Chapter 8: Love & Friendship
It's cold.
That is the only thing running through Irene's head at this moment. Wind howling around her while colorful leaves dance and swirl, it's the picture of autumn. Cinnamon, cardamon, and rich chocolate scent the air mixing with the nutty aroma of fresh chestnuts.
It couldn't be a more perfect day.
But here Irene is, standing in front of Honeydukes, in disbelief that she wore this horrible abomination to humanity. She looks at her reflection in the window. The person who looks back is unrecognizable, especially with the makeup that's been plastered across her face—a testament to the skills of both Gwen and Lillian. Begrudgingly she admits that maybe Gwen has a point. Her morning routine consists of combing her fingers through her hair, splashing some water on her face, and brushing her teeth. Irene's never bothered to buy any cosmetics before since it was just a waste of money and at her age it never really mattered. She smooths her wrinkled shirt.
A form fitting plaid pencil skirt hugs her waist. The accompanying loose blouse and half-shoulder cape accentuate the meager chest she carries. Both aren't particularly disagreeable, although she isn't a fan of her foot length horizontal at the moment, and the heeled knee-length boots are quite the pain.
What's she to do if she has to run?
"Miss Hill?"
Irene turns, cape spinning wide to flutter and settle at her side. "Cadwallader, er, should I call you Sir Cadwallader?"
Cadwallader fiddles with his hands. He's wearing an equally stuffy outfit like hers—a tweed three-piece suit with a traditional open clasped wizard's robe instead of a muggle jacket—and looks just as uncomfortable as she feels. "J-just Idris, if that's comfortable for you."
"Then you can call me Irene as well, Idris." She smiles disarmingly.
Idris beams and offers his arm. Irene awkwardly threads hers through before they step into Honeydukes. Her heart is an obnoxious thing in her chest as it panickily beats away under the pressure of a first date.
The scents are overpowering upon entrance to Honeydukes. Rich chocolate, spiced bonbons, sharp peppermint waft in the store while shelves upon shelves dangle the most enticing sweets Irene has ever set eyes upon. They rise to towering heights that leave her squinting at the top rows. The few employees dressed in pink striped aprons flick their wands and float candies about the space to gather them for the students that giggle and smile awaiting their delectable treats. Irene's mouth waters greedily. She wipes at her lips to rid the saliva that coats them, then freezes.
Is Idris looking?
Isn't it unbecoming of her to salivate like an animal? At least she's certain some people think that way. Her mind spins. She's a woman, er, girl and aren't girls supposed to be delicate, sweet, meek? Oh, God. But that shouldn't matter if someone likes her, they should like her for who she really is, right? How embarrassing. She feels her palms heat under her nerves and glances to her side.
But Idris is none the wiser over her display of gluttony, too busy burning holes in the sugar quill display.
Great. Now she's overthinking.
Irene sighs and that's probably the wrong move as Idris's entire body tenses. "Haha," she chuckles in a nervous display more than any actual humor. A minute or two since entering, hey are still standing off to the side of the door's entrance. Is this normal? But she's certain it isn't. Her perusal of date night memories tells her as much and does she wish memories equivalated to experience as they stand there like two idiots. Neither of them has moved a centimeter more into the store, and neither of them are feeling courageous enough to intrude the silence.
But isn't she the Gryffindor of the two?
"Anything you were looking to buy today?" she asks to distract them from the uncomfortable atmosphere.
"Uh, yes," he stutters out. "A present for a friend. She likes the cinnamon bonbons here."
"Then why don't we head that way." Irene begins walking towards the closest display shelf, but Idris doesn't move.
"They're, um, actually this way." He points behind him.
She goes a bit red and follows him quietly with her head down, her chest drumming away, her nerves still wound tight.
The rest of the Honeydukes affair holds that awkward tension in a vice grip as Idris gathers his two dozen bonbons and wanders to the checkout. Irene patiently waits to the side with her own meager selection of sweets—some treats for Evan, Iris, her roommates, and Minerva as a thanks for helping her study. From this distance, she can't hear anything apart from the music and chatter. However, Irene notices the teasing smile on the clerk's face as she wraps Idris's chocolates with bright pink wrapping and encloses it with a rose. The cashier glances at Irene with a wink but as she turns back, Idris is shaking his head and soon the clerks face turns into a frown giving him a weird look.
