Author's Note: Sorry, I did it again it takes me ages to upload. I know it's been so long with this story so stuff is hard to follow and I keep getting distracted when I'm meaning to come up with a glossary of terms and characters and things. I wont babble too much as I just want to get this up. Enjoy! Please leave a comment if you can 3 .
"I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul." -Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
Waiting in Tarquin's office has a horrible sense of inevitability to it. Arria wrings her gloves between her sweaty hands and uses the soft suede to wipe away tears. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner echoes like a metronome, dull and heavy. All she'd wanted was to see Cassandra, to see her aunt. Instead, she was grappling with a half babbled prophecy that didn't make any sense. She'd been too full of adrenaline to really process it, too terrified by Cassandra's wall-eyed frenzy. Something about sisters? But even before that…
You are not a Sinclaire.
Cassandra must be mistaken; Tarquin has always treated her as the heir. Knowing that all that was Idyll's Aerie was to pass to her has been a thing so central to every plan she had ever made for her future. Megaera, always telling her that she deserved the estate…she juxtaposed it with Tarquin's insistence on her pureblood matches. She'd always thought it a silly affectation to secure further heirs, more Sinclaire's to keep the family going. But what if…Arria runs her nose over her gloves, her legs bouncing and her tights suddenly too constricting under her skirt.
She stood up abruptly, storming across the room to make herself a cup of tea with shaking, sweaty hands. The door opens as she's pouring cream and she nearly spills it across the crimson carpeting as she slams down the pitcher, snatching up the cup and staring at her father…at the man she's always thought was her father, where he stands in the doorway.
They say nothing for a very long minute, Tarquin brushing strands of sweaty blood red hair streaked with silver out of his eyes as he steps into the office and closes the door behind him. It feels too cramped in the office for both of them, despite the fact it's nearly as large as an operating theatre. Arria feels the insatiable ache in her throat as she takes a sip of tea with too much milk in it, the pain that preempts tears. Tarquin stands, still and silent across from her. Say something, you have to say something.
Nothing. She doesn't know what she expected. That for once, Tarquin would deign to volunteer any information to her, would deign to address her? When her words finally burst forth, it's a deluge and confession of pain.
"How could you?"
Tarquin's gaze, that dark green he shares with Maeve, hardens like ice as he strides across the intricate floor tiles. He sweeps past, sapphire blue robes hissing across the floor as he shrugs out of his overcoat and makes for his desk, hardly dignifying her with a look.
"Arria. You must be more specific in what you wish to blame me for now if you want me to address your concerns-"
"Don't you dare dodge me on this, you asked me here. Staying was doing you a favour. I'm asking you how you could you lie to me, how you could keep Cassandra-"
"I have only ever tried to do what was best for you, Arria! As for your aunt, her repeated attempts to murder-"
"Your heir? Because I'm not? No wonder you never gave a fig about me, about the way Dolohov treated me-" She's getting hysterical, her breaths coming too fast and too quick.
"-I made another match for you immediately, Arria. Not that it matters, as your heart seems to have already been won by that fool boy in the ministry." Here she'd truly thought they'd hidden well, only to find that Tarquin always knew.
"Why even worry about that at all, if I'm not…" The truth of it lances through her like a sword strike to her heart. "...for Maeve, so she didn't have to marry any of them and we could keep the family fortune from them. A front…you used me!"
Tarquin says nothing, making another one of his little potions at his drink tray with pale, shaky hands. He's getting worse and worse, she's noticed. Whatever magic he's done to keep mother in good health…but no, she can't think of that now, not when she's angry, when she's furious. "You know, I don't even know why I'm surprised, this is exactly the sort of thing you'd do. But why couldn't mother be honest with me-"
"Since when has anyone in this family ever been able to bear their own shame?" She should have, she could have…if she loved me, she should have told me. She shouldn't have let me be offered up like a sacrificial lamb. Arria wicks tears out of her eyes and stomps her foot, a childish gesture but one that seems to ground her nonetheless.
"You…you're not even my father. So, who is?"
"Arria, do not pretend that I did not love you as though I was. I did not attempt to marry you off merely to secure Maeve and Ambrose's futures, I had no idea that you were not the subject of the prophecies-" He sounds apologetic…but then, liars always do.
"Shut up about those prophecies! There's no dark wizard and just because I was in Slytherin…you're the one who does dark magic-"
"To save your mother's life, Arria! And to act as a repository of knowledge for the sake of academic preservation-"
"Cassandra is just mad, she doesn't know what she's saying and don't you dare claim you did all this out of love...Love! You don't even know the meaning of the word! Who is my father-"
"I am! The muggle who bore you hardly counts!"
