinson is descended from wilderfolk."
"Oh sure," Mr Bulstrode said, with a casual little shrug, as though this were of no consequence whatsoever. "I'm certain most mages are, if you go back far enough — the different peoples native to these isles of ours once had much closer ties, before we became too contaminated with Roman sensibilities. But we needn't plumb the depths of history, our two families have intermarried multiple times, and I know for a fact there was a marriage between Lord Caradog Parkinson and a wilderfolk woman back in Fifteen... I can't recall the precise date. Regardless. That wouldn't even be legal today, of course, bloody Ministry..."
"Oh!" Everyone turned to stare at her, Liz shrugged. "It just occurred to me, I must be too. My great-grandmother was a Bulstrode, I'm told."
Mr Bulstrode's head tilted a little, eyes narrowed in a thoughtful frown. "That would be Great-Aunt Violetta, yes? If I recall correctly, she married into the Blacks not so long ago, and Cousin Dorea, her daughter, married Lord Charlus Potter. Your grandparents?" Liz nodded. "Then, yes, you certainly are — Violetta's parents are my great- aunt and uncle Diana and Florence, and Diana's a swan. So, your great-great-grandmother is wilderfolk, yes."
...Huh. Neat.
"She still lives, you know. Florence passed some time ago now, but Diana is still with us — though she is getting quite elderly now. Should you decide you wish to meet her."
Well, Liz didn't know about that, it was just an interesting random fact to know. She would have absolutely no idea how she was supposed to talk to a great-great-grandmother she'd never met, especially one who happened to be a bloody swan.
Thankfully, Hermione rescued her from having to come up with a response by saying, "I'm surprised the Blacks were okay with someone whose mother was wilderfolk marrying in. Weren't they really obsessive about that sort of thing?"
Mr Bulstrode scowled again. "In those last couple generations, yes, they were. Cygnus Black was such a raging bastard, I hope Bellatrix made it hurt when she finally offed him."
"Dad," Millie hissed — because casually talking about being happy a Death Eater murdered someone wasn't the sort of thing you were supposed to do in public. (Assuming "Bellatrix" meant Bellatrix Lestrange, but Liz was pretty sure it did.) He just shrugged, unapologetic.
"I was wondering about that, actually," Liz said, since this seemed like as good a time to bring it up as any. "Aren't the Bulstrodes in the Allied Dark?"
He seemed a little confused by the question. "Yes?"
"So...you supported the Dark Lord?" Next to Liz, Hermione tensed a little. Apparently that hadn't occurred to her — which was fair, Hermione had little reason to give a damn about the mages' ridiculous politics and everything, but being a Lady of the Wizengamot and everything Liz was expected to. Not to say she knew much, of course, but Dorea and Daphne did tell her things occasionally.
Mr Bulstrode's eyebrows twitched up a little. Setting his mug down (cider, probably), he rolled his left sleeve down to his elbow, turned his wrist to show them his bare left forearm — if he'd been a Death Eater, there would be a Dark Mark there.
(Liz knew Severus had one, though it was never visible. The only time she'd ever seen him without long sleeves had been for the ritual to heal her back — she hadn't noticed at the time, but she had seen it going over the memory in the pensieve later.)
"My family supports the movement politically," he admitted, rolling his sleeve back down again, "but I never joined up myself, if that's what you're asking."
Millie had hunched down in her seat — which was silly, she was so damn tall it made little difference — grimacing a little. "Dad."
"She asked, love. What did you expect me to do, lie? It's public record." He shrugged again.
Well, at least he was far more honest about it than the Malfoys...but then, if he'd never joined up, Liz guessed he probably didn't have anything to hide. It wasn't as though agreeing with someone's politics was illegal or anything.
Hermione was taking the shock far harder than Liz was, her mind practically ringing with it. "But you have wilderfolk family."
"I do. And?"
"And," Hermione said, slowly, "you're exactly the kind of people the Dark Lord wanted to get rid of."
Mr Bulstrode snorted. "No, we aren't. Who told you that?"
"Only everyone! The kids from Death Eater families are always going off about halfbreeds and subhumans and whatever else — they're even nastier about them than they are muggleborns!"