Irene's stomach flips. Maybe she's just overthinking things.
They leave the store and begin walking through the rest of Hogsmeade passing a few other students as they make their way to a small café for lunch. It's when the bell rings to announce their appearance and after they take seats at an intimately small round table that Irene realizes they haven't said a word to each other since Honeydukes.
She hurries to fix that. "Have you been here before?" Irene picks up a menu, "Penelope's Pies," is written on the front in flowing cursive. She thumbs through the various dishes and selects a simple chicken and mushroom pie with sides and places it back down.
"Only once before with a friend. She got the chicken and mushroom, said it was the best thing on the menu," Idris manages to get out the entire sentence without a stutter.
Irene wonders if it's the same friend he bought the bonbons for. That would be awkward. She makes no comment though instead wondering why she'd think it awkward. "That's what I've decided on. It looks good."
The waitress comes round the back and wanders to their table floating a quill at her side. She takes their orders with a sluggish distracted demeanor before returning from whence she came.
Idris makes no further comment, and the conversation ends as soon as it began as the two wait for their food so they can at least stuff their mouths with something if they can't manage to talk.
Both of them are a horrible bundle of nerves.
With the last bite of the pie shoved into her mouth, Irene can factually state that one's mental state can truly affect the taste of even the most delicious foods. Despite the savory, salty, perfection of the dish she can't remember enjoying it at all. Given the bill, she reaches into her pouch and pulls out the precise amount of her meal.
Idris opens and closes his mouth like a fish then ultimately decides to stay quiet as they walk to the front to leave. It doesn't occur to her until later that men are usually supposed to pay for the meal in this day and age.
"What should we do now?" she asks as their feet clack against the uneven cobblestone road that paves Hogsmeade. Around them various pagan runes and decorations litter the outside of houses and shops in celebration of Samhain. Even Evan had sent some juniper to decorate her dorm with as a gift for the holiday.
"Would you like to take a walk? It's S-samhain tradition after all."
Irene nods her head, but the burning sensation on the back of her heel protests. She ignores it and walks alongside Idris, threading her hand through his elbow once more. Despite the intimate action they remain quiet all along the path and too the Black Lake's edge.
It's an awkward affair, dating.
She's not sure when to speak, when to not speak, what to say, what not to say. At some point Irene's pretty sure she's spoken maybe the total of a half a paragraph to Idris throughout the thirty minute long walk so far. God. If this is what dating's like maybe she's not cut out for it. They head for another look around the Hogsmeade facing bank, but Irene has to stop when they're about fifty meters round.
She slumps into the grass. It crunches with crisp snaps beneath her body. Screw modesty and damn her crushing nervousness. Loosening her boot's laces, she removes her leg and spells an Episkey at the blisters that have formed. They flatten but stubbornly remain. Damn her control.
"Sorry, terrible company, aren't I?" Irene sighs.
"N-no. I should be the one saying that." Idris settles down beside her, his large body hilariously contrasting with her small one. "Bad suggestion, walking by the lake.' He looks at her blisters with a frown and pulls at his collar.
Upon closer inspection, he's gained quite the rash from his shirt. Perhaps it's ill-fitting? But that would imply he doesn't wear such outfits often which, now that she thinks about it, is likely true, seeing how uncomfortable he looks.
Irene chuckles. It seems they're both putting on a show. "Say, what do you actually enjoy doing—hobby wise?"
"Oh, w-well, I guess quidditch." He shrugs.
"You know what? I've never actually ridden a broom before."
Idris's focus snaps to her quick as a cat. "You've never ridden a broom? Never flown, never played quidditch?"
She blinks. "Yeah. No, never."
"Let's fix that."
And Irene is sure she's never heard him speak with such confidence.
The adrenaline is unparalleled.
