While the muggles recovered from the disorientation of the group portkey, Síomha stared to the north, at the castle looming over the lake in the near distance. It occurred to her, belatedly, that she'd never actually been to Hogwarts before.
She had, of course, gone to an Ollscoil back home. As influential as her family might be in post-Statute Éire, they had never been in a position to be raised to the Wizengamot, and had little presence in the social institutions of wider Britain — even if her parents had wanted to send her to Hogwarts (which they hadn't), she wouldn't have been admitted. Though, even if it had been an option, she probably wouldn't have chosen to go to Hogwarts anyway. She had known some English by the time she was eleven, but she certainly hadn't been fluent yet. If for no other reason, an Ollscoil Choiteann Caoimhe Ní Bhláithín obviously conducted classes in Gaelic, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry obviously didn't. No use crippling her academic prospects by taking classes in a language she was less than comfortable with.
She had read about Hogwarts — everybody who'd studied much of medieval history at all had at one point or another, the institution had had an important role in the history of the Brits and the Gaels. Though the Founders had been Brits — or were remembered as Brits, anyway, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had been Germans, and Ravenclaw and Slytherin had both married Gaels, at least — Hogsmeade had once been a Gaelic town, and to this day existed as a British island in the middle of a largely Gaelic region. At the school's foundation, anyway, this had been unequivocally Gaelic country, of course it'd had some place in their history.
In fact, within certain strains of Gaelic nationalism, reclaiming Hogsmeade for the Gaels was one of their big issues — almost exclusively among local Gaels, it wasn't something Saoirse talked about. They were very much aware of the problem, though they didn't really have a solution for it, so they couldn't express an opinion on it publicly. The issue with Hogsmeade — or Scáthachluain, as the local Gaels called it — was that it was an historically Gaelic but now mostly British village, deep on the wrong side of what would be the border, should the Gaels manage to secure independence. Hard borders didn't precisely exist in the same way they did on the muggle side, but it was undeniable that the Brits would want to keep Hogsmeade as one of their major settlements, and it was undeniable that the Gaels would want it back. If the two nations were to split...
When Síomha had explained the dilemma to him, as part of the background he'd been given on the current political situation before dropping himself into Hogwarts, Michael had commented that it sounded very much like the issue of Jerusalem, to him. The only major difference was that violence hadn't actually broken out yet. And it would, Síomha felt certain of that — if they didn't come to a diplomatic settlement in the next few years, there would be unrest, and it would be very messy here in particular.
(It hadn't escaped her notice that, in comparing Gaelic–British relations to the conflict between the muggles of the Levant, Michael had equated the Gaels with the Palestinians. That was not a reassuring thought.)
Síomha had seen Hogwarts before, but only while visiting Hogsmeade, from a distance. It wasn't until this moment — looking off at the castle, the towering structure sprawling seemingly at random along the cliffs and over the lake, large and alien — that it abruptly occurred to her that she had no idea what she was doing. How the hell was she supposed to keep an eye on Michael and his people in an unpredictable magical building that she'd never stepped foot in before? That was just...horridly irresponsible, when she thought about it.
At least she was bringing Fionn along — he'd gone to Hogwarts, was one of the few alumni Síomha knew very well at all. Hopefully having one person familiar with the place, at least, would be enough to get by.
This was a terrible idea. Michael was going to get himself killed one day, she just knew it.
Her attention was drawn to Michael as he let out a low, harsh groan. He'd dressed up somewhat for the occasion, with more properly formal slacks and shoes. Though, he apparently hadn't been able to bring himself to actually wear a real suit coat, had ended up in a sport coat, thick tweed in grey and green, a Labour rose in red and silver pinned at his lapel — he looked like he'd aimed for statesman, but missed the mark and landed on university professor instead. His hair had been mussed up from the portkey a bit, and he looked a little sweaty and pale, he and Alex at his side, who seemed just as shaken, leaning on each other a little. And they were in the best shape of the muggles, the rest of Michael's people still laid out on the ceramic floor of the train platform.
Síomha didn't even recognise most of the muggle delegation, they weren't part of Michael's core staff and she'd assigned some of her people to deal with them. Her job involved overseeing their entire team, yes, but she was mostly focused on covering Michael — the Republic had even recruited her for Michael's permanent security detail, worried mages might make an attempt at him while he was in muggle spaces and therefore more vulnerable. Which was a perfectly reasonable concern, after the World Cup, Saoirse had agreed to the proposal after very little discussion. (It was to their political advantage to keep the Republic happy, after all, permanently assigning Síomha to Michael to ease their fears was a small price to pay.) Most of the delegation would stay here when Michael (and Alex) left for Dublin again, but Síomha would be going with them, so it hadn't seemed worth it to familiarise herself with people she'd have little contact with. She could just leave that to her subordinates.
(It was still an odd feeling, having subordinates to order around. Things were moving so fast...)
His voice shaky and breathless, Michael said, "Feck these portkeys, I'll never get used to the things."
"Magical transportation does have some kinks to work out, yeah."
"Kinks?" Alex glared up at Síomha, the strength of it lessened quite a bit by how very uncomfortable he obviously was. "You call making whoever use the things sick up all over themselves a kink?"
Síomha bit her lip, restraining herself from making a joke about that certainly not being her thing, but she wasn't one to judge — by the smirk twitching weakly at Michael's lips, he knew what she was thinking anyway. "Cars used to make me sick up, you know. Aeroplanes, those are still awful, I'd rather fly by broom than go on one of those. Metal boxes moving around have disorienting effects on the ambient magic around them, I'm going to be completely miserable on the flight to India." That was scheduled for next week, and since she was permanently attached to Michael now she'd have to go with. On a plane. Ugh.
"Karma's a bitch, you know. And going to India, how thematic."
Síomha rolled her eyes; Michael just chuckled, because of course he did.
Around the time all the muggles were on their feet and mostly recovered — they still looked a bit unsteady, but they were all standing on their own, at least — there was a gentle brush of heat washing over her back and neck, a crackling of electricity in the air as Ciarán appeared at her shoulder. "The villagers know we're here. We have company coming — Lovegood is with them, Fionn says one of the others is Babbling, a Hogwarts professor."
Babbling, really? Somehow, Síomha hadn't heard Hogwarts had hired a mister. Nodding, she muttered, "Let them through." In another surprisingly gentle flash of lightning, Ciarán was gone. She'd have to remind him not to do that on the grounds too much, Brits were sensitive about proper elemental magic for some reason.
Of course, Ciarán was also a priest of the Morrígan, which was a much more serious "crime", but he knew well enough to keep that to himself while on enemy territory.
Síomha turned back to Michael. "The welcoming committee is on its way."
"Anyone we know turn up?"
She shrugged. "Cassie Lovegood is with them. I don't know who else."
"Ah, yes, Cassie." Michael smiled, a little crookedly. He'd met Lovegood briefly, in the immediate aftermath of the riot, and they'd gotten on immediately — which should surprise absolutely no one, really. "Let's go say hello, then."