"Yeah, there are a few human-supremacist pricks who managed to weasel their way in, but they're wrong."
For a few seconds, Hermione just stared across the table at Mr Bulstrode, all but simmering in frustration, Millie on Liz's other side seemingly trying to sink into her chair out of embarrassment (which again, too tall). "They're wrong."
"Yes," he said, flat and matter-of-fact. "The Dark Lord never once spoke disparagingly of other magical beings, and fully intended to welcome them into the world he meant to build. A fair number of werewolves and vampires were with the movement, and we got tacit support from the goblins as well — further restrictions on the rights of non-human beings passed in the years since the end of the war, enforced gleefully by certain factions in the Ministry, are, in fact, retaliation by the Light.
"You say some of the children of the Allied Dark are being little shites about this sort of thing, but are the children of the Light any better, about wilderfolk, werewolves, nymphs?"
"No, they're worse." Hermione shot her a glare, Liz gave her a helpless shrug. "Well, they are. Especially on werewolves — do you have any idea how many times I've heard Light kids say we could eliminate lycanthropy forever if we just rounded up and killed them all?" She didn't normally hear them, they had enough shame to not say that out loud (most of them), but Hermione would know what she meant.
And Hermione knew she was being one hundred per cent serious, her head lurching uncomfortably, almost making Liz a little nauseous. She'd already known the Light wasn't great, but she hadn't realised they were that bad. They tended to moderate themselves somewhat talking to muggleborns, since they poor ignorant muggle-raised people couldn't possibly understand the realities of their world, that sort of nonsense.
Mr Bulstrode gave Liz another odd, thoughtful look — if she had to guess, he'd expected her to be a crazy racist, and was intrigued that she apparently wasn't. (Though she wasn't guessing, but she wasn't reading his mind either, probably another Seer thing.) "Even so. Certain families in our faction were once of Ars Brittania, who definitely are human-supremacists. Unfortunately, due to intermarriages and the influence of certain individuals, those kinds of attitudes are now far too common in the Allied Dark — human-supremacist views may be common in the movement now, but they were never espoused by the Dark Lord himself."
"Dad..."
"I mean, honestly, the man modified his own body so thoroughly he was hardly even recognisable as human anymore, why should you possibly expect him to believe such nonsense?"
That was a...weirdly good point, actually...
Hissing a little, trying not to clench her teeth, Hermione said, "So, it's nonsense to discriminate against non-human beings, but if it's muggleborns, that's fine?"
Mr. Bulstrode's eyebrows stretched up, probably at the unexpected venom on Hermione's voice. Idly pointing at her with a little rolled up pastry of some kind, he turned to Millie to ask, "Hermione Granger?" Got it in one, Millie must have told him about her.
Her face burning red, Millie nodded, slow and miserable — she clearly wasn't enjoying this conversation.
"Ah. Well, I suppose you could say I'm old-fashioned on this issue."
"And just what is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm of the opinion that muggleborns should be removed from the muggle world the moment they're identified to be adopted by a willing magical family, and raised as part of our community from the off."
Hermione's mind went blank, and she gaped at the man for a long moment, completely speechless.
"The problem muggleborns present is a difficult one," he continued, when it became clear she wasn't coming up with a response immediately, "and one we have created with the enforcement of Secrecy. Now, whether going into Secrecy was the right move or not is not one I mean to discuss just now — it is a large, complicated issue, we'd be here all night. But mages are going to continue to be born to muggles, no matter what we do, and something must be done about that.
"The current convention of introducing muggleborns to our world when the time comes for them to enter school, at whatever age that is in the region, was a compromise made nearly two centuries ago now — in the way of many such things, everybody hated it immediately. It is an obvious weak point in Secrecy, a vulnerability. Not only are their immediate family made aware of our world — and even if we wished to do so, we simply don't have the resources to police what they may tell of us to others not legally permitted to know — but the years before their introduction present the danger of accidental magic. Small incidents can be covered up, with care, or may even go unnoticed by all but their families, but the more public they are the more difficult it becomes — and with modern muggle information technology, mm.
