Chapter 38: She was and would always be their younger child
Eleanor got to Diagon Alley by two o'clock. Still a bit distracted by the memory of Callidora Longbottom's words on the matter of "courting" – and it wasn't like she hadn't been aware that it was what was going on with herself and Sirius, but no one had outright said it until now – she almost forgot to stop by the agency to inform the boss – Dad – that one of his employees needed time off due to a Death Eater attack.
If there was one thing you could count on her father to be these last months, it was getting irritated by how blood extremists were disturbing good business practices because they somehow thought blood mattered more than profit.
Apparently alienating fifteen percent of the wizarding population – and treating sixty-five other percents as if their money was somehow less interesting than if it came from a pureblooded family – meant you'd lose most of your clientele, especially as most old families already had their own ancestral homes and hereditary dwellings.
Eleanor stared at the front door of the Rowle ancestral home – right at the end of Diagon Alley, overlooking the whole street with four high floors and a richer facade than any other building around it – and remembered Emmeline Vance's plight. The whole reason she was here, at her parents' place, and not at her flat to finish her day off, was because she'd come to see her father about the other witch, not because she wanted to ask her mother about courting.
She did not want to ask Mom about courting.
She pivoted on her heels and headed for the building to her left: Rowle's Acres and Houses, the property agency her family had founded right after the International Statute of Secrecy had been decided – when many families had started grouping together, in new houses hidden from muggles.
She pushed open the door, and the welcome witch looked up from her desk with frostily-concealed wariness. Usually, Marsha was professional and kind, but the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his cronies had everyone on edge – especially people like Marsha, whose parents were a muggle woman and a muggleborn wizard. Eleanor gave her a silent nod. Marsha deflated a bit.
"Miss Rowle. Do you wish to see your father, perhaps?"
Eleanor did not point out that they'd gone to school together and in the same House, that Marsha was barely three years older than her, and therefore there was no need to call her "Miss", because she'd tried that already and Marsha had just given her an accommodating smile without changing anything to her manners.
Eleanor guessed she couldn't possibly make friends with absolutely everyone.
"Oh, indeed. Just... Well. You might want to look up possible replacements for Emmeline Vance's job this afternoon. She had an... accident... going home."
Marsha blinked as she rang a small golden bell – the one that told Dad there was someone for him at the reception desk.
"...An accident."
Accidents could mean so many things, and yet these days everyone knew what was implied there. Had it been a true accident, Eleanor wouldn't have been so vague.
"Ms Vance will be alright, but she wasn't up to going to work right away. I suppose she'll contact you tomorrow, to confirm if she'll be able to come back."
Just then, the door at the end of the left corridor opened. Njal Rowle's brown-haired head tilted out, and his eyebrows shot up slightly at the sight of his daughter.
"Eleanor? What are you doing here?"
The witch thanked Marsha absentmindedly and joined her father in his office.
"I was just dropping by to inform you of something."
"Of course, come in, sit with me a few minutes, please."
Eleanor quietly told her father what had happened to one of his employees earlier in the day – brushing over the specifics, of course – and the older wizard scowled deeply at the news.
"I'll have Marsha contact Blake Jones instead, he doesn't have any contract this week and can take over. This is all such a waste of time and resources, those imbeciles are really getting more..."
Njal closed his eyes and didn't finish his sentence. His own son was one of those imbeciles, and his younger brother most likely was one too. For all he knew, one of the two had been involved with the attack on his employee.
It wasn't that Njal didn't understand why they didn't want to... mingle, so to say, with muggles and muggleborns, because there were actual differences in status and upbringings, things they couldn't easily understand about the others, and not everyone was ready – or comfortable enough – to make the effort to learn about people they didn't have connections to. But this wasn't just staying in your own social circle, this was actively targeting people who'd never done anything to them.
People who, by the way, also contributed to the old families' riches. Taking out potential customers over a perceived slight was really stupid.
The wizard sighed, and looked his daughter over. She didn't seem roughed up and hadn't implied that she'd been present during the attack, only that she'd somehow ended up in the same place as Vance afterwards. It could have all been a coincidence.
It could have been, if not for the company she kept these days.
"And you, Eleanor? Are you well?"
His daughter looked him in the eyes for a moment too long before smiling, and Njal knew she'd assessed his current train of thought. Evaluating what was – what wasn't – wise to share.
"Of course, Dad. I wasn't there when it happened."