Weaving through the pack of yet-recovering muggles, they shortly got to the edge of the train platform. It took long enough that the party come to welcome them was already there, waiting at the base of the stairs. At a glance, Síomha recognised Lovegood, identifiable as much by the gentle warmth of her magic as her face, her light skirt fluttering in the autumn breeze — she idly wondered how the older sorceress wasn't bloody cold, low-key elemental magic, perhaps. (Of course, Fionn had told her Lovegood was a priestess of Artemis, but that...probably wasn't relevant? Síomha was far more familiar with the Tuath Dé, she wasn't entirely certain what Artemis was even supposed to be, but she didn't think She was somehow weather-related.) And that was definitely Zabini, slightly unfamiliar in fine formal robes — by now, Síomha had actually met the woman in the muggle world more than the magical, was already more accustomed to seeing her in muggle dress.
The other two, Síomha didn't recognise. One was a woman with short, messy, dirty-blonde hair, perhaps in her fifties (or thirties, if she was a muggle), wearing a fuzzy-looking jumper and jeans, of all things — probably Babbling, her apparent refusal to respect the proper formalities was very much a mister thing to do. The other was an older man in a formal muggle suit, accented with a red and blue ribbon that was faintly familiar, but Síomha couldn't quite place it. She assumed this was one of the Queen's people, perhaps someone of some importance in the British Foreign Office, but she didn't recognise him.
Michael, though, obviously did. He skipped down the stairs, with a bounce in his step that suggested he'd thrown off the last of his discomfort from the portkey, bounding over to the unfamiliar man first. "David! Managed to drag you into this nonsense, did they?"
His lips twisting with a wry smile, the older man shook Michael's hand, the motion sharp and firm. "Michael. I could hardly escape, could I? They wanted someone with the Irish mission along, and the Ambassador was hardly going to come himself."
"Ah, not comfortable with magic, is he?"
"I understand he took it very badly when he was read in, had to be obliviated."
Michael winced. "Poor man. I hate that spell."
"Mm." A shadow crossed 'David's face for a moment, before vanishing as quickly as it'd arrived. "Hello again, Alex," the man said with a smiling nod.
"Your Honour," the younger man said, nodding back. Honestly, Síomha still wasn't sure what Alex's position was, exactly. Some sort of assistant to Michael, obviously, but the exact form of their relationship was hard for her to put her finger on. In any case, Alex still didn't seem quite well, red hair tousled from the portkey, looking a little green.
"Oh, don't mind Alex," Michael said, giving him a heavy pat on the shoulder — Alex was actually taller than Michael, he had to reach up a little to do it properly. "Magical travel doesn't agree with him I'm afraid. And I don't believe you two have met — this is Síomha Ní Ailbhe, she'll be hanging around the whole trip; Síomha, David Sutherland is a deputy to the British Ambassador in Dublin, and far more personable a fellow than that old crank."
Sutherland shot her a sharp look — he'd clearly recognised her name and was, perhaps, somewhat less than pleased to see her standing at Michael's shoulder. But he gave her a graceful nod all the same, with a perfectly polite, "Madam Síomha." (Apparently he did know what he was doing, most muggles didn't realise they were supposed to use her given name.) He turned away immediately, the smile reappearing as soon as he wasn't looking at her. "I have some introductions to do on my side of the table. You recognise Mirabella, of course."
Zabini sidled a little closer, a slightly crooked, sultry grin splitting her face. "Wonderful to see you as always, Michael."
"You're a slippery damn liar, Mirabella, but you can't fool me." Despite the (false?) aggression on his voice, Michael shook her hand politely enough. (And it was an ordinary hand shake, Síomha still didn't understand how muggles decided when and when not to make a gender distinction in that sort of gesture.) Michael disliked Zabini on principle, Síomha knew, but she was personally entertaining enough he could at least be polite.
Zabini quickly greeted Alex and Síomha — she'd known both of their names without being told, and her pleasantness with Síomha certainly seemed more genuine than Sutherland's. (Síomha didn't trust it for a second, Michael was entirely correct about Zabini being a slippery damn liar.)
The introduction to Lovegood went equally smoothly, since everyone involved had already met. Lovegood did shoot Síomha a skeptical, suspicious look, but Lovegood was a light priestess, under the far more divisive British model, she probably gave the same treatment to every dark sorceress she came across — Síomha didn't take it personally, and it probably wasn't meant to be. (In any case, what little animosity she did show quickly evaporated, probably Artemis assuring her Síomha wasn't any particular threat.) Babbling didn't take much longer — she was clearly familiar enough with muggles to get through meeting them without any of the stumbling mages often did — though there was an extra little diversion when Babbling stepped up to clasp hands with Síomha, properly greeting her in smooth, easy Gaelic, which also wasn't really a surprise. The misters were Brits, but they often learned Gaelic, and the Babblings in particular tended to have an absurdly high proportion of omniglots (that was where the name had come from, in fact). There was a bit more talking, as more of Michael's people recovered and approached, it took some minutes before they were done and ready to go.
The local mages (plus Sutherland) lead them off to the north, crossing the sett-paved street to a dirt drive, where stood waiting a brace of carriages pulled by—
Michael jerked to a stop, Alex at his shoulder let out a sharp gasp, as the creatures came into view. Before they could even ask, Síomha said, "Those are thestrals. They look a bit...unsettling, but they're completely harmless." It was very odd that they were pulling carriages, however. So far as Síomha knew, it was simply impossible to domesticate thestrals, the very thought was absurd.
"So, muggles can see thestrals, then." Lovegood sounded perfectly casual, still with that light, cheerful tone she seemingly always spoke with. "Squibs can, so it seemed likely, but I wasn't certain."
"What do you mean, are there things only mages can even see?" Michael sounded slightly absent, his gaze still fixed unblinkingly on the thestrals.
Lovegood hummed. "Not nearly as many as mages believe — muggles are more open to external magic than most people think, though they obviously can't use it themselves. It's mostly only spirits muggles can't see, like ghosts or dementors, and most of those can choose to be visible if they wish to be. Thestrals are odd in that there are mages who can't see them too — they are visible only to those who have seen Death — and I didn't know if it'd apply to muggles. Apparently it does."
There was a bit of muttering going through the rest of Michael's people, those who could see the thestrals describing them for the ones who couldn't, discussing the revelation that a school had domesticated creatures that could only be seen by people who had seen someone die. Alex, Síomha noticed, had gone a bit paler than he'd already been from the portkey, Michael looking rather more solemn than usual. She didn't know if they had before, but they'd certainly seen Death at the World Cup Riot — she'd personally killed people right in front of the both of them, at least one in plain view.
(The way the two men looked at her sometimes, she knew they'd never forget it.)
After a bit of shuffling around — Síomha wanted all of Michael's people to be accompanied by at least one of Saoirse's at all times, just in case — they were all settled into carriages. Michael's had only Alex, Síomha, and James, one of the muggles on Michael's security detail disguised as another assistant for the occasion. (James had been at the World Cup, had insisted on going along to Hogwarts — he trusted Saoirse, rather more whole-heartedly than initially since Síomha had gotten clipped by a curse meant for Michael, but the Riot had not left him with a good impression of mages in general.) Before the carriage had even jerked into motion, Alex, still looking a bit green, slumped over, resting his head on Michael's shoulder. Michael gave the top of the younger man's head a somewhat exasperated look, before letting out a huff, shifting his arm around Alex to settle in more comfortably.