"Not to mention, Miss Granger, do you have any idea how many muggleborn children are terribly mistreated by fearful parents, and must be removed for their own safety?"
Hermione twitched, her racing mind lurching around to answer the question. "Ah... I know most of the other muggleborns in our year rather well, and while I've never come out and asked — that would be terribly rude, after all — none of them have ever said anything..."
"And so they wouldn't have. Hogwarts is obligated by treaty to accept all students whose families who, due to ignorance of our world, cannot arrange for their education. These muggleborns removed from abusive families and placed with mages would, then, be considered magically-raised children — the vast majority of them are schooled elsewhere."
"And so your preferred policy would entirely empty Hogwarts of muggleborns. Convenient." Hermione clearly remembered some of the shite the worse purebloods said last year.
Mr Bulstrode rolled his eyes. "Oh, honestly, Miss Granger, not everyone goes to Hogwarts. I didn't go to Hogwarts, most Bulstrodes don't — Millie's admittance was arranged by my ex-wife's family. It's an extremely selective school, one must have wealth or else connections to people of influence to secure a place for one's child. Unless you're a muggle. Tell me, Miss Granger, do you think it's fair to the poor of this country that muggleborns are by default guaranteed admittance to what is widely-considered to be our most prestigious educational institution, whether rightly or not — and not only guaranteed admittance, but to have their tuition payed for through—"
"Hogwarts doesn't charge tuition," Hermione said, though with an obvious note of doubt.
"Yes, it does — by the terms of the same treaty that obligates Hogwarts to accept all muggleborns, their tuition is covered by the Ministry. Funded through taxes, which residents of this country — but not the muggle parents of mages — are obligated to pay. So poor mages, who could never dream that they or their children or their children's children would ever step foot within Hogwarts, are subsidising the education of muggleborn children at that same institution. Does that seem fair to you?"
Hermione glowered, her mind sparking with irritation, but didn't respond. Because, of course, no, it did not seem fair. She could be naïve in that way, sometimes, expecting the world to be fair and getting angry when it wasn't, which was very silly, Liz had no idea where she got that idea. Though this seemed less angry and more, just, uncomfortable, Liz didn't know what that was about.
"There are some vile sons of bitches — metaphorically, of course—" Liz snorted, pretty sure that was a wilderfolk joke... "—who do believe muggleborns should be killed rather than accepted among us, yes. Personally, I am of the opinion that magic is a wondrous, precious thing that should be preserved wherever it is found — and with how insular our society is, well, bringing in fresh blood isn't hurting anyone." And that was an inbreeding joke, this bloke... "The murder of children, be they mage or muggle, is a horrid thing, that should never be countenanced in a civilised society. If you mean to suggest that something should be done about the true monsters who revealed themselves during the war, I would fully agree with you there — and I believe the gods will ensure they see retribution for their crimes, in due time.
"Those people exist, yes, but their views are not nearly so widespread as I think you believe. There's a faction in the movement, these days led by Lady Narcissa, who believe as I do. And there are factions in the movement, of course, no collection of people this size is a monolith. I cannot say which faction is the more powerful with much certainty, but given Lady Narcissa's influence, well, you do the maths. I don't expect you to entirely revise your opinions of us, of course not — both of you, you have reasons to be sceptical of us, perfectly reasonable ones. But we are not all the monsters propaganda disseminated in the wake of the war would make us out to be.
"But that's quite enough of that. I only came over here out of concern you were giving Millie a hard time over my father. I think I've humiliated the poor girl more than enough for the night, I should leave you to it." Mr Bulstrode popped up to his feet, leaned close over the top of Millie's head — he whispered something, Liz wasn't close enough to hear. Millie nodded, and he dropped a light kiss on the top of her head before straightening again. "Lady El— Oh, excuse me, Liz, almost forget. And Miss Granger." He waltzed off without another word, going to find a less uncomfortable conversation to join in on.
"Sorry about that," Millie muttered — avoiding Liz and Hermione's eyes, her face still burning red. "My father can be...blunt."
Liz guessed that was a word for it.