"A muggle? Did anyone tell him about me-"
"Arria, do not spin for yourself a fantasy of being wanted-"
"Tell me! Everything! Now!" Her shriek is loud enough that he winces.
"No, I've already told you too much. You will only do something foolish if I do."
"You can't possibly predict-" Tarquin shoots her a meaningful look, the high arch of his brow as imperious as ever. The words dry up on her tongue, catch in her throat even as she tries to swallow. "-what's supposed to happen if you tell me?"
"My sister made few prophecies about you-or, what I assumed was you-but you must understand how many of them ended in certain ruin-"
"Tell me now, clearly. And the ones about Maeve. I can't believe you all stood around while alleged doom hung about us and never bothered to say anything. If you thought some dark wizard was rising-"
"Arria, enough. I've endangered you just by telling you what I have; now you feel as though you must crusade against an outcome that you will cause, just as I did. The ministry is right to keep prophecies away from people-"
"No! I need to know, I'm not letting some fatalistic garbage decide who I get to be, who Maeve gets to be! You have to tell me!"
"I won't." Tarquin is resolute, unmoving as he stands against his desk with another of those little restorative potions of his clutched in one pale hand.
"I'll find out on my own, then. Even if it kills me I swear I will find out and you will be sorry." She storms out of the office before he can forestall her, dashing her teacup across the threshold as she goes.
"What am I, a thing that asks but never answers?" Maeve studied the door and it's imperious eagle knocker for a moment and took a long breath. Has the door always been this annoyingly vague? She didn't usually enter the common room anymore unless it was necessary, she liked to avoid the feeling of the doors imperious judgement if at all possible. Being Head Girl now meant that she didn't have to spend time with the rest of her house unless she chose to. Or, like now, if someone needed to be told off.
"What? Here, I thought you were so good at doing riddles-" Behind her, Keegan Macmillan let out a scornful sigh.
"That's a bad pun, Macmillan. You don't 'do' riddles, you solve riddles." She snapped forcefully, flicking the hem of her robe disdainfully. The Hufflepuff head boy rolled his eyes so hard she was surprised they didn't fall out of his skull. "If you're going to insult me, have the grace and intelligence to do so properly."
"Oh whatever. It's a good pun and bad grammar, do you know the answer or not-" It was so hard to think with Macmillan jabbering away and the riddle wasn't specific, it could be generalised. A dead person, for instance, might ask a question that's never answered? No, she needed a cleverer answer than that, something more succinct.
"I am an echo." She repeated, clearly and concisely. Not for the first time, she wondered if the door mocked people on purpose.
The door was silent and still, the eagle beak closed and offered no congratulations. Not for the first time and perhaps not for the last, Maeve felt frustration boiling inside her at the door's resolute refusal to open for an answer that was only partially suitable. Macmillan, for his part, sounded delighted.
"Got it wrong, did you? Here, here. Weren't you just this morning defending yourself against allegations of not being a proper Ravenclaw yet here you are, stumped by the door!" He whistled, brushing his wavy brown hair back roughly with a kind of self satisfied smirk on his homely face.
"Do you know the answer?" She hissed, unable to keep the haughty condescension from her voice. Macmillan folded his arms over his chest, sighing profoundly and looking up at the door with a cautious kind of scepticism.
"An exam? I am my N.E.W.T.s?" The door, to Maeve's relief, didn't budge. Asks but never answers, asks but never answers-? From above them, a damnable sound issued on repeat, the endless hooting of-
"It's an owl! I am an owl." How did I not get that one right off? I'm out of practice.
"Very wise." From beside her, Keegan Macmillan's groan was unnecessarily laborious. She grit her teeth and her grip on her wand tightened.
"So much for the theories about Riddle dating you for your brains." She had to endure all kinds of jibes like this now, puerile attempts to make her snap and say something that might rob her of the hardwon position of Head Girl.
"Come along, let's get this over with." Maeve diplomatically pretended not to hear him as the door opened for her.
"Oh, sure. Wouldn't want you to be late to your 'party', after all." Merlin, it was like being dogged by a gnat. Slughorn's invitation to one of his infamous parties had come by owl over breakfast and Macmillan hadn't let her forget it.
"Jealousy that you aren't invited to important parties is a bad look on you, Macmillan." She shrugged and entered the common room with him trailing behind and scoffing like he'd swallowed a frog and was desperately trying to cough it up.
"Oh, don't worry. You are the last person I'm jealous of. Everyone knows you're just a plus one to get Riddle to attend-" Maeve flicked her wand over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture and Keegan made a choking sound. She'd been resisting tongue tie jinxing him all day but she just didn't have any more patience.