Síomha frowned, watching the ease with which they sat together, Michael's hand tracing over Alex's shoulder. That would...sort of explain some of the more confusing things about the two of them. "You don't have to hide it, you know."
Michael raised an eyebrow at her. "Hide what?"
"I certainly don't care. And such things are...far less controversial among mages — you needn't hide your relationship so long as you're at Hogwarts, if you like."
Alex abruptly sprung upright, putting distance between Michael and himself so quickly he might well have apparated. "No, we're not— That's— We—"
James burst into laughter.
His face going nearly as red as his hair, Alex kicked James in the shin. "Shut the fuck up, James!"
"Set you down, you bleeding puff, I don't mean nothing for it. It never stop being funny, sure."
"I'll show you funny, you—"
"Boys." The building argument cut off immediately, both men turning to Michael wearing different shades of embarrassment. "Maybe don't bloody each other straight afore we get to the Castle. We don't wanna give too bad an impression, do we?"
"No, sir." "Sorry, Michael." James and Alex shot each other last irritated glances, before the former slipped back into formal passiveness, the latter shuffling over to lean against the opposite side of the carriage, staring out the window. Settling in for a good sulk, it looked like.
Michael turned back to Síomha, smooth and casual, as though nothing at all notable had happened. "I haven't nothing against that sort of thing, of course, but there's nothing to hide. Alex and I are not and have never been involved."
Okay? From how Alex had reacted to James just then, Síomha got the very clear feeling he was gay, but...
Nope, she was just more confused than she'd started.
The rest of the ride passed in stiff silence, but it fortunately didn't last very long. A couple minutes in, a thick wave of magic swept over her skin, tingling like static in the air — that would be the famous Hogwarts wards. Síomha relaxed, opened herself up to them for a moment. It didn't feel like they were attracting any attention — the wards were obviously huge, a concentration of magic unlike anything she had seen outside of certain ancient ritual sites, but none of that power seemed to be focused on them — which was very odd, when she thought about it. She'd been under the impression Hogwarts was, supposedly, the safest place in the country. True, they would have had to loosen the wards somewhat to let all the guests in, but this felt far too...passive.
Síomha considered warning Michael the wards appeared far less active than they'd expected, but ultimately decided not to say anything. He'd already been informed they were walking into potential danger, that the wards weren't quite so thorough as the school's reputation suggested changed very little. She would tell Fionn later (assuming he hadn't noticed already himself), he'd put his own palings over their rooms, it was fine.
Personally, Síomha better trusted palings set by a priest of Bríd than wards designed eleven hundred years ago by some lesser mortal. Fionn was on their Hogwarts team for a reason.
A couple minutes after that, their carriage trundled to a smooth halt. Síomha moved first, pushing open the door and pausing for a moment on the step. The castle loomed directly above her now, enormous double doors of thick wood stretching six metres over her head — the surface was intricately carved with designs and the occasional identifiable shape, trees and flowers and little figures, but the years had not been kind to it, eleven centuries of erosion wearing down the relief until it was barely visible — around it walls of angular stone, far above her head the parpets contorting into twisting curves, accented here and there with brass and iron, gleaming in the sun. Beyond the hall stretched the main body of the castle, the steep stone wall hardly visible from this angle, the tips of several towers reaching for the sky.
Somehow, for all that she'd read about the place, seen it from a distance, it had never quite occurred to her just how bloody huge Hogwarts was. Seriously. It was probably bigger than an Ollscoil all put together, and she knew the student population here was much smaller. She couldn't imagine what most of that space was for...though they probably weren't using most of it — that they had the room to house all their guests certainly suggested as much.
Arrayed in the courtyard, just outside the main doors, was a small crowd of people waiting to greet them. At a glance, Síomha recognised Dumbledore, at his back a pack of men and women who were probably school professors — the only one Síomha recognised was Severus Snape, and him only due to the controversy over his time spying in the Death Eaters — and Bartemius bloody Crouch — the Director of International Cooperation had a trash reputation in Éire, enough Síomha barely restrained a scowl when she spotted him. Unless she was very much mistaken, that was the Queen of Britain standing over there, slightly removed from the Hogwarts people, accompanied by a handful of men and women in an eclectic mix of muggle and magical dress.
Seeing nothing that stuck out to her as any particular threat — though those mages around Victoria looked plain nasty, they were also obviously bodyguards, doing the same job for the British Saoirse was for the Irish, nothing to worry about — Síomha stepped the rest of the way down, sidling out of Michael's way. He bounded down the steps the moment the exit was clear, took a moment to look around, his head tilting back to take in the towering, asymmetrical edifice of Hogwarts.
Once the carriages were emptied of Michael's people, he finally made for their hosts, trailed by Alex and flanked by one of his deputies, a somewhat older man named Cian Ó Dochartaigh. (Though he insisted on calling himself Keane O'Doherty, much like Michael used 'Cavan' instead of the proper Ó Caoimháin, because Irish muggles couldn't speak their own bloody language anymore.) Cian would remain at Hogwarts, the head of their delegation here while Michael was away on other business, so it was rather important he be here for the introductions. Though, as Síomha understood it, they didn't exactly get along — Cian was a member of Fianna Fáil, who Michael's Labour were currently in a coalition government with, but their politics didn't agree very much at all (Michael being a 'radical' 'socialist' by muggle standards). Fortunately, they did agree on their stance both with the mages and the situation in Northern Ireland, so Michael wasn't particularly concerned leaving him in charge here while he was away.
The things Síomha picked up listening to Michael complain, she'd known virtually nothing about muggle politics a year ago...
Both Dumbledore and Crouch straightened, clearly expecting Michael to make for them first. Michael, being Michael, steered sharply to the right, making directly for the muggle Queen instead. Because of course he did. "Good day, ma'am," he said once he was in a polite conversational distance, his voice bright and cheerful. He did dip his head in a nod, which she thought was actually very rude — she'd been under the impression a bow would be appropriate dealing with royalty, even when not one of the sovereign's people, that it was just polite. "Fancy seeing you here," he added...which also seemed very rude.
Maybe Síomha was just missing something, because none of the Brits seemed particularly offended, or even surprised. Victoria herself even looked a little amused, a corner of her lips curling. "Good day, Mister Cavan. Still as brash as ever, I see — and I had wondered whether a bit more time as Tánaiste might serve to moderate your behaviour somewhat." She pronounced "tánaiste"...mostly correctly, better than even some of Michael's people managed (though Síomha had gotten used to the muggles' incorrect pronunciation by now).
"Oh, you know me, ma'am."
"I suppose I do."
After engaging in pleasantries a little bit longer — mostly consisting of Michael and Victoria teasing each other, which was interesting, Síomha would have to ask about that later — they eventually went on, introducing each other to their people, accelerated somewhat by many of them having met before. They were mostly public servants working in international relations, after all, they moved in the same circles. She noticed most of Michael's people didn't bow to Victoria as she'd been led to expect they should, so...maybe it was just an Irish thing? She knew the Republic had rejected the British crown not so long ago, recently enough Anglo–Irish relations could still be a little diplomatically fraught, maybe there was something going on here she hadn't been properly read in on.