The other more interesting conversation was also something Liz had been wondering about for a while, and was rather less terribly uncomfortable. (Though, that talk with the Bulstrodes hadn't bothered her, having Hermione and Millie on either side feeling shite at her just hadn't made it very pleasant.) It was getting pretty late in the evening, enough Liz was getting a bit tired, contemplating bed — and she wasn't the only one, there were rather fewer people here now than at the start, having gradually trickled away over the last couple hours, a couple kids conked out at tables, heads pillowed on folded arms.
Liz and Severus's table had ended up being one of the most densely occupied, for some reason. Dorea and Gail were here (Richard had gone back with the boys already), Daphne and Susan and Sally-Anne and several parents, mostly muggles, talking with Severus and Ailbhe. An adjacent table was nearly as full — Víðir with Astoria (half-asleep leaning against him) and Mrs Monroe and a bunch of parents, mostly of Astoria's friends, talking about academic enchanting stuff — but theirs was packed enough there weren't any open seats, Heli was standing leaning against the back of Ailbhe's chair instead.
They were talking about some magical society stuff, Liz wasn't paying that much attention — she was trying to listen more to the conversation going on at the other table, since that was at least marginally more interesting. But she was having trouble following it, tired, and feeling all warm and tingly and slightly light-headed. She'd had only two glasses of mead, spread out over the entire evening, but apparently that was enough for her to get a little tipsy, and apparently that made her mind magic more unfocused than usual (and she wasn't great with this stuff to begin with), it was hard to focus on what they were talking about over there past all the minds around her. And she was getting tired, maybe bed was a good idea.
If she hadn't been so unfocused and distractible, she might not have noticed. Since she was looking at the other table, she saw Heli move just a little in her peripheral vision, her eyes moving that way automatically. It was very subtle, she hadn't moved that much, she was trying not to be blatant about it — but Liz was ninety per cent certain that Heli, her head dipping just a little, was smelling Daphne's mum's hair.
...Huh.
Liz watched them for a moment, frowning, little tendrils of thought hovering at the edges of their minds — not intruding, they probably knew occlumency, Liz would be noticed, just getting closer to more easily pick up shite. That was a weird thing to do be doing, right? Kind of creepy, except... Well, Liz didn't really know what Heli was doing here, and it was obvious she was close to the Greengrasses, the Greengrass sisters had known her forever, and adding in the hair-smelling on top was—
"Oh, you two are shagging!"
Liz felt eyes turn toward her, surprise and confusion sparking in the minds around the table, the conversation abruptly going silent. And she realised she'd said that out loud. Oops?
"Um, sorry, I didn't mean to blurt that out." She was blaming the mead. "But, er, I am right, aren't I? Ailbhe and Heli, you two," she clarified, pointing at them.
"Oh honestly, Liz," Dorea said, sighing, "I think you've had too much mead. Obviously they're not — I apologise, Lady Ailbhe." Liz didn't know why Dorea felt the need to apologise for her, and obviously she knew she shouldn't blurt out things like that, but she didn't think she was wrong...
There was a brief pause, amusement twittering around the table at the little girl having too much wine, until Ailbhe said, "No, she's right. I didn't realise you were unaware — it isn't as though it's a secret, she's been a part of the family for longer than Daphne's been alive..."
Ailbhe admitting that Liz was totally right — ha, take that, Dorea, she wasn't just drunk and being silly — had another round of surprise clanging around the table. As much as Ailbhe said it wasn't a secret, it seemed like nobody had known about it...except Severus, but she was pretty sure he and Ailbhe already knew each other before this, at least a little bit. So Ailbhe explained.
It turned out Daphne's mum was gay — like, totally, a hundred per cent, had absolutely no interest in men whatsoever. Due to circumstances over the last couple generations, she'd ended up the only heir in the noble line, she'd always known she'd be expected to marry a man and have children eventually, though she'd resisted it for a long time, because fuck that shite. (Liz's words, it was still early and nobody had made a thing about it yet, nobody even knew, but she still understood completely.) She and Heli had met at some kind of Mistwalker gathering, when she'd been sixteen or so, and they'd been together ever since — not continuously all the way through, there'd been a few gaps here and there while Ailbhe was still going to Hogwarts and during their respective Mastery studies, but basically.