See? That was why she'd ended up in Slytherin in school. She wasn't volunteering any more information, nothing new, nothing she hadn't already implied before. She kept everything close to her chest and navigated a conversation like it was dangerous waters, calmly and cautiously, without letting any worry show.
His daughter, Njal knew, wasn't overly ambitious or courageous, and she didn't much seek knowledge or believe in hard work over anything else. What she was was curious and principled, loyal and, more than anything else, cunning. She could have gone anywhere, but had ended up in Slytherin because she had never blindly trusted people.
Not that Njal would complain here. Slytherin had been his House too, and while he was well aware of its failings, he still believed in most of its teachings. Naivety had never been a character trait to flaunt, and Slytherin made sure its students didn't fall for it.
Still. Eleanor had been that way before school, too.
He couldn't help but wonder if it was her brother's fault. Thorfinn was eight years older than Eleanor, and had always been close to Leif. There might have been things Njal and his wife hadn't seen, back when they were both young, before their daughter had gone to school. Who better than a much-older brother to teach a child that no one should be easily trusted?
Just because their parents hadn't seen anything worrying didn't mean nothing had ever happened.
After all, Theodore had ended up casting Thorfinn out of the family not so long ago – because the Merlin-forsaken fool had threatened his own sister's life!
And those were the people who tried to sell everyone a line about blood and family being more important than anything else... He'd laugh, if it wasn't so damned heart-wrenching.
Njal's daughter, her, might make some unusual friendships that Njal couldn't quite understand, but she truly cared about family, she wasn't going around threatening anyone who disagreed with her.
Even her friends, for all that some of them did go out against Death Eaters themselves, didn't do that. They reacted, sure, but they weren't murdering people for the sake of it.
Speaking of which:
"Eleanor. Stay home this afternoon, please. Talk to your mother. In fact, stay for dinner."
Two clear green eyes blinked at him – eyes like his, like Theodore's, like her grandmother Sigrid's – and Njal could guess the suspicion – no, suspicion was too strong a word, the careful assessment of his end goal – that had kept Eleanor from answering right away.
Like always.
"Of course, Father."
Oh, "Father". That generally meant Eleanor didn't trust whatever was going to happen with her parents but was still willing to engage, because they were her parents and you didn't have to agree about everything with your parents.
She was probably right not to trust him, too. There were a number of reasons why Njal and Deondra wanted to have their daughter over for dinner. They missed their remaining sane child – they missed her brother too, but it was too late for that, so. She worked but it was a day off, so she could afford to stay longer. They were worried. Her own brother was publicly targeting her nowadays. She was very much obviously in a relationship with Sirius Black.
At least two of those subjects would be unpleasant to address.
Still. She'd said yes, and that was all Njal could ask for. They would talk at dinner.
Eleanor watched her father for a moment before leaving – she found him tired, with some grey in his hair and a scowl etched in the lines of his face. It had been so, she realized, since they'd gotten the news about Thorfinn's escape from Azkaban.
She gave her father a small nod, and left him to his work. She only had to get back out in Diagon Alley, walk a few feet, enter the Rowle ancestral home – then she'd be back in the house in which she'd grown up, with her mother absorbed in her research before she realized that Eleanor was here.
Deondra Rowle would always look up from her arithmantic charts when her children came back.
Eleanor could remember those days after her brother's arrest, sixteen years ago. She'd been targeted for a few days at school – then it had quieted down, because it wasn't like she'd made a reputation for herself of believing the same things her brother did – and when she'd gone back home for Christmas, her parents would plaster painful smiles on their faces more often than not.
Mom had started looking askance at Uncle Leif, that winter, and Eleanor had drawn the conclusion that he was somehow involved in her brother's disturbing choices. She'd listened more closely to the things he said, the words he used. Leif was smarter than her brother, though. He knew not to say anything incriminating – and even Thorfinn had managed discretion, back then, he'd been arrested because a raid went wrong, not because the Auror Office had held enough proof of guilt before that.
Still. When Eleanor had gone back to school in January 1981, she'd been reasonably certain that her uncle had joined the Death Eaters several years before – that his brothers suspected something, too, especially after Thorfinn's fall. Because Thorfinn had always followed Uncle Leif like a shadow, because Thorfinn had always been closer to their cousin Freydis than to his own sister.
Thorfinn and Freydis were closer in age, true, but still. It had stung, back then.
Nowadays, Eleanor didn't really care anymore.