She might not get the implications of all this, but when her turn did come up (close to the beginning of the list, though after Cian and a couple others), she mirrored the muggles. Might as well present a united front while they were at it.
(Michael might think she was a political novice, but she could at least recognise it when it was happening and stay out of the fucking way.)
Shortly after her own introduction, one of Victoria's men quietly shuffled toward her, skirting the edge of the crowd. "Sir William Langley," he muttering, offering his hand. "I'm in charge of Her Majesty's security while she's at Hogwarts."
Oh. Okay, then. "Síomha Ní Ailbhe." She took his hand, somewhat surprised when he shifted forward, so they ended up clasping arms in the Celtic style in place of the muggle handshake. Someone had done his research...or was just very old. He was certainly a sorcerer, the cloud of magic floating around him was unmistakable, her skin tingling where they touched, but he almost seemed too powerful, in the manner of an ancient metamorph doing their best to hide how completely overwhelming they were. Interesting.
William Langley... Did she know that name? It sounded vaguely familiar — and not just because the Langleys had been one of the Founders of the Wizengamot, no, it was something else. But she couldn't place it. Hmm.
"I'm one of the coordinators with na Fianna Comhchoiteanna, and— Hold on a second." Síomha glanced over her shoulder, picked out Fionn and Clíodhna, and gestured for them to come up. They'd be looking after things while she was off with Michael, if William was looking to coordinate security with Saoirse in the long term he should really be talking to them.
By the time Michael and his people were done with the muggles, Síomha had finished introducing Fionn and Clíodhna to William. She slipped back to his shoulder, trailing him as he sidled over to the Hogwarts people (plus Crouch). It was actually Crouch Michael spoke to first, bouncing over and offering his hand. "Director, pleasure seeing you again." Lying through his teeth, of course, but he sounded pleasant enough, Crouch might not be able to tell.
Crouch hesitated just a second too long before shaking Michael's hand — not out of any intent to be rude, Síomha didn't think, just on his back foot from Michael being Michael. "Hello again, a Thánaiste. You didn't have too much trouble getting here, I hope."
"No, no," Michael said, with a careless flick of his fingers, "no problem at all — though I must admit, I do hate portkeys."
"I meant— Well, I'm not certain if this was explained to you, but Hogwarts is warded to deflect muggle attention. In fact, I believe the entire valley is."
Michael tensed slightly. Sounding a bit exasperated, he drawled, "Yes, I was informed, but our friends in Saoirse were kind enough to provide enchanted artifacts that insulate us from those particular spells." Síomha noticed both that Michael hadn't said exactly what form these artifacts took — plain steel rings, because they were relatively innocuous and unobstructive — and that his fluency with speaking of magic had improved dramatically since they'd first met. Putting those lessons to good use, it seemed.
He was also very annoyed, but Síomha wasn't surprised by that — Crouch had slipped a little bit into the poor ignorant muggle tone Michael hated so much.
Crouch was then quickly introduced to Cian, who he hadn't met, and Alex, who he had. Rather abruptly, Crouch steered the conversation again, half-turning to Dumbledore at his side. "And, of course, you've met Albus Dumbledore."
"I haven't, actually."
Cutting himself off in mid-sentence — already introducing him to Dumbledore, complete with all the formal titles Michael hated — Crouch blinked at Michael for a second, temporarily flummoxed. "You haven't? He was at the World Cup."
"Mm, temporarily, but we were never introduced. He wasn't there in an official capacity, and I didn't think it quite appropriate to intrude in what appeared to be a private domestic dispute." Really, Michael had hardly noticed anything was going on at the time — he'd been rather distracted by the quidditch game. Síomha had filled him in after the fact. "Something to do with custody of the young Potter heir, I believe? Yeah, not my business."
Crouch's face twisted into an irritated grimace, pinking a few shades. Because, of course, Crouch had intruded into something that had not at all been his business, and he must know Michael knew that, probably assumed (correctly) that Michael was insulting him somehow. "Oh, of course, I apologise. Yes. Albus, this is His Excellency Michael Cavan, an Tánaiste na Poblachta Éireann, an Teachta Dála den Contae Chiarraí."
"I have no idea what any of that means, you know." Michael was exaggerating — his Gaelic was terrible, but he could at least recognise those particular phrases — all the better to irritate Crouch some more, presumably.
Crouch just ignored him. "A Thánaiste, this is His Excellency Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the United Council of Celtic Peoples, le Premier Consul de la Confédération Internationale des Sorciers, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer of Great Britain."
Michael, of course, stuck his hand out right away; Dumbledore, somewhat surprisingly, took it immediately. "Christ, man, you've got even more nonsense after your name than I have."
Again somewhat surprisingly, Dumbledore chuckled, grey hair swaying as he shook his head. "You live as long as I do, you find you accumulate titles like books. I have a library of both stacked up here and there."
"Mm." The handshake over, Michael stuck his hands in his pockets. "Not exactly like books, now. One is more likely to be taken away than the other — unless you mages over here are dealing with a plague of book thieves I haven't been told about yet." Throwing the imminent end of Dumbledore's tenure as Chief Warlock right in his face, because of course, Síomha couldn't expect anything else from him.
The gentle smile on Dumbledore's face twitched, dimming a few notches. "Well, that is the lot of those of us in public service, is it not? Our fate is in the hands of the people we serve, as it should be."
"Mister Dumbledore, if your actions as Chief Warlock constitute what you believe to be public service, I suspect we don't use the same definition of the phrase."
The remainder of Dumbledore's smile vanished instantly.
Michael introduced the few most important names among his people — if he were to go through all of them, they'd be standing here unreasonably long — again sticking Síomha somewhere in the middle. This time, following on her name and the explanation that she was a junior member of Saoirse's guidance commission (terms translated into English, because Michael's Gaelic was awful), which everyone here must know, and that she was semi-permanently on loan to his security detail, which appeared to be a surprise to Dumbledore and Crouch, Michael added, "I'm under the impression you'll be hanging a ribbon around her neck in a couple weeks."
Síomha didn't quite manage to hold in a smirk. She had been nominated for second-class membership of the Order of Merlin — and if that wasn't fucking surreal — but the vote hadn't actually happened yet. Fionn's cousin Bríd fully expected it to pass, though. Not without controversy, of course, the Wizengamot did not approve of Saoirse in general or Síomha personally, but the events of the World Cup Riot had backed them into a corner, politically and diplomatically. Refusing to honour Lovegood would make the ICW even more suspicious than they already were that the Wizengamot couldn't be trusted to manage the aftermath of the Riot; refusing to honour Síomha (no matter how much she didn't actually want it) would further poison the already strained situation with the more strongly Gaelic elements of their own society, possibly further inflaming support for Saoirse, and further irritate one of the muggle governments they shared territory with. They didn't have a whole lot of choice in the matter.
Dumbledore and Crouch were fully aware of that — the strained expressions on both their faces were really quite amusing. While he did greet her pleasantly enough, Síomha got the very clear feeling Dumbledore especially disliked her, which was...weird. She was a member of what was essentially a nationalist militia, but so was Fionn — he'd quickly slipped away from Clíodhna and William to join them with the mages, presumably to lend them some legitimacy by the weight of his family name — and Dumbledore was far less hostile to him. That was just bloody weird, Síomha had no idea what was going on.