Ailbhe had met Víðir at an international academic conference, back during her apprenticeship. They'd immediately hit it off — though obviously in a completely platonic, instant best friends sort of way — talking about nerdy enchanting and warding shite long into the night multiple days in a row, because they were both huge nerds like that, and kept up constant correspondence afterward, sometimes finding excuses to meet and hang out when one or the other was travelling. When her apprenticeship ended and her father insisted, no really, Ailbhe, you do need to get married at some point, Ailbhe had set up a meeting with Víðir, and tentatively brought up the idea — Ailbhe was totally gay, yes, but she thought they could make it work anyway. It actually took longer to convince Ailbhe's father than it did Víðir, since he was from a completely unremarkable foreign family, but they came to an agreement before too long, and that was that.
Some of the muggle parents thought that was a little weird, why would Víðir put up with marrying a woman who had negative interest in fucking him? (They didn't put it that bluntly, but that's what they meant.) Víðir was apparently close enough to hear, he leaned back in his chair a bit, told them they were being silly. Except for that one little thing, they got along marvellously, and he'd married into a wealthy noble family, so he could focus on his work without having to worry about petty boring things like money, and also he'd gotten two beautiful wonderful brilliant daughters out of it (ruffling Astoria's hair a little). Why the hell wouldn't he have said yes?
Also, he might not be screwing Ailbhe, but he was screwing Heli — because Heli was both of their girlfriend, apparently. At the time, Ailbhe and Heli had been on one of their on-periods, had been for a while then, close enough that Heli had actually already been living at the Greenwood most of the time. Ailbhe had said she'd understand if Heli didn't want to put up with Ailbhe marrying some bloke, but Heli decided to stick it out for at least a little bit, see if they could make it work, and... Well, they hadn't intended from the beginning for Heli to be sleeping with both of them, by a brilliant stroke of luck it'd just worked out that way.
So despite their incompatible sexualities, everyone was still getting laid, and in time Víðir and Ailbhe kind of came to think of Heli as part of the marriage the same as either of them (though the law didn't recognise that, obviously), and Heli had been like a second mum to Daphne and Astoria from the beginning (also not legally). As weird as it might seem to other people (Liz included), it worked for them, everybody involved was happy with it, so Liz guessed that was her curiosity about what the hell was up with Heli satisfied.
Liz noticed that, through the whole explanation, Dorea seemed kind of shifting and uncomfortable, what was up with that? Because Liz was a little too sleepy and intoxicated to stop herself, she took a quick peek — ooohh, Dorea thought the gay stuff was weird, okay. Probably shouldn't let her know Liz was pretty sure she was bent herself then, noted.
Though, conceiving Daphne and Astoria had been a bit of a trial — Mr Perks was immediately embarrassed he'd actually asked about that, apparently too drunk to stop himself. There were potions that could help, not particularly difficult to brew. Not love potions, Severus specified for the muggles: those made the drinker romantically obsessed with the target, and did absolutely nothing about any underlying incompatibilities in their sexuality — they simply convinced the drinker that those incompatibilities didn't matter. That often made the act itself terribly unpleasant, which the drinker wouldn't mind at the time, but once the love potion wore off they were left with the memory of it, which, yeah, not good. There were what were basically magical aphrodisiacs, though, and those...helped. Still not perfectly easy, weird and unnatural-feeling, but they helped. Heli had also been there to help smooth things along, but it'd still been terribly awkward for everyone involved.
Everyone thought that was uncomfortable, but personally Liz thought the weirdest part was that Daphne was sitting right there listening to the story of her own conception, and didn't think it was an awkward thing to be talking about at all. If anything, she seemed to just find it funny. Which, seemed like that'd be embarrassing to Liz, but what did she know.
As uncomfortable as it'd been, they did like kids — the only reason they didn't have more was because there'd been serious complications in Astoria's birth, they weren't sure Ailbhe could even have any more, and didn't want to risk it. (Some of the parents were surprised she just came out and said that, apparently that wasn't the sort of thing people talked about.) Susan, frowning, asked, "But what about Heli? I'm sorry, that's none of my business, you don't have to answer..." Susan was blushing a little, probably hadn't meant to say that out loud — maybe everyone should be getting to bed, it was late...