It frees her from the tremulous anxiety that had taken her hostage earlier in the evening. Both Irene and Idris weave and wind between each other, Irene a bit unsteady in her control, but Idris clearly secure in his skill. Wind tunnels past them as they pick up speed and her fingers twitch with the want to go faster—feel the breeze rush by. If only she didn't have to sit to the side on her broom.
Curse her skirt.
Irene twists her brooms handle and heads back down to the pitch. There's someone waving them down on the field. As she grows closer, she notices its Minerva and Blythe. Right. They mentioned something about quidditch earlier.
Idris makes a sharp horizontal loop around her before settling at her side as they land. A bit showy, but not in a bad way. He smiles widely at her, and Irene can't help but share the expression. She guesses this is what Minerva meant when she said he was the opposite on the field.
"Cadwallader! What in the world are you think about sending Irene up there in that." Blythe throws her hands towards Irene in exasperation. Her broom swings wildly in her hand, dressed in full quidditch gear.
Irene looks at her clothes and shrugs. "It's not that bad, especially from that height. At worst I'd break an arm or leg, that's all. Plus, I'm not bad at cushioning charms."
To her surprise Idris just shrugs as well. "Like Irene said. She's got good reflexes for a first-time flier."
"First-time flier? God, Irene," Minerva, entirely beside herself, sighs while slipping out a muggle curse. The silver Gryffindor captain's badge glints on her quidditch robes. She pulls out her wand and points it at Irene murmuring a spell.
It's like Minerva's her fairy godmother, transforming her unwanted skin-tight clothes into something perfect for the occasion—her blouse now a t-shirt, her pencil skirt a loose-fitting pant, and her death-trap boots now heelless.
"Brilliant!" Irene turns round in her clothes and can definitely see the future transfiguration professor that Minerva will become in several years. "Thanks, Minerva!"
"Let's get back in the air then." Idris's broom speeds forward and he swings his leg over it before it lifts off.
She follows along without waiting.
Flying is beyond compare to anything she's ever experienced before. Cadwallader barrels forward—his broom spinning with him on it—as he loops high into the space above Irene in an arch. He smirks and hovers just out of her reach riding backward.
"Show off," Irene snarks without any venom.
"Jealous?" Idris makes a lazy vertical loop.
And, well, yes. Perhaps she is a tad envious. "Can't help it. If I'd known flying would be like this." Her arms wildly gesture around her. "I would've tried it sooner."
He chuckles. "Can't regret the date now, can you?"
"I wouldn't have regretted it anyway, no matter how awkward the two of us are." She nods.
"Really? That's good to hear." He moves in closer to bump her shoulder.
Irene bumps him back. "So, any tips for the newcomer?"
"Hmm." He crosses his arms, completely comfortable with taking his hands of the metaphorical reigns while they glide high above the Hogwarts' grounds. From this distance, she'd do much worse than just break a few bones if she fell. "Riding a broom is not so dissimilar to riding a steed. I believe that is common for muggles, correct?"
She nods, but doesn't clarify that only a few have that experience.
"Then take notes from jockeys. When the body is tightly pulled inward—made smaller—speed is your ally. Remember to engage your core to keep balance. However, swift banks and turns require a more flexible laxness to the shoulders and arms."
Irene thinks that makes sense. Her body has already naturally clung to such instinctual movements, but there's always room for refinement.
She looks down. The quidditch pitch is the size of a watermelon in her view. On the field, she can spot Minerva flinging something at Blythe while Blythe dips and dodges. A drop from this height would garner some high speeds.
Before her mind can commit, Irene relaxes her shoulders.
"Race you to the pitch." She smiles at Idris.
Her broom dips forward. And Irene's falling towards the green. Hands tight around wood, the velocity of her descent forces her to close in lest she be thrown off. Wind cuts through her hair. Her speed, exponential, the pitch grows closer.
The glint of metal goals catches in the light.
And she's heading for a head on collision into the stands.
Irene places all weight to her right. Her core clenches—muscles seizing under the pressure. The broom buckles and bucks under the force of her strained turn. Air whistles past until she banks. Her broom rounds above the stands, her robes grazing the chairs. Relaxing her shoulders, she weaves through a disgruntled group of Gryffindors while maintaining speed.