Maybe it was to do with how silly the British could be about the Light and the Dark. Dumbledore in particular had a reputation for very stubbornly holding onto a heavily conflict-oriented interpretation of Ambivalence. He must be sensitive enough to feel how they were aligned — Síomha herself could easily tell Dumbledore leaned toward the Light, though honestly not so much as she'd expected — so he must know Síomha was strongly aligned with the Dark, and Fionn was immersed so deeply in the Light his very soul had been irreversibly altered. (Light magic constantly wafted off of Fionn, burning like gentle spring sunlight, sometimes it made her teeth ache to stand too close to him.) So, perhaps, someone as...ideologically-minded as Dumbledore might be inclined to favour Fionn out of the two of them...
...if Fionn weren't a "white mage" — his relationship with Bríd was very much illegal, and unlike the Gaels, the Brits didn't quietly maintain the old priesthoods where the Aurors weren't looking. (The Ministry knew the priesthoods existed, of course, but they were lead to believe certain practices had been phased out centuries ago.) Well, most of the Brits didn't, anyway. There were the misters to consider, Fionn claimed a small number of them held to their old traditions — Lovegood, as an example, was from a mister family, thought she'd been raised outside of the clan commune — and there were a few other isolated communities here and there that might as well...and, if people like the Blacks were any indication, a surprising proportion of British society, even at its very heart, might still acknowledge the true nature of magic, even if they didn't open themselves to it nearly as often as their ancestors had. So, when she thought about it, it was very possible people like Fionn were actually far more common among the British than they claimed. Dumbledore in particular, though, Síomha had been under the impression he held to more...modern beliefs, let's say.
Of course, it was possible Dumbledore wasn't even aware of what Fionn was.
Personally, Síomha could hardly fathom that — priests were easy enough to identify for her, it just took a moment of concentration to pick up a particular echo in the fabric of the world around them. It was quite distinctive, if quieter or louder person to person, depending on how close they were to their god and how long they'd been in their service. But...maybe it was just easy for her to tell because she was used to it. Her clan was closely associated with the Morrígan's priesthood — she had multiple aunts and uncles and cousins in her service, one in particular Síomha was close to, she'd even been at Éimhear's induction — and her grandfather was influential in Lú's, she'd been around "black mages" and "white mages" all her life. It was kind of odd in the first place, that an entire society operated without directly acknowledging the living faces of magic, but especially odd that they might not see its messengers for what they were even while staring them in the face.
But it would sort of explain a lot. She'd wondered, how Cassie Lovegood and Lyra Black could just prance about freely despite obviously being priestesses of Artemis and, er, someone — Fionn had said Lyra's was a trickster god, but Síomha didn't know any more than that — for that matter, why Fionn and Ciarán were comfortable going to the World Cup and to Hogwarts, where unsympathetic Brits and even Aurors were expected to be. She had been concerned, for Ciarán especially, but they'd said not to worry about it, that they'd be fine. Síomha had thought that was odd, but Bríd and Morrígan would certainly warn them if they'd be in any real danger, she'd just gone along with it. If most Brits really couldn't tell...
Hmm. That had some interesting implications.
Michael working his way through the Hogwarts staff was sort of amusing, and not only because some of them clearly weren't accustomed to dealing with muggles and had no idea what to do with him. Only a fucking idiot wouldn't have noticed that Michael didn't much like the Chief Warlock, and...most of the staff didn't appear to be complete idiots. Those who had noticed met Michael with either shortness, irritated with him for insulting their Headmaster to his face, or amusement, tickled for the same reason. Síomha watched each interaction, taking note of which way each professor leaned — those more closely aligned with Dumbledore, or simply inclined to dislike Michael, would have to be watched more closely.
Probably the greatest surprise in this bit was Snape. Síomha had expected he would be one of their larger concerns while at Hogwarts — he had been a Death Eater, after all, however supposedly reformed — but he was surprisingly affable. (Cold and flatly sarcastic, of course, these things were relative.) Normally, Síomha might not buy that for a second, but he also shook Michael's hand in the muggle style without an instant of hesitation, and knew what the rose at his lapel meant without needing to ask — even Síomha hadn't known that, and she had far more contact with muggles than most purebloods. That was interesting. Maybe the whole spy line hadn't just been shite.
Síomha would still keep an eye on him, of course, but she had the feeling Snape didn't pose nearly as much of a threat to Michael as she'd initially assumed.
"About time to move on, then? I understand you've got lunch on in there, and we'll want to run up to our rooms first quick."
Dumbledore plastered on a pleasant, and very fake, smile. "Actually, Mister Cavan, according to the itinerary we were sent, Ambassador Delacour should be showing up at any moment. It might be easiest for us to wait out here for them to arrive.
"Oh?" Michael glanced at his wrist — his watch was electronic, but Fionn had shielded it for him months ago now. "So I see. Alex, Keane and I'll stay here, but if you want go up with everyone else and check out our rooms, make sure everything's squared away? If ye don't come back before the French, go on in and find me."
Alex nodded, ducked away. For a little while, there was a bit of noisy shuffling, most of Michael's people (shadowed by most of Síomha's) filtering through the crowd before the doors, lead into the school by a pair of student prefects. Michael staked a place for himself between the mages — Zabini had joined Crouch, but Hogwarts staff still greatly outnumbered the Ministry representatives — and the muggles. Cian was actually buried in the latter delegation, having a muttered conversation with one of their officials — getting started in on his work for the season, presumably.
Síomha was half-listening to Michael's banter with Babbling, so she didn't notice Fionn and Ciarán slipping up behind her until they were but inches away. A glance showed solemn, wary expressions on both their faces. "What is it?"
The pair glanced at each other, silent for a second, before Fionn sketched a rune in the air, a flick of his fingers triggering the spell, a privacy paling washing over them. "We're both getting whispers."
From their goddesses, they meant — both Bríd and Morrígan had ties to fate and prophecy, Their priests tended to get hints of danger before it arrived. There were very good reasons Saoirse tried to recruit among both priesthoods in particular. (Of course, the more religious Gaels tended to already support breaking from the Ministry, for the obvious reasons, so they happened to be among the segments of Gaelic society most friendly to Saoirse to begin with.) If they were both being warned at the same time, it couldn't be good. "Whispers of what?"
"I'm not certain," Fionn said, sounding very distinctly frustrated. Which wasn't new, when it came to the hints he got from Bríd — he'd complained to Síomha more than once that Her warnings often weren't nearly so explicit as he'd like. "It doesn't feel like bloodshed, exactly, but..."
Ciarán shook his head. "It's not a battle." Their instincts tended to be most accurate when it came to anticipating bloodshed, both of their goddesses being relatively violent (though distinct aesthetically), so if it were an approaching battle they were feeling it'd probably be clearer. "It's more like... Have you ever been to a Convocation?"
Despite herself, Síomha couldn't quite hold in a shudder — that wasn't something she particularly enjoyed remembering. Every nine years, there was a gathering of all the important institutions in Gaelic society — representatives from the major clans and the various priesthoods and certain industries, particularly schools and clinics — to discuss the state of their people and what common projects should or should not be undertaken in the years to come. While there was always serious business being conducted, it was also an important social event. Announcements of new betrothals coming out of that time were particularly common.