"Because they'd be Babblings," Heli said flatly, smiling to take the edge off. "Sure, our families are close, so it's not likely to cause problems, but... It's a risk, politically, it would just make things more difficult than they have to be."
Because, Liz thought, if something happened to Daphne or Astoria, or their children or grandchildren down the line, the Babblings could make a claim on the House through Heli's descendants. She didn't know how likely that was, but she could see how the silly nobles might want to be careful about that sort of thing.
Susan hesitated for a second, with a reluctant sort of grimace, before saying, "Okay, I'm sorry, this still isn't my business, but that's not true. You can't marry into the family, no, but if Ailbhe names you as a concubine first, then any children you have would be Greengrasses, and it won't be a problem."
There was a lot of sharp twittering around their table, didn't know how to read that, but Liz noticed that both Ailbhe and Heli had frozen, staring at Susan. A few muggles were hissing to each other about concubines (Dorea even more uncomfortable than she'd been a minute ago), but the mages ignored it, an odd tense moment passing. Finally, Ailbhe managed, "Is that... I confess, I probably don't know certain areas of British law as well as I should — the Greenwood have our own internal law, and, well..."
"I think so?" Susan said, shrugging a little. "I know the Boneses have done that a few times, but those were all generations ago, it might not be allowed anymore. I can't think of it happening in the present day..."
"It is allowed." Eyes flicked to Severus, surprised by his participation — which, to be fair, Liz was too, didn't seem like his sort of thing. "It is something I have heard discussed in certain circles, as a possible strategy to circumvent...certain difficulties." He meant, Death Eaters had talked about it because they were having trouble knocking up their own cousins. Or maybe just because the women were having health problems, like Ailbhe apparently did, but still, inbreeding, ha ha. "I am certain it is still permitted under the law as it currently stands, though the practice has long fallen out of favour."
Ailbhe stared at Severus for a long moment, then contorted around in her chair so she could look up at Heli. Heli just shrugged.
Apparently that was all the sign Daphne needed — she leaned back in her chair a little, turning to the other table, called... Well, it sounded very much like "father", but it didn't sound quite right, Liz suspected it was the same word in Víðir's native language. Wrapped up in the conversation at their table, he hadn't heard this part, Daphne said a sentence or two in that other language that was probably an explanation of the concubine thing.
Víðir stood up partway through, frowning, traded a few brief, muttered comments with Heli (also not in English). "Excuse me, everyone, I'll be back in a minute," he said, before walking off and disappearing through the curtains around the ring. Okay...
While he was gone, Severus and Susan talked through how this sort of thing worked, as they understood it. They would need to come to an arrangement with the Babblings — sort of the same kind of negotiation they'd do if Heli was marrying in, though the expected terms were different. Also, the legal status of the kids would be a little complicated. Legally speaking, Víðir and Ailbhe would be their parents, and Heli would kind of be their godmother — with some legal rights, yes, but not as many as a proper parent — which was kind of fucked up, but it wasn't like the other two would ever try to freeze out Heli anyway, so it didn't actually matter that much.
As they talked more about it, it became obvious to Liz at least that Heli and Ailbhe were seriously considering it, minds sharp and... Liz didn't know, something. And Astoria, properly shook awake by Víðir getting up, was obviously ecstatic about the idea of getting baby siblings, grinning and practically bouncing on her toes. Daphne wasn't so obvious about it, but she was sitting there quietly smiling, so.
Severus mentioned at one point that Heli could have kids with both Víðir and Ailbhe, if she wanted to — after all, two women conceiving through blood alchemy wasn't exactly difficult. It wasn't often done in Britain, of course, since same-sex marriage wasn't legal here, but it happened all the time on the Continent. If they couldn't do the necessary blood magic themselves — and they couldn't, all three of them were enchanters (because nerds) — there were plenty of specialists on the Continent who could. Hell, Severus could do it, theoretically, it wasn't difficult magic, but he never had before, they really should find a proper specialist. The point was, it was perfectly feasible for all of the permutations in their weird little three-person marriage to have children together, they could totally do that if they wanted to.