Irene slows to a stop on the quidditch field adrenaline pumping in her ears.
Idris is still in the midst of descending. She smiles and waves.
Blythe is the first to pull down to the green and hop off her broom, quaffle still in hand. Meanwhile, Minerva is lagging behind her looking positively impatient, a bat lazily twirling in her hands while a bludger sits in the other. A beater? Irene eyes the combination in surprise.
Walking to Irene, Blythe drops the quaffle on the pitch. "Good flying, Irene. Did you mean to do that?"
Irene shrugs. "Kind of." If she's asking whether or not Irene had it under control, she did, but there wasn't really any plan when she decided to drop.
Blythe glances back at the stands, one hand cradling her eyes from the sun. "You gained some decent speed despite your Cleansweep. You should consider practicing on the weekends with us."
No. Definitely not. She's busy enough. "Sorry, I'm a bit full with everything at the moment." She rubs the back of her head.
"Oh," Blythe blinks. "Yeah. I wouldn't want to tag on practice to that schedule of yours."
Minerva taps her bat against her shoulder. "Come on, Blythe. We still have more agility practices to run through. Don't interrupt Irene's date." She nods in the direction of Idris who's touched ground a few meters behind. A group of young Gryffindors have surrounded him.
Blythe groans. "Minerva, if you hurtle a bludger at me one more time, I just might hex you. Do you know how many welts I'll have tomorrow?"
"If you learned to dodge, this wouldn't be a problem."
Irene wisely chooses not to get involved and makes for the direction Idris is in, broom in hand.
"—but it's Samhain!" Bright blonde ringlets bounce and restlessly tumble about the young girl's shoulders while she clings onto Idris's arm. Irene recognizes the hair from the common room. She's either a third or fourth year. They've never spoken, but then again, Irene hasn't spoken to many other students.
"I know. I kn-know. But I have a prior engagement." Idris's eyes glance up to meet Irene's meekly.
She smiles, albeit awkwardly, and doesn't miss the glare from the girl currently latched onto Idris's side. Irene extends her free hand to the girl. "Hi, I don't think we've—"
"You don't even have a few hours for me? Is she really keeping you from your friends on a holiday?"
Irene's mouth is still open, words cut before they could leave. The girl's gaggle of friends snicker under their breath. Did she just….
"N-no. It's not that." Idris seems to shrink in on himself, looking a bit more flustered than he was on their date. Irene's not exactly fast on the uptake but she gets the feeling he's not flustered over the closeness and more over having to explain himself to his friend.
But why?
"Then can't you at least give me a few hours?" Curls twirl before the girl sets her determined eyes on Irene. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"
The question sounds more like an order. Part of Irene wants to say no out of spite. She watches Idris, but once more offers her hand to the girl. "We haven't met yet as I was trying to say earlier. Irene Hill. And you are?"
"Catherine Frimley," she tilts her chin up and curtseys instead of shaking Irene's hand.
Irene drops it and watches the curious pinch of Idris's features like he's watching his worst nightmare playing in real life.
"As I was saying," Frimley snaps Irene out of her observations. "Would you mind letting go of Idris for the evening? My parents are hosting a small banquet this evening and have asked me to bring Idris along as my escort. Surely you wouldn't mind?"
And Irene blinks again, a bit dazed from the whole situation. Frimley's staking her claim and unfortunately Irene is not clueless enough to miss that. Then it hits her.
The pink packaged chocolates. The meal at Penelope's. That friend that Idris had mentioned. Her attention flickers to the pale pink hand that wraps itself around the sturdy arm of Cadwallader. She bites her lips. He doesn't say a thing, just stands there intimately attached to Frimley while he's on a date with Irene—expression anxious but awaiting her answer.
And it seems wrong.
But Irene doesn't know how to explain it. It's not like she has a stake or claim over him. Or perhaps that's how dating culture is. Her stomach flips. However, Irene can't come to place her chips in. People are free to do as they please. Yet—despite her own resolution—it digs a pit in Irene's chest to be on this side despite it being their date. And suddenly, she's exceptionally tired from the day's ups and downs.