Frequently, members of the thin but persistent population of immortal Gaels — mostly metamorphs, but a few who persisted through darker means — would drop in to visit, particularly those who were private enough they were rarely seen, or ancient metamorphs who had otherwise left their homeland behind. Many of these people could be very intimidating, magically powerful enough Síomha had trouble breathing in their presence (at least, before she'd started coming into her own power), or simply because they were sharp and strange, a consequence of their upbringing in a wilder, often more violent time. They were sometimes unnerving just to be around.
There had been a Convocation when Síomha had been twelve, she'd been brought along. She distinctly remembered, one day toward the end of the season, they'd been gathered for a meal when they'd suddenly gotten an uninvited, unexpected guest. Not just another metamorph, or someone of the like, no, someone much more powerful, much older, much more dangerous than any ordinary metamorph.
Síomha was certain there was nobody in the world who could possibly forget meeting the Night Queen. It had been the single most terrifying thing she'd ever experienced — and she was including fighting for her life against murderous mages and werewolves and vampires.
(She didn't like not being the most powerful mage in the room. She especially hated being stuck with people who could squish her like a mildly irritating insect.)
"Thank you for reminding me of that," Síomha grumbled. "What are you trying to say?"
Ciarán shrugged. "I don't know if you noticed, exceptionally powerful individuals, when they walk the earth the earth responds. The land bends to accommodate them, living things turn toward them, like plants seeking the sun."
"The most powerful of sorcerers are part of the world in a way most of us are not," Fionn said, nodding in wary agreement. "Once one is connected deeply enough to Magic, one becomes something both more and less than mortal — in a way, halfway along the road from humanity to divinity."
Síomha felt an eyebrow tick up her forehead — that was an...odd way to put it. Especially coming from a servant of a real bloody god. "Okay. You're saying one of these exceptionally powerful people is coming to Hogwarts. It couldn't just be William over there you're feeling, could it?" He was hiding it rather well, enough it wasn't distracting, but she doubted any degree of self-control would be enough to completely insulate himself against divination.
Fionn shook his head. "No, not him. To get an echo like this... He's not nearly powerful enough."
"He's not nearly many enough."
Síomha stared at Ciarán in shock, the implication setting her aback. But, she noticed, Fionn didn't seem surprised at all, just looking back at Síomha with an uncharacteristic quiet solemnity, matching Ciarán's almost perfectly. (It was almost eerie, how in tune they were at the moment.) It took her a moment to find her voice. "You mean, more than one?"
"We can't be sure how many. But several, certainly."
"More than that, the world feels shallow here — and not just because it's Samhain. I can't tell you who, but I feel certain several ancient men and even the gods themselves will soon walk the halls of Hogwarts."
"Fuck me." Síomha sighed, rubbing at her face with both hands. This bringing the muggles to Hogwarts idea had been insane from the off, but now there were going to be who know how many immortals around? And Fionn had said the gods themselves — if she had to deal with fucking divine manifestations on top of everything else...
This was a terrible idea. Michael was going to get himself killed.
(And she'd really rather he didn't — the bastard was starting to grow on her.)
With another sigh, she dropped her hands, shooting a beseeching glare up at the sky. "All right. I.D. them for me if you can. We'll have to watch them more closely than the others, but don't make a nuisance of yourselves. We don't want to start a fight with a fucking immortal if we can help it."
They both nodded, Fionn dispelled the paling, and in a blink they were gone.
"Something wrong?" Michael muttered.
She shook her head. "It's not urgent, I'll tell you later."
His eyes narrowed slightly, in suspicion or perhaps concern — which was slightly unsettling, Michael was getting far too good at reading her. But he turned back to Babbling, dropping the matter for now.
It was perhaps another five minutes or so before another train of carriages emerged from the trees, the rattling carried on the wind, but the skeletal winged horses eerily silent. They trundled along for another couple minutes before finally reaching the courtyard, clacking on the stone, the procession coming to a smooth, simultaneous stop. Some of the doors opened immediately, a small handful of men and women wearing ceremonial dueling robes in the blue, red, and yellow of the Swiss Guard. There was a brief pause, the air flickering with magic as the Swiss cast detection charms.
Then, with a flash of dark magic tingling against her skin, a pillar of black-purple flame appeared in front of one of the closed carriages. The unnatural fire roared, the sound carrying over the gasps from people all around Síomha, but only for an instant, vanishing to reveal a person now standing in its place. Looking very Near Eastern, dark-haired and brown-skinned, the man wore what Síomha suspected was a uniform, but in an unfamiliar design, plain brown dueling leathers partially hidden by cloth draped over one shoulder and wrapped low around his hips, deep black stitched with gold. Like the men the muggle Queen had brought, this one was armed with more than just a wand — knives were strapped along one arm and both shins, a short sword at one hip and a longer one at the other, scabbards glittering gold and red and purple in the sunlight.
Síomha had absolutely no idea who that was, or what organisation that uniform was from (she assumed it was a uniform, anyway), but she didn't need to to know what he was — those dark flames were very distinctive. Apparently, the Ambassador from the ICW had decided to bring a lilin bodyguard with him. Because Death Eaters and immortals and bloody gods weren't enough, now they had to add fucking dark creatures into the mix. Perfect.
Wait a second. Hadn't Dumbledore said the Amabassador's name was Delacour? Wasn't that a veela name?
...Had the ICW actually been insane enough to send a veela as their representative to Hogwarts? They had to know dark creatures weren't nearly as tolerated here as they were on the Continent, what were they thinking?!
Just, son of a bitch, they hadn't even been here for an hour yet and things were already going wrong...
As the lilin reached up to the carriage door, Síomha leaned a bit closer to Michael, muttering in his ear. "That man's a lilin — dark creature, have very dangerous fire magics." And insidious mind-influencing powers too, of course, but Fionn had already conducted a ritual to shield Michael from legilimency and compulsion weeks ago, he should be fine. "Keep your distance if at all possible, avoid provoking him if you can't."
A man was stepping out of the carriage, probably their Ambassador. Wearing Continental-style robes in black and blue — which looked rather casual to British eyes, formal dress had simplified quite a lot in the rest of Europe over the last century — his face accented with a dramatic goatee that honestly did not match the warmth of his smile, he was surprisingly short and plump. Surprising because, well, who had ever heard of a veela being even slightly overweight? He must be human, just otherwise attached to the veela family somehow. (She would wonder if the name weren't just a coincidence, but that he had a lilin bodyguard along strongly suggested it wasn't.) She knew there were humans born into their clans — they did need to feed off of humans to survive, after all, they'd long kept some, like people raising sheep — and humans did marry veela or lilin on the very rare occasion — as Síomha understood it, veela (and their captive humans) didn't practise marriage among themselves, it was a somewhat alien concept to them. So, this was probably a human who'd been born into the veela or married one, either way.
Michael was only half-watching the ICW delegation put themselves back together and approach the castle, half-turned to Síomha. She didn't quite know how to read that narrow-eyed look he was giving her. Confused? Exasperated? "I was under the impression 'creature' was meant to refer to animals, and 'being' to people — if that man's a lilin, then lilin are obviously beings and not creatures, right?"