The witch entered the Rowle Townhouse, and found herself faced with the sprawling inner courtyard, arund which the townhouse's facade repeated itself five times. The first door was Uncle Theodore and Aunt Laurentia's, the second was Grandmother Sigrid – who lived alone since Grandfather Landon's death three years prior – the third was her cousin Everett and Aurora and Jasper's, the fourth was Mom and Dad's, and the last one was Uncle Leif and Aunt Chelsea's.
No one was in the courtyard at this hour, and that was probably a good thing. Eleanor hadn't found herself alone with her other uncle since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's official return, and she didn't want to find out how much of a bad idea that might turn out to be.
She quickly headed for her parents' house, and sighed in relief when the door closed behind her.
She'd thought, before, how odd it was that Leif – the younger brother, the one who had no particular duty to fulfill towards the family – had turned out to be the one truly believing in blood supremacy. Theodore was the oldest, and thus he'd always been destined to be their House's lord. Njal, her father, a few years behind Theodore, was to manage the family business. Neither of them much cared for purity of blood – oh, they preferred their usual social circle, but they didn't mind expanding when necessary, or even if personally intrigued by someone of "lesser" status.
Leif obviously cared, even when he didn't have a role to play, a position to keep.
She didn't understand it – and Eleanor had never quite liked things she couldn't understand at all, not even after years of wondering. Some things didn't make sense at first glance, true, but you could still decipher them – and this, her uncle and his beliefs and the things he'd led her brother into believing, she couldn't.
A small, pale head appeared at the other end of the hallway entrance, and Eleanor let go of any thought concerning the neighbors.
"Tofty!"
The house-elf – named after her great-grandmother's maiden name if Uncle Theodore was to be believed – was a decade older than Eleanor herself, and just as shy as Eleanor tended to be quiet.
"Mistress Eleanor? Was... Did Mistress' friend like lunch?"
Eleanor smiled in remembrance of the meal she'd just shared with Sirius – it was less than two hours ago, and yet. It seemed much more time had passed since Sirius had been mirror-called to assist in the Vance situation.
"Of course he did, Tofty. Say, do you know where Mom is?"
The house-elf brightened at her words.
"Mistress Deondra had a lesson at the Academe this morning, so Mistress went back to her study as soon as she got out of the bathroom, Mistress Eleanor! Shall... Shall Tofty warn the Mistress?"
Eleanor smiled lightly, already heading for the first floor.
"No need, Tofty. You can go back to whatever you were doing before I interrupted you."
The witch could imagine the torn look on the house-elf's face before Tofty disappeared with a sharp crack. She shook her head, as bemused by house-elves as ever, and headed up the stairs.
Her mother always took a shower after work, because apparently the sea air over the Indian Ocean was bad for her hair, but that was the only distraction the older woman allowed herself before drifting back into grading her students' work – or whatever needed doing for her next lessons. It wasn't hard to guess what she'd be doing in her study at this hour.
A short, perfunctory knock on Professor Deondra Rowle, Mistress Arithmancer of the Stilted Sea Academe's door, and Eleanor let herself in without waiting for acknowledgment.
Her mother blinked up from a stack of parchments, vaguely surprised at the interruption, and stared at Eleanor for a second too long. She obviously hadn't expected any visit this day.
It was, Eleanor mused, absolutely appropriate for her to visit after the attack on Emmeline Vance – and not only because of Callidora Black's allegations of hers and Sirius' courting.
Deondra Rowle, née Parkinson, was short with a round face and long, waving blond hair that she meticulously kept free of any grey or split ends with numerous potions, making her seem somewhat childish for her sixty-four years of age and her world-recognized mastery of Arithmancy. Sometimes, her grey eyes looked clueless and wondering – just like now, as she blinked at her daughter with the look of someone who didn't know what to say in unexpected circumstances.
Deondra eventually shook her head and smiled at her daughter, letting her quill rest in its upholder. She hadn't expected her, but let it not be said that she found herself displeased by the surprise.
Her students' papers could wait.
"Ellie! What brought you to Diagon Alley?"
The girl winced – she'd never quite liked the diminutive, and apparently Deondra was the only one she hadn't politely asked to drop it – but didn't comment, rather sitting on the closest armchair.
"I... I had to drop by, tell Dad something. He suggested that we dine together."
Deondra's smile widened, and she remembered – Ellie had asked for Tofty's help for lunch. She should ask how that had gone, and...
