June 25, 1976 — Spinner's End

Severus hadn't realised, truly, how much time they had spent apart. Something had changed in Eileen — something fundamental, yet impossible to discern. The camaraderie between them, previously easy, was now somewhat strained, and often he would catch her gaze drifting to him — when she thought he could not see — her expression melancholic.

A series of sharp sounds, crystal shattering, echoed through the house, and Severus surged from his bed, racing downstairs. When he came to the kitchen — the epicentre of the sound — he saw Eileen standing, almost frozen, over a broken glass, her hands cut and bleeding.

"What happened?" he frowned, touching her arm. Eileen flinched, and for the first time ever he noticed a bruise near her shoulder, just visible underneath the sleeve of her dress.

"I — nothing," she murmured. "I'm sorry that I scared you, Severus."

"Ma…"

She shook her head, moving to wash the tiny pieces of glass off her skin. He bent to pick up the mess from the floor, but continued his enquiry.

"Where did you get the bruise?"

Eileen turned to him abruptly, her hand rising to cover the yellow-green mark. "Severus, please."

"Was it Tobias?" he asked, ignoring her.

"That is not something I'd like to discuss with my son," she replied, her voice sharper than he had ever heard.

"It is, then," he said. He knew it'd probably be best to leave the subject to lie, but he couldn't — couldn't not know.

"Severus."

"No," he said, staring into her eyes, angered and disappointed. "How much more are you going to take before you decide to leave him?"

Eileen stepped back from him, her face an unreadable mixture of emotions as she clenched her jaw. With jerky movements, she placed the dishtowel back on the oven door, before walking past him, her bedroom door closing behind her with an ominous click.

June 26, 1976 — McGonagall Manor

"Minerva?" Cassiopeia asked, wandering into the kitchen. Her Master turned to her with a warm smile, setting down the dough she had been kneading.

"Yes, lass?"

"Could I — talk with you? I don't want to interrupt, but — "

Minerva gave a light frown — concern, not annoyance — before transfiguring a chair, and setting it down across from her. "Sit, and tell me what you need. Do you mind if I continue the work?"

"No, not at all," she replied, taking a seat. For a moment afterwards she watched Minerva's graceful, rhythmic movements as she prepared the evening's feast, before finally bringing herself to speak, regretful to break the peaceful silence. "Have you ever heard of Occlumency?"

The sounds of Minerva's knife paused for a moment, before she answered. "Yes, I have."

"Do you have any skill in it?"

Her Master glanced up to her. "A minimal amount, yes… why?"

Cassiopeia closed her eyes, sighing. "It's — not enough. The Headmaster has been using Legilimency on you."

Minerva set down her knife. "That is a strong accusation to make."

"I am certain."

For a moment, the witch was silent. "…We were… friends for many years, Cassiopeia."

She chose her next words carefully, knowing their importance. "Do you truly think that would stop him?"

She saw Minerva's struggle play out on her face, a battle between logic and heart. "I'd hope it would, yet — " she cut herself off, the concession left unspoken. "I know you would not say such things were you not certain, but it is not an easy possibility to consider."

Eternally grateful that there was enough trust between them for Minerva not to reject her outright, she replied: "I understand. If I could, however, I'd ask you to think on it, maybe consult someone else. I — "

It was manipulation through truth, for a good cause. She needed to be certain of the outcome.

" — I want to be certain, that the words I speak to you can be between only the two of us. I want to be able to trust you, and speak my mind without inhibition. Please, if for my sake only."

Minerva sighed, her expression troubled. "Give me some time, Cassiopeia, alright?"

"Of course."

By the evening time, their conversation had mostly faded from memory, replaced by worries over the dinner preparations, and — around five — greetings and introductions with the first visitors to arrive.

"Aunt Minnie!"

Running through the door with no care for social conventions, a girl — a brown-haired blur, really — threw herself at Minerva, who had just been coming to greet her.

"You must be Cassiopeia."

A deep, crisp voice startled her from her observation, as the girl's father — the likeness was unmistakable — walked through the door. Minerva's brother, she was fairly sure, reaching out to shake the tall, stately man's hand.