Which was weird information for Severus to volunteer, Liz didn't know what was up with that.
Eventually, Víðir came back, carrying a thick hardcover book. He walked up to their group, flipped the book open, checking over it to make sure he had the right page, before handing it to Heli — the relevant part of the law, Liz guessed. Heli read it, an odd quiet tension in the air, her finger idly playing with the corner of the page. And then the quiet extended on longer, but Liz could tell Heli had already finished reading, just blankly staring at the book. A little shifting and uncomfortable — with everyone else intruding into private business with their very presence, Liz thought — one hand coming up to scratch at the side of her neck, Heli said, tentatively, that they could talk to the head of her family and see what he said about it. As awkward as she seemed, Liz didn't miss the bashful smile on her lips, cheeks pinking a little.
Astoria let out a squeal, crashed into Heli with a leaping hug, rambling off in Cambrian, high and quick enough Liz hardly understood a word. (The Greengrasses spoke too many damn languages.) There was some reluctant smiling from some of the audience (the muggles were obvious uncomfortable with the implications of magical nobles being legally allowed to have concubines), laughter from here and there, and soon all five members of their odd little family got wrapped up in a big confusing group hug thing, which, okay then.
There was even a bit of kissing between the adults, just out in the open with everyone watching and with Daphne and Astoria wrapped up with them, but it didn't seem to bother the sisters at all — seemed bloody awkward to Liz, but she didn't even have parents, what did she know.
So, completely incidentally, as an indirect consequence of a rude, impulsive comment she probably shouldn't have made at all, Liz might well have accidentally incited a major personal development inside Daphne's family. Neat?
(If Heli did end up doing that and Daphne got more baby siblings, those people wouldn't exist at all if not for Liz, which was kind of a neat thought, despite Liz not liking kids herself. Didn't know why she thought that was neat, it just was.)
Anyway, not long after that they all headed back to the guest hall — if nothing else, that people kept blurting out rude questions they probably should have kept to themselves suggested it was time for them to get some sleep. Well, the Greengrasses weren't going to the guest hall, they split off in a different direction almost right away. Ailbhe, Víðir, and Heli were being squishy and clingy enough Liz expected they were going to be having sex as soon as they were in private...which, she wasn't sure how that was supposed to work with both Ailbhe and Víðir there, given the gay thing, but that wasn't her business. And it was kind of hurting her brain thinking about it, ugh, she needed to go to bed...
After saying goodbye to Dorea, Hermione, Susan, Gail, and Daniel (fuck, too many people here), Liz escaped inside her and Severus's rooms. Severus immediately locked the outside door, neat, she hadn't noticed that was there before. Not that she planned to be doing anything in the sitting room that should be kept private, she was sharing it with Severus, but still. Severus reminded her that her calming potions and alcohol didn't go together, which she'd already known — and also it didn't matter, she only very rarely needed it to get to sleep anyway. They both started toward their own bedrooms, Liz already tugging at her scarf.
"Elizabeth." She twitched, only a couple steps away from the door, turned to look over her shoulder. Severus had paused with his hand on the handle of the door to his room, seemingly having hesitated over whether he should say something about whatever this was until the last possible moment. And he was still hesitating, his head sharp with interest, he thought this was important, but also uncertain and shifting, didn't know how to put it into words.
Liz waited for a few seconds, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. "Can whatever this is wait until tomorrow? I'm tired."
"No, this shouldn't be left to linger. I would have spoken of it earlier, but I assume you wouldn't wish to air this out in public. This isn't a matter I..." He trailed off, which was bloody weird, he hardly ever did shite like that. "I worry I will say this badly, and fail to communicate the message I intend."
"Well, spit it out, then, and we'll find out." She was curious, Severus was acting so bloody weird...
"All right. It makes absolutely no difference to me whatsoever what your sexuality turns out to be. Should you be heterosexual or homosexual, or whatever else under the sun, so long as you are happy with it and are not being mistreated, I do not care."