Or not yet. Speaking about lunch would bring up Sirius Black, and that was a matter better left for a discussion with Njal present. If Eleanor was staying for dinner...
The older witch nodded to herself, satisfied with that decision – didn't pay attention to the narrowing of her daughter's eyes – and chose to stick to more mundane topics for now.
"How are you doing, then? Is everything alright? How is work, on the matter? Anything new and interesting to share?"
Deondra stopped herself from asking if Thorf... – if he had tried something again, because that would be a topic for dinner with her husband and daughter, too.
Ellie sighed.
"I'm fine, Mom. Work is busy, there's a lot going on for our department, but I'm holding up."
The older witch rose from her seat to take a closer look at her daughter, who patiently waited until she was done and only stared at her for a few seconds afterwards. Deondra sat back, her hands absentmindedly playing with a blue ribbon she kept on her desk for that very purpose.
Eleanor did look well enough. A bit tired, but nothing worrying – like someone who had to work, yes, but didn't actually kill themselves working.
"I still don't understand why you chose to work for the Ministry."
Ellie's left eyebrow ticked – this wasn't the first time they had that conversation.
"I like feeling useful."
Deondra pursed her lips, and shook her head.
It wasn't that she didn't get that – her daughter was useful, of course she was, she always did her work efficiently, and people did have to work for the Office of Misinformation if they wanted to keep the Statute of Secrecy going – but still. There were many other things the girl could be doing.
"Then why not the Committee on Experimental Charms? They are part of the Ministry, your father would approve, and you'd get to use your qualifications in Charms, Chants and Arithmancy! I'm sure you'd love it, too!"
"I might like it, but I don't want to spend my every waking hour in academics, Mom. I'm not you."
Deondra made a face and let it go. She wasn't going to try and dictate her daughter's life, as long as Ellie had a grasp on it – and she did.
"Fine, fine... I guess that's why you didn't go to Ravenclaw like me. I'm sad, really! Slytherins... It's like talking with my sisters, at times. Always keeping everything under wraps, both you and your..."
Deondra cut herself off and stared at nothing for a moment. Sixteen years had passed, and yet. That boy kept making the same mistakes, again and again. And now, now...
The witch slowly forced herself to look at her daughter, not to speak about it – not yet – even if she couldn't help but remember what had happened earlier in the summer. His mistakes, his crimes. His choices. His transgressions against blood and family. The little sister he'd never really cared about, who he'd left behind when she didn't prove to follow him blindly, as he'd blindly followed his uncle.
Leif lived just next door – technically they were in the same townhouse. Deondra could, if she so wished – she could...
The ribbon was digging against her palm, and she realized she'd been pulling on it hard. The witch took a deep breath, put the ribbon back on her desk and her hands flat on her tights. She didn't need to damage her hands on top of everything else.
"Mom."
Ellie was still here, her. She wouldn't do what he'd done, she was here, they'd been talking.
"What did you say about work? Busy this time of year, was it?"
Eleanor studied her mother for a long moment, then. Deondra could tell she was considering what to say – what not to say, too – and if she'd better address the whole thing or just let it go.
Eventually the girl took pity on her and changed the subject, pretending that Deondra's question had been genuine and not a pitiful attempt at eluding the obvious issue.
As if it was the time of the year that was causing the backlog of work at the Office of Misinformation. As if Deondra could be so out of touch, so concerned with only academics and nothing else that she'd have somehow missed the fact that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back once again and killing people. That her own son was doing his best to help in that endeavor.
They spoke for a while – Ellie telling her about the giant attacks that were a nightmare to hide from muggles, Deondra admitting that one of her students had stopped coming to class and no one had heard from her since – and Eleanor thought she could bring up a question her mother – Arithmancy professor in the one university the wizarding world knew – was uniquely qualified to answer.
Namely, who in this country had the skills to come up with a curse like the one that had taken hold of Emmeline Vance while targeting Sirius Black through magical identification.
...She might have glossed over the name of the true target of the curse, tough.
Her mother squinted at her for a moment but questioned neither the omission nor the inquiry.
"Magical identification targeting, you say?"
The blue ribbon was back in the older witch's hands, but this time it wasn't a danger to anything – Mom just didn't know how to sit still for long.
"Yes. A very well-built one, too."
"...I suppose we are crossing muggleborns from the list of suspects?"
Eleanor guessed a muggleborn could be pressured into creating the curse against their life – but the casting of the curse had been done by a Death Eater, and that wasn't something you could manage if you didn't have an equivalent level of skill.