"No, in fact I have some matters to catch up on with Professor Merrythought this evening." Irene smiles despite herself. "I should leave you two to it. Have a blessed Samhain." She bows and excuses herself, walking towards the tunnel not listening to any words that may or may not have anything to do with her.
Maybe she's just not cut out for this.
For fifty years, Galatea has maintained her professionalism and perfection at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was hard at first. She'd always loved children—wanting to dote on the cutest little first-years that come in with their eyes sparkling in wonder. She'd even wanted a few of her own many moons ago. A child to raise, take care of. But life isn't kind to all and does not give with gentle compassion.
So just like life, Galatea limits herself behind the veneer of the pristine and strict DADA professor of Hogwarts. What children want…no, need is not a soft kindness. From her they need someone that will guide them, someone that will teach them how to survive despite the harsh truths that will be thrown at them, that are being thrown at them in this very period, rife with war and destruction.
She sighs into her desk, pen sternly checking in bright red all the imperfections that were handed to her. The topic of discussion is boggarts—a dark creature that feasts off fear. With that in mind, it is a sensitive matter to cover in class. Place the boggart curriculum too late into a child's Hogwarts' career and risk the chance that a true horror will take form. Place it too soon and the child is unable to respond to such raw, unadulterated fear.
Third year has been the golden zone for decades. A precarious balance between childhood and overcoming obstacles. But in the last five years, Galatea isn't so sure that the careful balance hasn't tipped. sShe still remembers Sir Bulent's boggart from last year. A muggle-born who lived in Britain in the off season, his fear had taken form in the dead figure of his youngest sibling. Even though it was held in the privacy of a one-on-one session, the damage had already been done. Sir Bulent was sent to the hospital wing for the day and given a prescription for calming draught as the boggart followed him into his dreams.
Knock. Knock.
Her head quirks. It's rare to have a visitor on the weekends and she knows that both Albus and Armando are busy this noon. With a flick of her wrist the door is open with an even call of, "come in."
And to her surprise it's Miss Hill. Such a sweet child. Gentle, and quiet but underneath all of that seemingly meek silence lies a lion so terribly Gryffindor she can't even be envious that the child did not make it into her house of badgers.
Galatea smiles. "And what brings you here on your day off?" Word travels fast around the castle and even she has heard of little Miss Hill's date with one of her best Hufflepuffs. Her appearance here doesn't cast a positive picture of their afternoon walk. Cadwallader must have run back to Miss Frimley. Galatea stifles a sigh.
"I, uh," Miss Hill fiddles with her robe's hem. Always so nervous around her teachers. Galatea wants to pinch those rosy cheeks. "Just thought I could use some more practice since I haven't performed many spells this week."
Oh, yes. That. Her regular release of magic as recommended by Margarite. Galatea stands from her desk. The quill floats back into its holder. She runs through her mental schedule of the fifth-year classes. Reducto, Deprimo, and Fumos are a few spells they are currently reviewing that can vary in their magical consumption, but the dangerous nature of the first two makes her hesitant to suggest them.
"Allow me to get the practice dolls out."
They walk out of her office, and she clears the space vanishing all the desks. Miss Hill stands patiently to the side.
"There, all set. I will be working in my office with the door open if you need any assistance." Galatea bows her head.
"Is it okay if I lock the door?" Miss Hill asks. "I wouldn't want anybody walking into a disaster."
There's a wry smile across her face, and Galatea wonders. Miss Hill's always so terribly afraid of hurting others. Despite excelling at DADA her defensive magic is what gives her that edge, her offensive spells are constantly reigned in tight with a control—or perhaps more accurately, a suppression—that weakens them greatly.
What would Miss Hill see if she faced a boggart?
Pressed silk glides across his fingers as Evan straightens his tie before shifting his robes. The meeting with Ramhart Hewitt is in a few minutes, and currently Fontius and Evan are at the Floo's entrance awaiting their guest, both standing rather than taking seat at the table.
The evening's plans have been organized in one of the several conference rooms in the Ministry. Evan glances at Fontius. This particular chamber is a special case. One that Fontius was personally in charge of designing with the utmost security in mind. Protection runes and wards are established in the four directions of the Earth's poles, while the room itself is round to supply the perfect circle to build magic.