Síomha didn't bother attempting to answer that question. Partially because she wasn't certain how. (He wasn't wrong, strictly speaking, but...)
Delacour and the rest of his delegation made for the Hogwarts and Ministry people first — he was an ICW official, supposedly, it was likely the only faces he recognised were Dumbledore's and Crouch's. Though, partway through the rather lengthy process (Dumbledore had seemingly brought his entire bloody staff), Snape came up, and Delacour seemed even more cheerful and friendly than he'd been with the others, they must have met before. (Not that Síomha could imagine why they would have.) After getting through the interminable introductions, Crouch led Delacour down the line, coming toward Michael.
"Pardon me," Delacour said, interrupting Crouch's very proper recitation of Michael's credentials, "is that le gallois? That is, I don't speak gallois." There was a noticeable accent to Delacour's English — Aquitanian, she thought, not actually French French, though the difference was small enough it hardly mattered — but it was clear enough he was perfectly understandable.
Michael shook his head. "C'est l'irlandais. I don't speak it either, not really, I honestly don't know what most of that even means. I assume he's saying I'm the deputy prime minister of the Republic of Ireland, and I think I hear T.D. in there, but the rest is beyond me." Yes, he was hearing teachta dála in there...though Crouch said Michael was simply the Teachta Dála from Ciarraí, but she was pretty sure his constituency composed only part of the modern muggle county of the name. Odd that he would bother to say all that in the proper Gaelic, and still get it slightly wrong...
"Deputy..." Delacour's eyes went wide, his voice stalled for a second. "That is, la république d'irland que c'est— You are speaking of the non-magical government in Ireland, yes? Pardon me, I only didn't know your country had been invited to send a representative!"
"Yes, it was a surprise to us too. Not a bad surprise, I hope, Mister..." Michael trailed off, offering his hand.
Delacour took it with more energy than was probably necessary, clasping the back of Michael's with his left, brightly grinning. "Delacour, Mister Cavan, Régis Delacour. When I am not being sent to frigid Scotland to watch children compete in school tournaments, I am ambassador from the Confédération Internationale to the People of...you would say, southwestern France. Gasconha e Lengedòc."
"'People'...?" So Michael had noticed the peculiar emphasis Delacour had put on the word too.
"Ah, yes. You do know, there are other people in the world, not just humans, yes?"
Michael nodded. "I haven't met any, I don't think, but I'm aware they exist."
"Yes, it is my wife's people I speak of. The People of the Song, they call themselves. There are less formal terms, some polite and some rude, but I don't know what they might be in English, I'm afraid."
"Oh, is that common? Mages marrying non-human beings, I mean."
"Not exactly common, no, but..." Delacour trailed off, finally releasing Michael, ending the extended handshake after what seemed like far too long. "There is, shall we say, bad blood between many of the peoples of our world — too often, we humans have not been particularly kind to our neighbours. It is not so much of a...pervasive problem as once it had been, things are improving, but certain, shall we say, racist attitudes do yet persist among some mages, yes."
Michael shot a quick glance at Síomha over his shoulder — she didn't know what that look was about. "Yeah, I did get that feeling, unfortunately. Here, it's mostly about goblins and werewolves, from what I've heard."
"Goblin?" For a moment, Delacour's face narrowed in a light frown. "Oh! You mean dwarfs! Mountain elves, yes? Short, sharp teeth, master metal-workers, rather prickly sort of people?"
"Er, I don't know, to be honest. They run the bank?"
Delacour rolled his eyes. "Eh bien, but the way the economy is handled here is not normal. The dwarfs of Britain, they are bound by a contract— Never mind, if I get started I'll never stop. And I'm going to ignore the suggestion werewolves are non-human beings, because, again, if I get started I'll never stop."
"I know they're human — the whole thing reminded me of H.I.V., when I had it explained to me — but mages don't always talk like it, sure."
"Oh," Delacour chirped, his sunny grin reappearing, "V.I.H., yes, that's a very good comparison. It's not perfect, as le sida is very different from lycanthropy in the details, obviously, but it is a very helpful analogy for explaining attitudes concerning the condition. Never thought of it that way, I'll have to remember that for next time I find myself introducing new people to our world. But, I'm sorry, we must talk more some other time, Mister Cavan, but we must move on for now, yes?"
"Don't bother with the mister nonsense, Michael is fine."
"Then I am Régis, please."
Then they were, finally, getting through introductions again. (At this rate, they'd get to lunch very late.) The process went smoothly until they got to Síomha. After shooting Síomha a respectful nod, Delacour hesitated for a moment, frowning to himself. "She's been recruited to... Forgive me, Madame Síomha—" She was slightly surprised Delacour knew to use her given name, but he was a professional diplomat, she probably shouldn't be. "—but that seems a rather...direct association with the Irish government for an organisation such as yours. In fact, it's dangerously close to a violation of the Statute of Secrecy."
Síomha kept any reaction off her face. "I am fully aware of that, Your Excellency."
"So..." There was still a wariness about him, but his expression was lightened somewhat, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. "So, am I to understand, Saoirse Ghaelach finds itself in a position where they must be...agnostic, toward the modern state of our world."
Was Saoirse anti-Statutarian, he meant. Which, Síomha didn't actually have a straight answer for that, it was sort of complicated. When the Statute had originally been imposed, opposition had been more common among the Gaels than the Brits, and there had been some lingering skepticism ever since. Gaelic anti-Statutarians did tend to find their way into nationalist circles — if nothing else, nationalists and anti-Statutarians had a common enemy in the Ministry, so their interests were at least partially aligned — and even mainline nationalism had started flirting with anti-Statutarian rhetoric since the muggles had had their own nationalist revolution, increasingly over the last decades. So, Síomha could certainly say there was anti-Statutarian sentiment within the greater umbrella of Gaelic nationalism, yes.
However, she couldn't say Saoirse Ghaelach were themselves anti-Statutarian. In fact, so far as she knew, the Commission had never made a statement on the matter one way or another. Agnostic, that was a good word for it.
Though Síomha herself was increasingly coming to believe the question was entirely irrelevant. Strategically, aligning themselves with the muggle government gave Saoirse the best odds of surviving a Ministry effort to eliminate them — if that meant they had to adopt anti-Statutarian ideas, so be it. And, as she grew more familiar with the muggle world, she was increasingly coming to the belief that Secrecy was ultimately doomed to failure, due to the rapid development and proliferation of muggle communications technology. And Síomha felt reasonably certain it would happen within her lifetime. In her opinion, Saoirse shouldn't openly oppose the Statute — if for no other reason, that would provoke a harsh response from the Ministry, likely with international backing — but they should certainly prepare themselves for the social upheaval the end of Secrecy would cause (and exploit the chaos for their own ends, of course).
But Síomha couldn't well come out and say that — Dumbledore was bloody well standing right over there. Like Delacour (who was apparently an anti-Statutarian, fucking weird), she had to take care what she said. "I can't speak for the rest of my people, Your Excellency, but I see nothing wrong with exploiting all opportunities available to us — no matter how controversial certain people might find them."