"Yes, we are. We should start looking into purebloods, or old blood halfbloods, maybe."
Those could still be interested in He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's ideology, even if they didn't quite qualify for his "blood purity" campaign. If their family lines were old, they still had a claim to a large wizarding heritage. Some might even resent their parents – or grandparents, whoever had gone and "tainted" the family with muggle blood at some point – for not being pureboods.
Her mother added:
"Known criminals, too. Even those who don't actually care about blood purity could be tempted or swayed, especially if they want power or have things to hide. I think you are familiar with Azrael Hesleden's case?"
Eleanor scowled.
"He's in Azkaban. It can't be him."
Deondra shook her head and moved on – she'd had the boy in her lessons after he'd graduated from Hogwarts, and she couldn't even fathom how he'd landed himself in such a situation, but he'd gone and wasted a perfectly useful mind with his terrible choices. He'd shown such promise in arithmantic research, even before he'd kidnapped that poor muggle girl...
"Ah, well. Only some of my students and of the older ones do have, not only the understanding, but also the practical skills to pull what you've described. For those who live in the United Kingdom, hum... Septima Vector is a given, but she's unlikely. Maximilian Oakham, definitely. You, of course, but I don't think you needed me to tell you that. The youngest Thomas could have done it, I think. That girl only came for a couple of years to my lessons, but she grasped it all very fast. Then we have Gawain Robards, but I suppose he must have an alibi of some kind. Charlesh Shafiq, Gail Weasley... although, I think it's Valgoth, now... Elizabeth and Ryland Barnes, they actually got together right outside my classroom, did you know that? I could have told you the first day, honestly, their essential identities were syncing together when we did the lesson on harmony and..."
Her daughter had both eyebrows raised, as if she was waiting for Deondra to stop, and the older witch paused.
Ellie cleared her throat pointedly.
"I was going to say, it was a woman. Also, can you lend me something to take notes? I don't exactly need all the gossip, but it'd be nice if I could keep the names."
Deondra gave her daughter a notebook she hadn't yet started using and a wry smile.
"Or it could be someone self-taught, or someone who was mentored by one of the names I'm giving you. Those are rarer, sure, but it could be. Note them all, and then I'll give you a list of halfbloods from lower families who shouldn't have any interest in participating in Death Eaters attacks, but who knows..."
She didn't question why Ellie was looking into this so seriously, why she hadn't just told the aurors who should be investigating this to come and ask her themselves, why she'd made it personal. The older witch knew already – it was also the reason she'd given the girl that notebook and not a stray piece of parchment, because she'd need the many pages and the protective enchantments you could work in its cover.
It was obvious why. It was a topic for later in the evening, for dinner with Njal.
They went through the list once again, through the names Deondra hadn't yet given her daughters, and Ellie wrote them all dutifully, carefully. She added her mother's remarks, too – self-taught? Mentored? in neat, small letters.
They had twenty-six – their own excluded, just like those of the five muggleborns who could have made the list – names there, of people with the potential to both, maybe, come up with such a targeted curse and actually succeed in casting it. Some were more likely to be involved than others – because of their personalities, of what they had to gain, of their age, of their gender, of their ease with such high-level Arithmancy – but they were all suspects, in one way or another.
People who lived in this country, some who'd gone to Deondra's lessons at the Stilted Sea Academe, a few older than her, too, masters in their own right when she'd still been learning at Hogwarts, colleagues, acquaintances, friends.
This was it, Deondra thought. This was it, once again. This feeling of fear, of suspicion. Someone on that list most likely was a murderer, and she knew them all.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, and with him...
With him, the knowledge that you didn't know anyone quite as well as you believed. She couldn't imagine any of those people using their hard-earned skills in Arithmancy to try and murder anyone, but one of them had – and Deondra had no idea whom.
It didn't only stop with this case, of course – her immediate neighbor, her husband's brother, her children's uncle was guilty of the same crimes even if she had no proof of it; others from her social circle, people she'd gone to school with had certainly chosen the same path too – but this, this... This was concrete. It wasn't just suspicion, it was knowledge: someone she almost definitely knew well had used skills she also knew them to have to harm another person.
Coming home through the inner courtyard and finding Leif at his front door with spots of blood on his robes would result in the same feeling of unsettling certainty.
Deondra didn't protest when her daughter pocketed the notebook and changed the subject, asking about her grandparents' health instead. The rest of the afternoon went by slowly.
