13: How to court a pureblood

May 1996

The late spring felt more like autumn. Even when the sun stood highest, the temperatures rose hardly above fifteen degrees Celsius. Only a few obstinate people still sat outside. Most chose a table indoors, if they felt like visiting one of the cafés at all.

A young lady sat behind a large French window, looking at the people passing on the street outside. She wore an elegant black hat and a simple, matching pair of robes. They contrasted beautifully with her full lips that were painted in a rich cherry tone.

Viola's past year had been quite eventful. Åge had pronounced her performance in her first twelve months of apprenticeship so sufficient that he saw no further need to oversee her brewing work when it came to basic and mildly advanced potions, balms, and salves. In the first half of her second year, they had met twice the week to work on the most advanced potions together. Later, Åge had involved her in his experiments and had let her co-write his research reports. In her remaining free-time, Viola continued replenishing the potions stock in the diverse reservations, and she visited music seminars. Her little quartet had broken up after their meetings became sparser and sparser, but instead she was soon offered a place in an orchestra in Århus. She explained her sudden luck with the sparse number of wizards engaging themselves in music, but she could not help being pleased by the praise of her experienced colleagues, and she basked in the opportunity to soak up their knowledge. Combining her two passions demanded a lot of time and energy from her, so that there was little room for other things in her life, but she liked it that way.

A peck on the cheek pulled her out of her reverie. Well, there was that. Anders was a fellow musician. Someone who had taught her quite a few things. And someone who demonstrated quite often that he liked being around her.

'Hej Lola,' he dropped into the seat opposite hers. 'So dark and lady-like today?'

She smiled at him. 'You were the one who said I should dress up.'

He grinned. 'So I did. Shall we go?' He jumped up again.

Viola looked up at him, often overwhelmed by his restlessness, his need for activity. How many seconds had he managed to stay put in that chair? She still had no idea how he survived the endless hours of rehearsal that demanded so much inner calm and concentration. 'Where to?' she wanted to know.

'The opera!' he replied.

Her eyebrows moved up in surprise. How was he going to survive that?

Their seats were in the pit. Anders was a muggle-born, and Viola loved to listen to him talking about the world of his parents. There was so much to learn about this parallel universe. However, in the wizarding world, his heritage did have disadvantages. Viola felt somewhat lost and crowded in the narrow rows of seats. Endless times she had to rise so that someone could squeeze past her to get to their seat. She longingly looked up to the loges. The Mørkscov family loge's curtains were drawn. Had she known what Anders planned, she could have arranged for them to sit up there. Yet, perhaps it was better the way it was. Whenever Viola's gaze wandered upwards, Reg's image would flicker up before her eyes.

They had not spoken to each other ever since that day a year ago. Reg had not come to any family dinner anymore, and he had not answered any of her letters. For half a year, Viola had neither seen nor heard anything of him. Eventually she had given up.

Lately, she had caught a glimpse or two of him in Åge's company in the potion master's study or one of the two library towers, but he had never so much as acknowledged her presence. Viola was deeply hurt by this inexplicable behaviour, but there was nothing she could do about it, and her busy life had pushed the disappointment to the back of her mind.

Anders' pulse was quick and hard. He could actually feel the blood press through his neck's veins. God, she looked beautiful with her soft, dark brown hair framing her pale face and her sensuous lips highlighted like that! He had been allowed to taste those lips a few times, but that was how far they had ever come. Lola was so different from any other girl he had ever met. In his school time, he had been with some girls, girls from wizarding families as well. Yet Lola played hard to get. She was all together from a totally different world, and Anders was deeply fascinated by that. A descendant from an old pureblood family, she had style that most girls lacked these days.

He watched her as she peered reverently about and took in the impressive dimensions of the concert hall. Yes, he had scored by taking her here. 'It's impressive, isn't it?'

She smiled at him.

Anders had read up a lot about old courting traditions. He was obsessed with the young woman next to him. His best friend had tried to talk him out of it, reasoning that what Anders now found so fascinating would in time annoy him, that the two of them were too different, but he would not listen.

The curtain fell, and the concert began, yet Anders hardly paid attention to the music. He threw furtive glances at Viola, loving the way she drank in the music. The way her grey eyes shone in the light of the few fairies who had not flown backstage when the musicians had started…

Two hours later, they left the concert hall. 'Shall we go to Arne's for a drink?' Anders suggested.

Lola wrinkled up her freckled nose. 'I'm rather tired, and I need to get up early tomorrow.'

Anders pushed his lower lip forward in a mock pout. 'Oh, come on! One drink, for me…'

She sighed and conceded, and relief flooded Anders' body.