Delacour grinned, nodded, and moved on without another word. Message received, then.
The ICW delegation soon moved on, making their way toward the British muggles. Unlike Michael's people, Delacour and company observed what Síomha had been led to expect were the proper niceties with royalty, with the formal bowing and everything — apparently it was just an Irish thing, she'd have to ask Michael about that later. (Or perhaps Alex, he was less likely to be unhelpfully sarcastic.) While they were watching and waiting, Michael leaned a bit back, muttered, "I like that one."
Síomha snorted — she wasn't at all surprised. "Of course you do. He's basically you, but magical and very French."
Michael shot her another odd look. "He's practically the first mage I've ever met who hasn't been a condescending, racist arse." There must be some kind of expression on her own face, because he immediately added, "Don't you give me that look, you were just as bad at first. All these poor muggles, aren't they just so deprived and helpless — you were polite about it, at least, but I can tell when someone doesn't respect me, whether they make it obvious or not."
Glancing away to break eye contact, Síomha had to resist the urge to fidget. Because, well, he was sort of right. When they'd met, she'd had some respect for the institution of the muggle government — it was a country of three and a half million people, represented by a state of scale and power completely foreign to most mages — but the individual people in it? If she were being completely honest, she'd been raised not to think much of them at all, and she'd never been given much reason to second-guess herself. The few muggle contacts Saoirse had, she'd had some contact with them, but she hadn't considered them personally, it was just business.
That meeting with the Republic's leadership, months ago now, had been something of a wake-up call. Just, the ridiculous stones they had, planning to fuck with the Ministry simply to get them to show their government some minimal degree of consideration and respect, she... Well, it'd reminded her of sitting in on meetings between the Commission before she'd joined the leadership, honestly. And since getting to know Michael and his people, she... She didn't know.
If she were being honest with herself, some of the muggles she'd met these last few months were quite a bit more impressive than most mages she knew, in their own way. She'd never had quite the disdain for muggles many other mages did, of course not, but she simply hadn't even considered truly admiring a muggle to be a possibility, before.
And, this was awkward, she had no idea what to say, because Michael wasn't wrong. She hadn't respected him, at first — thought of him like she would a bumbling child who didn't know what he was going into, if anything. And she had grown to admire him since, but...
"I didn't mean anything by it," Síomha finally managed to get out, low and uncertain. "I... It's the way I was raised, you know."
"I know. It's not your fault, it's damn Secrecy that's to blame for this sort of thing, not any one of you. And you and most of the rest of Saoirse are much better about it now." Michael sounded like he believed what he was saying, so, it was probably fine, then. "It's just refreshing to meet someone who I don't have to win over to the realisation that I'm a full bloody person. And hey, maybe Régis being around will give you plenty of opportunity to come to that realisation about other people too."
Síomha tried not to glower at him. "That's not the same thing, Michael. They're not even human."
The look Michael gave her — narrow-eyed, frustrated, and above all disappointed — was making Síomha very uncomfortable. (She didn't know uncomfortable how, or why, but certainly uncomfortable.) His voice dropped to something somewhat softer, he said, "They may not be human, Síomha, but they're still people. I'll get you to understand what that means one of these days."
She didn't really doubt it. Which was a slightly unsettling thought but, well, Michael could be very convincing. (And she had been...sort of wrong about muggles, it was possible she'd been wrong about everything else.) But she didn't let any of her ambivalence show on her face, couldn't encourage Michael too much. "Still trying to make a proper socialist of me, Michael?"
His face tilting into an almost flirtatious smirk — which was bloody weird — Michael drawled, "Forward the Revolution, Comrade."
Síomha rolled her eyes.
[Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had been Germans] — Síomha is using "Germans" here in a very general, somewhat archaic sense. Gryffindor was Saxon (born in modern England), and Hufflepuff was Norse (born in modern Sweden). Ravenclaw and Slytherin were both "native" Celts, born in modern Wales. To the people at the time, Hufflepuff and (to most Celts) Gryffindor would have been considered foreigners, though a lot of people in the modern day forget about that.
[though Síomha had gotten used to the muggles' incorrect pronunciation by now] — The anglicised pronunciation of tánaiste, used in media and such for the position in the modern Irish government, is something like "tow-nish-tuh" (IPA: /'tɔ:.nɪʃ.tə/); the proper Gaelic pronunciation is more like "tah-nuhsh-tuh" (IPA: /'t̪a:.n̪əʃ.tʲə/).
[she'd even been at Éimhear's induction] — Yes, Síomha is saying she was in the room when her cousin did her dedication ritual, to what Lyra would probably consider an Aspect of Fate and Death. (The Gaels don't think of her quite the same way, though she is certainly the "Darkest" of the big three.) It really is semi-organised religion to them, they don't think of this stuff in the same terms people like Lyra and Theo do. It's actually perfectly normal for a traditional Irish black/white mage to have their close family there for their induction.
[Swiss Guard] — Síomha is not referring to the Pontifical Swiss Guards, obviously. For a span of centuries, Swiss mercenaries were highly regarded, serving in foreign militaries all over the Continent, and were commonly found as guards in the courts of various kings and nobles. The Swiss constitution of 1874 forbade the recruitment of Swiss citizens into foreign militaries, and Swiss volunteering on their own accord wasn't illegalised until 1927. (The ones guarding the Pope are the only exception.) These laws, of course, don't apply in the magical world, the ICW's security is managed by a force of mostly Swiss volunteers to this day.
[Gasconha e Lengedòc] — If any French-speakers are about to tell me this is wrong, that's because it's not French. It's Occitan.
Like a lot of mages, Síomha is somewhat racist against other magical beings. She's not, like, Death Eater genocidal crazy person, just the "people should keep to their own" sort of mindset a lot of people have. For that reason, pretty much everything she says about veela/lilin that can be interpreted as having any kind of value judgement attached should be taken with a sizeable grain of salt. Well, except the marriage thing, she's actually right about that one — because of how veela reproduction works, it's not something they do natively, it's an imported human concept. If a veela/lilin marries, it'll almost always be to a human, because it's simply not necessary internally. —Lysandra
Also, RE: That thing with Michael and Alex (because I had to ask about it, I assume some of you are wondering, too) — Alex is gay, has a thing for Michael. Michael knows that, but he's straight. Alex knows that Michael knows, both about him being gay and his having a thing, which doesn't change the fact that he has a thing at all, especially since Michael is totally okay with it (while absolutely not reciprocating in anything more than a friendly, bro-ish sort of way). (Not unlike Sirius and James, in my headcanon, actually, come to think of it. Except James didn't really realise that Sirius's ridiculous devotion to him was kind of romantically based.) Michael's bodyguard James thinks this whole thing is fucking hilarious. — Leigha
For an additional fun thing to do with Michael and Alex's history that will probably never come up in-story: Alex originally volunteered for one of Michael's reelection campaigns partially because he was under the impression he was gay, and that's just kind of neat. (He is a prominent politician and also single, which is weird almost everywhere, that he's gay is a not unreasonable assumption.) He ended up being promoted into Michael's permanent office, and before long started actually liking him, eventually came onto him hard. Michael's all like, woah dude, no. Embarrassment all around xD —Lysandra