When Njal got back from across the street, it was already six o'clock and Tofty had disappeared into the kitchen with promises of a delicious meal just short of a feast.
Eleanor and her parents spent over an hour playing a three-way game of Emerald Tumbler before Tofty came in, assuring them that the mutton was hot and waiting for them. Mom and Dad squinted at each other, their remaining gems – actual precious gems, of course, and not the usual glass pretenders – glimmering red and blue in their respective goblets, and she rolled her eyes, putting down her own goblet full of pink gems, signaling that she was folding.
"Dinner is ready, Mom, Dad."
Her mother's eyes flickered to her abandoned goblet, before settling back on her husband, who only had a handful of rubies left before winning.
"Dinner can wait."
"Your mother is right, dear, our new set of plates is certified with a heat-keeping charm."
Of course, neither of them wanted to abdicate. Mom might have been in Ravenclaw, but the Parkinsons were known for being competitive no matter if they'd been snakes or eagles at school – and Dad took anything that even pretended to generate profit much too seriously. There was a reason Emerald Tumbler was their go-to board game for late nights spent together.
Eleanor rolled her eyes, picked two topaz from her goblet, and threw them into her parents', nullifying the ongoing game for "cheating" – none of the prerequisite ways to convert an enemy's gems had been cleared.
The look both her parents gave her at that was frosty, and she didn't feel guilty at all.
"Seems like the game ended, to me. I hear there's mutton for dinner, let's see that."
Her mother harrumphed, small and blonde and a bit frail with her age creeping up on her – it was funny enough to watch.
"Fine. Next time you come by, we'll play after dinner. No excuse to cut this competition short."
Honestly. Eleanor did like this game, but this was pushing it.
Her father's reason for scoffing at her mother's words wasn't quite the same:
"If you call that a competition, Deondra... I was minutes away from winning."
"Of course you were, darling."
The two bickered all the way to the dining room, and Eleanor took her usual seat at the small round table – it got bigger for each person expected, the perfect dining table in all aspects.
It currently was a bit smaller than Eleanor had been used to, back then. Back when Thorfinn still ate with them, when she was barely a teenager.
Now – for the last sixteen years – it was just her and her parents when she visited.
Tofty started serving dinner, and they remained in silence for a handful of minutes, eating their starter dish. It was obvious her father and mother were waiting for something, that they weren't talking – yet – because they didn't quite know how to bring whatever it was they wanted to talk about – Eleanor suspected either Sirius or Thorfinn – with her.
Well. She also had something she wanted to – maybe not have a long conversation about with her parents, not for now, but she felt she needed to at least mention it.
"I went to Longhampton today, with Sirius."
No point saying why or how exactly they'd ended up there. No point worrying them.
Her father blinked.
"Is that where you saw Miss Vance?"
Eleanor nodded as she finished her lentil soup, editing the truth to prevent some questions.
"Yes, it is. She's at her brother's right now. I believe they grew up there."
"They are related to the Longbottoms, I suppose... How did you find the village? Have you seen anything of note?"
Eleanor hid a smile. Of course Dad wanted to know about the village itself and what she'd thought of it. He'd certainly gone there a few times for work, had seen it first hand, and yet he was asking what she thought of it.
"There are interesting sets of armors about, that's for sure. Lots of enchantments in the grounds. The security measures seem tight, for an entire village. Hard to pull off, but they have reasons to be wary."
No need to explain what those reasons were.
Her father opened his mouth to question her some more – it was winsome, how he couldn't quite keep himself from trying to bond over streets and buildings because that was what the Rowles did and had always done for a living, and Eleanor didn't care quite as much, but it was kind and fun – but Mom cleared her throat pointedly.
Father and daughter turned to look at her with equally puzzled looks – though Ellie's was most likely half-feigned, Deondra noted. The girl had been expecting something the moment she'd brought up Longhampton – and behind it, Sirius Black. She had opened a door, one through which Ellie herself could have been preparing to walk, but that her mother would cross herself.
"How was lunch, then? Your... friend had a good time?"
Everyone here knew Sirius Black wasn't Eleanor's friend, had never been – not only, at least.
It had started years and years ago, when Deondra and Njal's daughter had had a hard time making friends in Slytherin during her first year at Hogwarts – she could make friends with many different people, but it always took time, and she'd spent that first year mostly alone.