They found Arne's almost empty except for an elderly couple that sipped a glass of wine. Anders ordered two glasses of champagne, which earned him another protest from Viola, but he would hear nothing of it. This was a special moment, after all. In fact, he could have used something stronger.

'Lola,' he seized her hand and held it tenderly in both of his, 'I really like being with you.'

She smiled at him. 'I enjoyed the evening as well.' With those words, she tried to extract her hand, but he held on to it. How innocent she was. His heart beat faster. Now was the time.

'What I mean is,' he said and paused to clear his throat, 'I'd like to spend more time with you. I -,' he fell silent and inhaled deeply. With the last remains of his nerves, he uttered, 'Lola, do you want to be my wife?'

Her eyes widened. Drops of sweat protruded on Ander's forehead.

.~*~.

Six voices echoed in a chorus through the dark underground tunnels and the empty halls. Some of them were male, some were female. They reverberated from the cracked ceiling and the crumbling pillars, passed through the heaps of bones and were swallowed by the old leather tomes and papyrus scrolls that lined the walls. A few of the dark objects hidden in niches and behind magically protected walls resonated with the energy flowing through the air.

Tumbled down stones drifted up from the floor. Cracks in the mortar disappeared. The old magics that kept this place hidden, had kept it hidden for nigh to two millennia, were once more reinforced and the building structure repaired. Although they at least nominally new of it, muggles forbade each other entrance to this place, because they feared it could collapse at any moment. It would not. The six chanters made sure of that; made sure that they could continue the secret meetings that had taken place here long before any of their family lines had first appeared in wizarding history.

Eventually, the voices ceased. For a moment no sound but measured breathing filled the emptiness. Then, as if by a hidden signal, each of the six figures reached out to its neighbours. For long minutes, they sat motionless, eyes closed, holding hands.

One of the female voices sighed. She extracted her hands from her neighbours', and clapped them cheerfully. 'Bon!' She exclaimed. 'And now I definitely need a glass of elderflower wine!'

A low round of relaxed chuckles rolled through the room. Someone lit torches while the others reclined to comfortable looking armchairs, and the elderly witch who had first spoken poured the drink.

It was a long established routine: first the magic, then the talk and merriment. Wielding power made giddy, and it was easier to live out this mood in a trusted circle rather than in public, where it would draw unwanted attention.

One of the men reached out to his left side neighbour and rested a hand on his forearm. The younger man had sunken low in his seat, dropped his head against the backrest, and closed his eyes. 'Er du ok?'

Without otherwise making a move, the questioned nodded minutely and grumbled assent. 'Just tired.'

'-And that's before the shift,' one of the others volunteered.

The tired man grimaced and gifted him with a dark look which was soon distracted by the appearance of a glass of honey-coloured wine in front of his nose. He accepted it with a polite nod and nipped at it.

'Well, we can keep this meeting brief, I think,' the fourth and last man in the round, who at age 137 also happened to be the oldest person present, said with a rasping voice that carried a thick Eastern European accent. 'The British Ministry of Magic has now managed to drive away its best chance against the Dark Lord into hiding. Has your source mentioned what Dumbledore intends to do now?'

The youngest man in the round shook his head. 'All I know is that they have stopped patrolling the Department of Mysteries after the Weasley incident and are further attempting to convince people of the Dark Lord's return by word of mouth. The arrest warrant against Dumbledore of course does not throw a good light on him. We've all read the press…'

'Do we have any new information on what He is planning to do?' Judyta's voice sounded more concerned than that of the others'. That was understandable, since she lived with her two children in Ireland, not far from the scene of action.

'Nothing beyond our usual speculation. Which I think is accurate. There is nothing left for us to do but wait and observe.'

.~*~.

She put another log onto the fire. The day was growing old and tired, and the latter also applied to her. In addition, sitting for hours in a house that was not hers and waiting – unannounced – for the owner with which she had not communicated in months was not making her feel comfortable. Still, the door had opened when she had tried the handle. It had unlocked on its own. Did that not mean she was welcome?

To pass the time, Viola scanned the hundreds of books that sat on the shelves in the library. Eventually, she sat down near the fire and took up one of the newspapers. A feeling of unease seized her when she skimmed the pages that were filled with news about the dark wizard who once again haunted Great Britain. Faced with such horrors, Viola felt ridiculous for worrying about the trivial troubles in her own life.

A small sound came from the entrance hall. The front door fell into its lock, and heavy steps moved into the opposite direction, away from the library. Viola silently tracked them, heart hammering and heat rising in her face, and found Reg rummaging in the kitchen, his back turned to her.