"I am. Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Call me Malcolm," he offered easily, glancing to his daughter, who only now seemed to have noticed her. "That's Lila."

"Nice to meet you, Miss," the girl smiled, not a hint of shyness in her. Cassiopeia couldn't resist the corners of her lips turning up as well, as she finally saw her face — the striking family resemblance apparent in the three of them.

"Would you two like to sit down?" Minerva cut in, giving her brother a warm smile of greeting. "Make yourselves at home in the dining room."

As the two of them walked away, Minerva turned to her, but before she could say a word, another series of cracks rent through the air, bringing with them what would turn out to be only the second in a seemingly never-ending wave of arrivals.

There was Robert and his girlfriend Clara; Minerva's aunt: Rose, and her children: Ada and Leith, their husbands, and their children; several good friends (whose names Cassiopeia didn't even try to remember) and a group of distantly related family members who had happened to be around.

As the final greeting was made, and everyone went to get settled in the dining room, Cassiopeia finally felt that she could take a breath, after the freight-train of new acquaintances had hit her.

She leaned her head against the wall, resting her eyes.

"Bit much are we?"

She just stopped a curse — impotent, for her wand was still in her sleeve — from flying from her lips, as she turned to the guest who had disturbed her.

Young, dark-haired, and with a smile on his lips, she faintly recognised him as one of the last to arrive, but for the life of her could not remember his name.

"A little," she answered his question. "I'm sorry, would you remind me — ?"

"Cailean," he replied, then, to her unspoken question: "I'd noticed you weren't joined us — just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Ah," she murmured, self-conscious. "No need to worry, I'm fine. Just — yeah, a little overwhelmed."

He nodded, practically radiating reassurance as he spoke, his voice warm and smooth. "I guess you get used to it, with a big family. Though I can't say it hasn't been a while since I've seen everyone here."

"Oh?" she asked, tilting her head.

He smiled, his fingers toying with the edge of his fine, navy robes — an action that, had his entire demeanour not projected self-confidence, she would have read as nervousness. "France is my primary home. Usually, I make an effort to spend the summer in Scotland, but an apprenticeship over the past four years has made that a little difficult."

"You're a master, then?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes. Healer Déchant," he said, his voice slipping into a French accent, and his grey eyes shining. "I'll be starting my post at Saint René in September."

"Congratulations, then," she said, and he bestowed her with a warm smile.

"Thank you, Cassiopeia," he replied, then glanced back towards the door. "I do reckon we should maybe get back… wouldn't want to arouse too much suspicion, would we?" he teased amiably.

She revealed in the warmth that spread over her body as she allowed herself to be led inside, the feeling quickly disappearing as they separated in the crowded room.

Thanked the gods that at least nobody commented on her late appearance, she took a seat at one of the less-occupied tables, hoping that she'd be able to merely sit and observe the evening's proceedings, rather than participating.

Alas — "Cassiopeia, yes?" the girl sitting across from her asked. She was auburn-haired and green-eyed, reminiscent for an unpleasant moment of a certain someone, were it not for her age, and heavy Scottish accent.

"Yes," she replied, smiling tightly.

For a moment the girl regarded her, her gaze strangely piercing, before gesturing to the bottle on the table. "You seem tense."

"No, thank you," she refused, and the girl shrugged, pouring herself a glass.

"I'm Imogen, by the way. McGonagall," she introduced, raising the glass to her in a silent toast, before savouring the liquid.

For some time, they sat at the table silently, letting the lively conversation from the others wash over them. Imogen observed her, making no effort to hide her scrutiny, and Cassiopeia struggled not to feel self-conscious under the older girl's discerning gaze.

"You're a pureblood, but — not," she said, out-of-the-blue, her brows furrowed. "How?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your last name is an old one, and it's clear that you're wealthy," she said, explaining herself with a vague gesture towards her clothes — a silk robe Cassiopeia realised stood out against the practical cotton donned by most of the other attendants. "And yet, I've met purebloods, and they're not like you. They talk differently — their accents, their mannerisms are unlike yours. How?"