Evan tilts his head in thought. It's a bit concerning that his boss has chosen this location to host a supposedly good friend of his. But who is he to ask why? His boss is quite the cynical sort and people do the strangest of things.
The floo sparks bright, green flames building and eventually opening to allow passage.
With his head still cocked to the side, Evan quickly stands straighter placing his hands together in front.
"Fontius, my friend, it has been quite some time." The stranger offers his hand as the flames around him shrink back and he steps through the hearth. Hewitt is a short man, not too tall in size but with broad shoulders and a thick build. Dark tanned skin gives a clear indicator to his Mediterranean ties while grey curled hair lazily dangles over sharp wrinkled features.
"Yes, it has, Hewitt." Fontius shakes the other's hand while placing his other over their clasped finger. Evan knows this shows familiarity so he's certain he overthought matters earlier. "I heard you got married during your travels." He lets go.
"Well, one of us old men had too. I don't plan on dying alone and bitter like someone here." Hewitt smirks, then glances at Evan. "And is this the apprentice you've been keeping tightly under wraps?"
Evan twitches. He's not Fontius's apprentice he's Caelestis Ectorius's protégé—the Lead Unspeakable in charge of the Space Chamber. Irene is Fontius's apprentice on paper, but it's under an Arcanus charm so the only one that should know of such matters are the HR employee Langdon and some unspeakables.
He meets the other's gaze. Eyes so sharp, judging, and cold latch onto him. Their color almost steal into his soul. He never knew green could look so grave, so unlike his own.
Evan swallows. He's not sure why Hewitt unnerves him so.
"Ah, yes. That would be Evan Nerian Prewett." Fontius gestures to Evan while Hewitt offers his hand.
Evan takes it and shakes. A strong grip meets him in return.
"Ramhart Berenike Cymone Hewitt." Hewitt bows and offers a tentative smile.
"It is of no consequence." Evan returns it warily.
"He's quite young, Fontius." Hewitt turns his attention from Evan and back to his old friend. "A testament to just how talented, Sir Prewett must be considering you hired him despite his youth."
"I have no complaints as to Evan's competence. He's a smart young man, with a head above his peers," Fontius easily replies and ushers the group towards the table.
Evan takes a seat beside Fontius with Hewitt across from them.
"Well, shall we get to business then?" Fontius smiles and flicking his wand a parchment along with a few quills appear.
The papers between them carry information spanning back centuries, since the formation of The Book of Ancient Magics. Most of it regarding unfinished research and case studies. Hewitt picks up the first document, scanning over the information with a plethora of, "hmm's," "ah's," and "oh's." When finished he reaches into his case to pull out some of his own research.
Evan glances over the draft's title, "Lost Magicks," as Hewitt places the cut and pressed papers onto the table. It's still unbound decades past Hewitt's return to Greece.
"Evan, if you would." Fontius glances at the draft and back to him.
He does as ordered while Fontius begins to explain his stack of research papers.
The loose papers bound by a clip flop in Evan's hand before he begins to flip through the preface. According to the brief except there are at least one thousand recorded unique ancient magics native to the Asian continent included in Hewitt's work. Checking the table of contents, everything appears to be in perfect order. Chapters are organized by regions and sections by rarity. An appendix is included for quick definitions for Asian concepts found throughout the tome. He notices a large amount of bone script translations kept in the back.
He glances back at the two older gentlemen. They're engaged in some sort of discussion regarding unique versus elemental magic. Evan uses the time to start his search through the appendix and chapters on unique abilities. Irene's skills have something to do with absorption, so he makes a mental note on any skills related to enchanting, curse-breaking, and healing. By the time they've finished conversing, Evan has his nose so far in the book he doesn't even notice.
"It's a pleasure to know you've found such strong interest in my life's research." Hewitt has his knees and hands folded atop his chair.
"My apologies. It's a fascinating piece." Which makes him wonder how it hasn't been published as it appears to be a polished work. "This could easily win research accolades if it was released." Evan closes the book and slides it back on the table. "It's already properly organized and edited from what I've seen."