Just when she made to clear her throat as a sign of her presence, she noticed that he had put out two mugs. With measured, well accustomed movements, Reg cut up vegetables, salad, bread, and some smoked fish, piling everything up to some tasty looking pieces of smørrebrød. Not sparing Viola a glance, he turned around and took the boiling water from the hearth.

A moment later, the strong, spicy smell of coffee filled the air. Reg levitated the food onto the table that stood just left of the door, dished out two plates, and sat down, wordlessly motioning towards a second, empty stool. 'My shift starts in half an hour.' With that, he secured himself two sandwiches and started eating.

Slowly, Viola walked past him toward the grudgingly offered seat. A rather dominant part of herself wanted to shout at him, pull him out of his ruff, monosyllabic attitude, but her reason told her all of her raging (which would not be very impressive coming from a small, young woman – at least not for someone who was dealing with dragons on a regular basis) would not help. For a moment she was speechless.

'Someone proposed to me,' she eventually got straight to the reason why she had come.

Oh, there it was again. How she had missed that expression on his face! However, in this moment she was not sure it was a good sign. A high eyebrow, a cold glint in his eyes, a sardonic smile. 'So you're collecting proposals, now. And how can I be of assistance there?'

Viola inhaled sharply. Fine. She had asked for that. She knew he had a sharp tongue. By his standards, that might even have been a modest retort. She just wished she knew how she came to be on the wrong side of his sarcasm.

'I come for your advice,' she claimed. It was even partly true. 'There was a time when I could rely on it. Especially when it came to such matters.'

Reg appeared to accept that explanation. He swirled the coffee in his mug and drank a large gulp of the hot liquid. His reply was spoken with less edge in his voice, almost gentle, and the words were somewhat reconciliatory. 'I'm sure you have learned much yourself in the past years. You're a young woman, now, with two promising careers from what I hear and a number of friends. How could someone who does not even know your wannabe fiancé help with such a decision?' He looked directly at her for the first time in their conversation.

She held his gaze and requested softly, 'Talk everything through with me. Show me the other point of view, as you've always done. You know me better than anyone else.'

Reg's eyes focused on his mug. 'I knew Viola the child. I don't think I know Viola the woman.' He put the coffee down and got up. 'I need to go.'

'Can I wait for you?' Viola asked him pleadingly. She felt that he was averting her, running away. There were still fifteen minutes time before his shift started, and his cup was half full.

He stood with his back to her, donning his travelling cloak. 'I certainly won't remove you from my home by force.'

.~*~.

His boss folded the Daily Prophet and threw it onto the table so that it landed with a muffled pang and slithered over the smooth surface – closely missing a mug of tea – until it collided with a stack of other foreign newspapers.

They still used Reg's office as a meeting point, even though most other buildings surrounding it were uninhabited these days. The new settlement had been well received, and it started paying out too, since six new guys had joined their ranks in the past two years. They were still not quite enough people, but it had at least taken some of the strain away that they had been under before.

'At least people know now,' Charlie commented in reference to the article that had met with Reg's disapproval.

The other man lifted an eyebrow, snorted, turned his head away in disgust for the whole situation, and sprang up to check his equipment. 'Right. I see him quiver in fear already! Such fools…'

Charlie observed his boss intently. Reg rarely commented on the events in Britain, but he had often made use of Charlie's knowledgeability in the past year. He-who-must-not-be-named was a regular topic at this table. The second Weasley son wondered sometimes about Reg's interest in the matter. Granted, it showed foresight, since You-know-who would certainly not stop in Britain, but the ferventness with which he reacted at times seemed to stem from more than just serious political concern, especially since it came from a man that usually was hard to unsettle. Ever since the self-proclaimed Dark Lord had returned, Reg's interest had peeked. Now, finally, the British government and public had been forced to recognise that very fact.

'Hey, one of those fools is sitting in this armchair,' Charlie pointed out in answer to Reg's comment.

Reg turned around to muster him from head to toes. 'Are you?' he asked, his head cocked. A sardonic smile appeared on his lips.

Charlie snorted and shook his head. That man was almost spooky in the way he could switch from one mood to another.

Notes concerning chapter 13:

The name 'Anders' is quite common in Scandinavia. In Denmark it is pronounced 'Anners' (swallow the D completely), with a straight A (as in 'arm').

Er du ok? –Are you alright?

A/N: Warmest thanks to everyone who favourited my story lately.

I know it's been a long time since I last updated, and I cannot make any promises as to how regularly I will post chapters from now on. However, I have filled out some of the holes I still had in the plot. Wait and see...