Except for those times an upperclassman had been by her side, almost anecdotally, by happenstance more than anything else – but her parents knew, they'd read her letters. She'd needed it badly.
It had never stopped, not really. Not when Black had graduated, not even when he'd been shipped off to jail and somehow his trial had been forgotten along the way. Eleanor had always said that, if anything, the wizard had been truthful during that year they'd been almost-friends, and maybe something had happened afterwards, maybe he'd changed – but he hadn't always been like that.
Deondra had honestly been relieved to learn that no, her daughter hadn't traded a Death Eater brother for a crush on a different Death Eater – and yet.
He was a Black.
It wasn't quite a problem, per se. Deondra had one or two Black ancestors somewhere in her family tree – four, five generations away, perhaps? –, it was most likely the case of Njal's too, and she wouldn't pretend either her family or her husband's had given birth to saints only.
Still.
The current Lord Black was... intense. He was exactly what you thought of when you tried to grasp what made his family Blacks. He was...
Dangerous and sharp, like a well-maintained blade, its edge cutting whether you used it on someone else or it escaped from your hands to slice through your own flesh.
But most importantly, he was no one's tool nor blade, bore no will but his own – he would not let himself be used, which was good but also meant there was no safety in expert handling.
Ellie gave her mother a look, and Deondra didn't flinch back.
"We both enjoyed our meal, of course. But, my point was: we crossed paths with Callidora Longbottom in Longhampton."
The girl sighed, and her eyes wandered into the plate Tofty had just served. As if she didn't know how to say what she was going to say and look her mother in the eyes at the same time.
"She... Mrs Longbottom called it courting."
Ah.
Eleanor wasn't looking up from her plate, and Deondra stole a glance towards her husband. Njal's look of mild unease seemed equivalent to what his wife was feeling at the moment.
Ellie had never been the best at qualifying her relationships with others, rarely putting them into words.
Deondra took a deep breath. Qualifying her daughter's relationship with Black had been expected for the evening, even if she'd thought she – or Njal – would have been the one to bring it up.
"And... Is it?"
Her daughter hesitantly looked up, back at Deondra – at her father, too. Deondra reiterated:
"Is it a courtship, Ellie?"
"...Yes."
The older witch sucked in a breath – she wasn't surprised by the facts, Njal and her and Theodore and her sister Edyth had all seen it coming and talked about it long and wide and across, but that Eleanor would recognize those for what they were...
That was surprising, and it didn't even start touching on the other problems.
Her husband was the one to tackle that part, though:
"Eleanor, you do realize..."
His tone was hesitant, his voice quiet. Acknowledging what was going on out there these days – acknowledging that it could touch them too, more exactly – wasn't something either of the Rowle parents liked doing.
They had their opinions on the matter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his blood-seeking followers, but this was something else.
"You do realize that Sirius Black is a target for them? Any Death Eater could want his head, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named probably does too, and not only because Black is Potter's legal guardian now. Being near him, in any capacity... It's dangerous for you."
Deondra wanted her daughter to be happy, of course she did – and so did Njal.
But dead people weren't happy, and they'd already lost a son to this folly.
Neither of them wanted to lose Eleanor too.
The girl – she wasn't a girl anymore, she was thirty years old, but she was and would always be their younger child – didn't say anything for half a moment, and then – an involuntary huff of breath, ironic and pained disappointment.
"Mom, Dad. I know. I know that. But it's too late for me anyway. Thorfinn..."
Deondra's grip on her fork tightened at the name – that had been topic number two, and apparently it was there too now – but she didn't interrupt her daughter.
She wouldn't have even known what to say if she had.
"Thorfinn already put that target on me. He brought attention to me when he joined, and I was given my chances. I said no both times. Now it's too late, the hunt has begun."
Eleanor looked bitter – not to the casual observer, but to her parents? – when she finished:
"Thorfinn brought the hunt to me himself."
She stabbed at her mutton casserole with her fork.
"I'm already in danger. Being with... A courtship with Sirius Black might make it slightly more dangerous, but at this point I'm not sure it's worth worrying about."
Deondra sighed.
Ellie had never been the most courageous of all, even if she wasn't a coward – but she was a pragmatist, much like her father. Separating from Black now wouldn't change much of anything, not for the emotional cost she'd have to go through.
Sirius Black was the only one her daughter had gotten attached to in this way in thirty years.
"Well then. A courtship it is... Invite that young man for September's Last, for I only remember him at the age he tried to do everything his mother told him not to."