"Yes, well, perfection is a difficult bar to strive for and although polished more can always be done." Hewitt thumbs through the piles of papers. "I've found several studies that I could assist in." He organizes a few parchments out for Fontius to look through. A couple on enclaves, a few regarding elemental ancient magic, and only one on unique abilities.
"Ever the perfectionist, Hewitt," Fontius chuckles whilst fingering through the titles. However, there's something strange about his movements. They seem a bit tense, maybe even irritated and it's quite rare to see Fontius in such an expressive state. Perhaps Evan missed something during their earlier conversation. "So how should we go about this? Will you be offering us a copy? Or shall you forward the relevant data?"
Hewitt places his hand beneath his chin in thought. "Why don't I let you keep this draft? Doctorate to doctorate I have full confidence you'll keep my manuscript out of unscrupulous hands, as you've always been quite paranoid, and I have plenty of copies at my office. I don't see the harm in letting you have this one. Although perhaps I should mention I expect proper citations in your research if my work proves useful."
"Of course. If any papers are finished with these additions, I will add your name into the references as well."
"Then it is all said and done." The bright smile on Hewitt's face causes Evan a moment of confusion. It looks to be the most genuine expression on his person since the moment he arrived. "If you don't mind me asking, why now? I couldn't help but think that this was quite out of the blue. Clearly this research has been centuries in the making. Is there something to worry about with the upcoming Dark Lord? You've made me consider packing my bags and moving out of the continent, Old Friend."
"I won't say that the war hasn't lit a fire under my…less pressing projects, but it's regarding my possible retirement." Fontius's fingers tap across the table in trills and Evan can't help but wonder how lying comes so easily to his boss. "I can't very well work in the Ministry for my last hundred years. That'd just be sad now, wouldn't it?" The short bun his wiry hair is gathered in bounces around as he tilts his head. "Though perhaps you should come to Britain. I've heard Grindelwald has been spotted in Greece."
"My channels might be in need of updating as I haven't heard such rumors. But retirement? Surely not. You've always dreamed of a position as Head Unspeakable. I'd imagine they'd have to pry it from your cold, dead hands." His laughter is loud and ringing in the small narrow space of the room.
"Yes. Well the years change us, don't they?" It's a curious tone that lifts Fontius's words. Evan can feel something building.
"Perhaps," Hewitt says, eyes unwavering from Fontius's. "But, perhaps the change is only us coming into ourselves." With a squeak of his chair, he stands, brushes off his robes, and offers that same porcelain smile. "It was nice to catch up with you, old friend. Even if it was through our work. But maybe that's to be expected with our relationship." He offers a hand. Fontius shakes it after standing and Evan follows to do the same when the gesture is pointed at him. "It was nice meeting you, Prewett. I wish you all the best during your apprenticeship at the Ministry." Hewitt bows and steps through the floo without another word.
There's something heavy in the air. It burdens the two left standing in the empty chamber as the green glow of the fire dances across their skin. Nothing particularly disturbing has been said or done, but all the same Evan can feel a prickling against his skin—his senses screaming at him. He's not sure what it is, but he's missing something.
"Evan," Fontius turns round to him, effectively pulling him from his thoughts. "Your fiancé has just finished her round tour of Britain's dueling competitions, correct?"
He nods. But why are they talking about Gladys out of nowhere. Isn't there a more pressing topic at the moment such as the draft that sits on the table?
"How opportune. Please send letter to Miss Macmillan that she is needed for a meeting at her earliest convenience." Fontius turns to the door, robes always flowing behind him.
Evan flicks his wand at the papers sitting on the table. They float and follow after them as he hurries to follow behind Fontius. "What of the meeting, sir? Should I start looking through the book or contact Irene?" He gathers the papers and manuscript in his hand while pressing past the door.
"Both. I have another matter to handle at the moment. But, please meet with her after reading through the research Hewitt has handed to us. Then inform her of our suspicions." And on that last statement, Fontius conjures a Patronus that's destination is curiously destined for Professor Galatea Merrythought.