The air was thick with the faintly vanilla smell of old books and incense, her heels striking the marble before being silence by the sapphire carpet in the massive circular room. A few Ravenclaw prefects turned with slightly guilty looks on their faces that paled to something like fear at her approach, standing up from the small nest of couches and chairs with a clatter of discarded tea cups and books snapped shut.
Not for the first time, she felt a twinge of resentment at this. The Deatheaters might have graduated, but the reputation she had earned by consorting with them was still alive and well. Head Girl and Ravenclaw she may be, but her own house didn't regard her with anything more than cautious suspicion. As it is, no one so much as greets her until she loses her patience and speaks first:
"Well? You have reports that you couldn't bring to the Head Common rooms? What do you need?" Something about hearing her own voice speak this way, how it cuts into the tension with a chilly authority that makes even the most innocent statement into a threat, reminds her of someone. It takes her half a second to realise who she's parroting. Tom…Merlin, I miss him.
"Nice of you to show up." Triton Davies snapped, glowering at her and brushing back a few errant curls of dark hair, his arms crossed defensively as he stepped forward.
"After you so kindly requested my assistance-" The words taste like acid as she tries for a diplomacy that never works anymore, no matter how she might spin it. Trust is so easy to lose, Sinclaire. Fear has more staying power. She takes her own smart step forward to meet him, like they're duelists on opposite sides of a ring.
"We didn't." Triton muttered with a dismissive roll of his eyes that put her even more on edge. Brave and bitter, he'd changed so much from the boy who used to offer her tea in the common room while she studied. She doesn't have the time or desire to grieve that loss, though. "You showing up when called is a bit of a shock, really."
"I always 'show up', when you actually need something." Annoyance mingles with a bit of anger at her snappish response in his blue eyes, brows furrowed. She breaks eye contact with him to survey the others in her own gesture of dismissal. Why was everything like pulling teeth? As if she didn't have enough to worry about with N. E. W. T. S. and studying under Binns; who had just passed away recently at his desk mid-lecture and gave everyone quite the shock. Not that it had deterred him much, he was still teaching even as a ghost. Fortunate for her paper on magical genealogies and their tracings but exceedingly grim nonetheless. "So, what is it you all needed?"
"We didn't ask for you, we asked for Keegan. We'll talk to him about it." Another Ravenclaw prefect, Amelia Fawcett, stood up abruptly; hands balled into fists at her side.
"Unfortunate for you, then, that Macmillan has never met a conflict he didn't turn tail and scamper away from. Listen, I'm Head Girl and I am a Ravenclaw. A member of your house. Surely I can help-" Maeve couldn't pretend that this rejection didn't hurt. Tom had never had to deal with this and he'd been an actual Slytherin. Why wasn't she trusted in the same way?
"No, really. Don't trouble yourself. It has to do with the Slytherin prefects; wouldn't want our interests to conflict." The Slytherin prefects? She knew them all; some of the most effective of the gaggle she and Macmillan generally oversaw. Why would-
"That's ridiculous, just because they do their jobs-" Keegan stepped forward, clearing his throat of the jinx finally.
"What have the Slytherin prefects been doing?" Keegan shot her a quelling look and she opened her mouth to argue before realising all the Ravenclaw prefects immediately looked relieved as he spoke. When had she become distrusted here?
"They've been lording it over us all; but mostly, they've been frightening the first years. Strangely," Davies spoke with a kind of snide derision to imply that it wasn't strange at all. "it seems like muggleborns and the more vocally halfblooded among us are being made to feel unwelcome."
"Pure-blood pricks," Macmillan spat, venom in his voice as he glared at her. "What have I been saying, all this time? Every Slytherin thinks they're Salazar's gift to the house all because of blood status-"
"I apologise," Maeve interrupted smoothly, trying not to grit her teeth. Idiots. How many times do I have to tell them? "I hadn't noticed they were behaving in such a way-"
"As if you would have stopped them." Amelia muttered, rolling her eyes.
"-I'll speak to them personally and consult with Dippet about appropriately disciplining the Slytherin prefects and those who may have antagonised them-"
"No one antagonised-"
"I'll be the judge of that. Seeing how kindly I've been treated since I walked in here has me questioning everyone's motives. But, you can be sure that I will handle it." No one looked convinced and Maeve let out an irritated huff. "Macmillan will accompany me, if that will allay your concerns?"
"Macmillan will, yeah." Davies nodded, his expression dark and not deigning to look her in the eye. Macmillan looks serious, but for a slightly wry quirk of his lips. Something like triumph there, delight in her embarrassment?
"Don't worry, mate. I'll get it done. Sinclaire has a fancy party to go to, anyway. So you know I won't go easy on them." Maeve opens her mouth to defend herself, watching the less vocal prefects get up and head to their dormitories, no one so much as sparing her much more than a glare. Macmillan is already on his way out, leaving her standing there.