"I… wasn't raised as a pureblood," she replied carefully, calculating how much she was willing to reveal. "I don't even think I am one, and I'm — not wealthy. Not at all, really. But I am a Slytherin, and a pair of purebloods… took me in… when I was younger. The robes are from them."

Imogen tilted her head, considering the words. After some time, she finally acknowledged them with a nod, but at that moment Cailean appeared, giving them both an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid Minerva's requesting your presence," he informed.

Cassiopeia left her new, curious acquaintance at the table, following behind Cailean. When they'd finally cleared a path towards Minerva, at the other end of the room, he lowered his head, whispering just near her ear: "She's drunk, which loosens her tongue. She's been waxing poetic about your talents, and I think someone's asked to actually see."

With that warning in mind, she made her way to Minerva, Cailean giving her arm a reassuring squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.

"There you are," Minerva exclaimed. Up close, it was easy to see the flush in her cheeks, and the unsteady way she held her posture at the table. "Cassiopeia, lass, can you believe these people? They want to see if you're as good as I say you are."

Cassiopeia froze, feeling twenty-odd pairs of eyes turn to her. "Ah…" she hated being the centre of attention. "What would you have me do?"

"Are you an Animagus?" Lila asked curiously, her mop of hair just visible above the platters of food.

"I'm… working on it," she said carefully, her expression neutral. "Maybe I'll be one by the end of the summer, though."

"You'll have to show me," the child said solemnly, and she gave a nod.

"Could you make yourself look like Minerva?" Malcom asked inquisitively, and she met her Master's eyes.

"Sure. It's not that difficult, though," she said, and a moment of concentration later could feel herself grow taller, her features morphing on her face.

She heard their sound of awe, but it was difficult to concentrate on anything else as she held the spell together. On a technical level, the transfiguration wasn't horribly advanced, but maintaining each individual part for any length of time was.

A few moments later she let it fall, her hands shaking a little from the exertion as she returned to her natural form.

"Impressive," Minerva murmured, and Cassiopeia ducked her head. "You'll be reaching your Animagus form in no time, if that's how good you are," she played along, seemingly cognisant enough to understand her reluctance in sharing the truth.

"Certainly," Robert echoed with a grin. "Seems you were right, Minnie, to talk my ear off about her."

Later that night, after it had long grown dark, Cassiopeia watched from a window as the guests slowly made their leave. They had been lovely: warm and welcoming all of them, but just a bit too much — too boisterous and lively — for her sensibilities.

Still, she was glad to have met their acquaintance, she thought, as she watched the dark outline of the last group walking outside. She recognised Imogen and Mairi, who left with their mother Ada — a homely, earthy kind of witch — and Innes, a distant relative who lived just down the road. She was just about to turn back, fairly certain that that was all of them, when a final figure caught her eye, just visible underneath the window at which she stood. Cailean.

For a moment, she wondered if he could see her, when he took a step back, raising a hand in greeting. Amused, she waved to him, and saw him gesturing to pull the window down — deciding to do so after a second of consideration.

"What is it?" she asked, letting the warm, summer air wash over her. She lit her wand, and he stepped into the light.

"Nothing much, really," he answered after a moment, running his hand through the waves of hair. "I just didn't get a chance to ask inside — would you like to spend the day with me tomorrow? I know you're new to Caithness, and I'd be glad to show you around."

Pausing, she considered his apparent earnestness. She'd heard countless stories at Hogwarts of pranks that looked like this — a way to make fun of girls desperate enough to fall for it — but from her conversations with him, she had not gotten the impression that he was the type to do such things.

It couldn't hurt could it?

She accepted with a nod, lightened as a bright smile broke out over Cailean's face.

"Could I pick you up here at eleven?"

"That'd be agreeable."

"Wonderful," he murmured, stepping away. "Have a lovely night, Cassiopeia."

"And you as well."

•••

My apologies for the late update - I've been especially busy these past few days. I would love to hear any thoughts you may have though, and I hope you have a wonderful week.