...Oh. So, he wanted to talk about that. She thought he'd probably noticed, but, her stomach lurching and his eyes crawling on her skin like ants, ugh, she did not want to have this conversation. "I hadn't thought you would."
His eyes narrowed just a little bit, a hot flash of something flittering through his head. "Elizabeth, you know I can feel it when you lie."
She wasn't, though. Honestly she hadn't given much thought either way to what he would think about it, since she hadn't planned on him ever finding out. (At least, she didn't think she was lying. Would he lie about feeling her lie? Except, she thought she'd feel that...)
"And even if I couldn't, your mind hasn't been any quieter this evening — I did pick up on your shame, earlier. And there is absolutely no reason for that. Such feelings are perfectly natural, and nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn't trouble me, and should it trouble anybody else, the fault lies with them and not with you."
"I don't want to talk about this." Her breath already beginning to catch in her chest, nauseating heat beginning to prickle across her face, nope nope nope. "Can we, just— I'm going to bed."
"Of course. I'm available should you decide you ever do wish to talk about anything."
Not fucking likely. "Sure. Night."
"Good night, Elizabeth."
She was already through the door, yanking it closed behind her almost before Severus even got the words out. Flicking the lock closed, she stumbled back a few steps, flopped over backward onto the bed. She glared up at the ceiling — murky in the darkness, the light in here much dimmer than before, faint and silvery-blue, more like starlight — carefully taking in and out long, slow breaths, fighting to push down the panic simmering in her chest. (Uncle Vernon hated it when she cried.) Especially since she shouldn't take a calming potion just now, not if she wanted to wake up at any point in the next thirty hours, ugh...
She really wished Severus hadn't sprung that on her. She did not want to talk about it.
Though, over the next minutes, as she gradually calmed down, the whatever the fuck that whole tangled mess in her head was (Liz continued to be shite with feelings) dissipating, she thought... Well, it was better that she know that than not, she guessed. Because she did care what Severus thought of her, which was still a confusing and sometimes unpleasant reality, that she didn't know what to do with most of the time besides just kind of pretend it wasn't there. Especially since, once the hearing and everything was out of the way, he was going to have very real legal power over her — which was a scary thing to think about, sometimes, but she didn't actually think he'd ever do anything bad with it, she trusted him (she'd been taking potions he brewed for years, she'd asked him to literally cut her open with a knife once), which was something she couldn't say about any other adult in the world — and, if it did become a problem that— Not that Liz expected she'd be doing anything with anyone anytime soon, because she was still only thirteen and was a horrible neurotic mess at times and also disfigured and everything (as much as Tamsyn said it didn't matter, Liz wasn't convinced), so her being bent didn't actually matter, so she didn't know how likely it was any of this would have come up anyway, but it didn't, she, she didn't know.
It was a little bit of a relief. As much as she did not want to talk about it — especially since that just now had been concerningly distressing for how brief it'd been — at least she knew Severus wasn't going to make a big thing about it. So. One less thing to worry about.
She still wished he hadn't sprung it on her, though.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Liz drew her wand with a flick of her wrist, reached up to loosen the laces of her boots — she was so fucking exhausted, and her head hurt, unconsciousness sounded like an excellent idea...
Poor Liz — childhood brainwashing sucks and feelings are hard.
Anyhoo, yay, the Greenwood! Mistwalkers have been part of my headcanon for ages and we finally see some of them, holy shit. They aren't quite typical of Mistwalkers, as they're wealthier and more numerous than the other clans (for the most part), but still, woo. Not sure how many more scenes there's going to be in the Greenwood — um, three, maybe? We'll see.
Hmm, anything urgent to say about this chapter? Surface piercings are far less unstable when you can enchant the jewellery. Mr Bulstrode is a little naïve about the Dark Lord, but the faction he describes does actually exist (obviously, since he's in it). Magical British law is kind of fucked up, but can also be unexpectedly accommodating of non-traditional families, if you squint and tilt your head a little.
...Someone really needs to sit Liz down and have a talk about a few things? That's all I got, I think.
Right, moving on.