"Yeah well…it's been two years of dealing with this. Always happens with a Slytherin head of house but we expected it to get better with a Ravenclaw. Shame it didn't." Davies mutters, the last to turn away and still staunchly avoiding eye contact. Shame…guilt curdles her blood to ice in her veins and before she can stop herself she's chasing after Davies.
"Triton, wait." She's there, alone, nothing but the dying fire and a pool of moonlight as her only companions as she reaches for the sixth year's shoulder. He jerks away before she can touch him, something like hurt in his gaze. Don't leave, please. It's a desperate, stupid thought and it claws at her throat unbidden. "Listen, I truly didn't know-"
"Maeve, spare me. You have better things to do than coddle my feelings. Better things to do than pretend to care about any of us. You always did…it just took me a while to see it, is all. Give your pals in Slytherin my best." He turns away from her to trudge up the stairs.
Maeve catches hold of the bannister but dares not go a step further. It's the stairwell to the boys dormitory and it'll repel her if she tries. But she knows he can still hear her as she snarls the words; a confession of hurt as much as a defence:
"You're right, Davies. I do have better things to do. You all liked me better when I was some weak, voiceless little mouse of a girl. When I was biddable-"
"Merlin, you really have been drinking in the rubbish those Slytherins fed you, haven't you? You were never weak, Maeve. You were kind, you cared about people! The Warren girl, Hagrid! You had friends outside that group of pureblooded bastards, even if you didn't know it!" The words are like a slap, his fierce glare has a finality to it like the downward sweep of an axe. "But no one even knows who you are anymore-"
"Maybe none of you ever did." Rubeus had been responsible for the monster that murdered Myrtle and Triton had been generous in calling two people who had barely tolerated her 'friends'. She'd always known that really having any friends besides Hathor was going to be impossible. Was it? Or did I make it so? She didn't have Arria's charm or skill and her blood meant nothing to Ravenclaw house.
"Maybe you never let us, Sinclaire. Besides, I don't see how it matters now. All the pureblood friends you need, don't you?" I don't see how it matters now. He was right, it didn't. She had to stop this. She turned to leave, feeling those challenging eyes on her back like a physical weight. Stupid to come here, she should have let Macmillan handle it, but her pride- "Well…everyone except your precious Tom, maybe."
Maeve freezes, dread coiling down her spine like an icy claw. She turns slowly, the once comforting familiarity of the common room suddenly even more barren than it was a moment before. It's become a battleground of wills, the blue and bronze and silver of it's decor icy and remote as Davies descends the stair with one proud stride, leaning against the wall and meeting her gaze with a tilt of his head.
"What did you say?" Her voice is a croak.
Triton is a savant even amidst the best and brightest of Ravenclaw house, in line for an aurorship after his approaching graduation. He's perceptive. It's a trait she'd nearly forgotten he had, but one that sparks in her memory now like a guttering candle flame.
"I'm saying that I've been trying to understand for a year and a half why a pureblood would go for a muggleborn. The surname Riddle isn't in any magical genealogy book I've read and you and I both know it. I thought it was a good thing, at first. A sign of compassion on your part."
"Don't call him-!" The words catch in her suddenly tight throat, heart racing. "You don't know everything about magical genealogies, Davies. His surname could be obscure, might not even truly be his. You're just…just trying to upset me."
"Maybe I don't know everything, but isn't genealogy your focus of study? You're a quick study, Maeve, or you used to be. So, what is Riddle's magical heritage? Don't tell me you haven't looked into it-"
"I've had enough of this; I need to go." He reaches out to her and she retreats, going for her wand is enough to make him pause, even if his gaze challenges her. Much as the association with the Slytherins may have weakened her reputation, what had truly been the straw that broke the hippogriff's back was the 'curse' she'd alleged laid on Grisham. Even Triton seems to think better of grabbing her, but his voice is cutting all the same:
"No, don't run off now, not when you're finally close to learning something! What about Quidditch? You used to be an ace flyer. But I haven't seen you fly since sixth year, not even just for the joy of it." Triton's looking at her with such a fierce expression, accusation and pity all at once. "How much did you give up to be accepted by-"
"Shut up, Triton! I didn't give up anything I hadn't already lost." She turns and storms out of the common room, her heart pounding as she turns her back on the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. It's a struggle not to let the heavy, weighty feeling of tears choke her. She never, ever wants to come here again if she can help it. Part of her can't shake the feeling that maybe they're right, maybe she doesn't deserve to.
Author's End Note: Next chapter is mostly already written but no promises on a deadline. It'll be Maeve/Tom centric though, I promise! Sorry for the exposition!
