Looking over the grounds surrounding Malfoy Manor, Tamsyn found herself in a peculiarly nostalgic mood.
The Manor itself was not how she remembered it, of course — she had been passed a few memories of the updated construction Andy had had done, after the creation of the diary, but those images had never felt quite real, to her, hadn't replaced the old Malfoy Manor in her mind. The bright white marble, the tall window facings, the squat towers at the corners and lines to suggest an obviously nonfunctional gatehouse at the entrance, short rectangular elaboration along the rim of the roof imitating the texture of proper merlons, almost Victorian Gothic in its superficial nods to a foregone era. Nobility of the Malfoys' class and cultural background tended to prefer neoclassical or early Celtic aesthetics, the more decorative mediaeval styles seen as muggleish — or, more to the point, Christian — having fallen sharply out of favour in the early generations of Secrecy. But Andy had been surprisingly cosmopolitan in certain ways: he'd seen examples of the Gothic Revival of the 19th Century in muggle architecture, puttering about London or visiting cousins on the Continent, and had been impressed enough that he'd decided to adopt aspects of the style for his redesign of the family manor.
Naturally, being impressive was the intent, and apparently a successful one. The original Tamsyn had told her that the redesign had even been an object of some fascination when it was first revealed to the public back in the early 50s, in part responsible for a noticeable shift in public-facing architecture in Britain around that time. As conservative as magical Britain could be, they were often just as susceptible to aesthetic fads as modern muggles were — there would be a backlash if they knew the style had been inspired by muggle innovations, but Andy had side-stepped that issue by simply not mentioning it.
In Tamsyn's time, Malfoy Manor had been centred on an old fortified manor house, the foundation laid at some point in the 13th Century. The heart of the place had been modest by today's standards, compact and efficient, when Tamsyn visited still showing some signs of its original functional use, thick stone walls, an actual gatehouse — once even housing a drawbridge to cross a moat that had been filled in at some point over the centuries, the channels for the chains and the fittings for the portcullis still visible — a peeked watchtower that had been converted into a belltower, and later re-converted into a heavily-enchanted observatory. The family had outgrown the limited confines of the structure generations previously, there had been earlier additions, but the structure Tamsyn had known had been raised in the generation immediately after Secrecy: in the neoclassical style, heavy planes and columns and arches, complete with sunny garden courtyards ringed with airy collonades that put her in mind of ancient Roman villas. (Not a coincidence, she assumed.) The wardline had been marked with a tall iron fence, rusting with age, set atop an absolutely ancient low wall — loose stones packed into place with chalky clay, perhaps dating back to soon after the Norman Conquest — beyond the wall the sprawling farms and pastures worked by the Malfoys' vassals, dotted with little peasant hovels.
The general shape of the land was recogniseable, of course, the curves of the low-rolling chalk downs of Wiltshire, but it was otherwise entirely unfamiliar. The old Manor had been levelled and replaced, of course, but even the land around it was not as she remembered. When she'd last seen this place, the use of the land had changed very little from mediaeval times — the Malfoys' wealth, generally, did not come directly from agriculture, but there was benefit to keeping a modest population of peasants at their beck and call, so they'd seen little reason to alter the arrangement. That too had changed under Andy. These lands had essentially been geared toward subsistence farming — the surplus the peasants produced also fed the Malfoys, whatever remained sold off here and there — but Andy had begun retooling much of their lands to produce certain cash crops instead. There had been very little in the way of tree cover here in Tamsyn's time, but much of the hills around were now hidden in patches, wood nurseries but also orchards, apple and cherry and plum and pear — the Malfoys produced modest batches of cider and perry and plum wine and cherry wine and liquor, but generally not for sale. There were greenhouses where they grew tea and certain Mediterranean herbs and a variety of potion ingredients, livestock both mundane and magical raised on pastures that also produced flowers, partly for decoration and partly for sale, a sizeable field of flax mixed through with source plants for various dyes...
According to Lucius, he'd successfully altered citrus trees to grow in Britain (if somewhat reluctantly), was working on getting small lemon and orange groves going. Impressive, in theory, but Tamsyn would believe it when she had the fruit in her hand.
The peasants did still grow some food for their own consumption, but they focussed primarily on garden fruits and vegetables — special high-yield cultivars provided by magical horticulturists, the soil continually renewed through a combination of fertiliser from the livestock and ritual magic — Andy progressively providing more of the basic staples directly with Malfoy gold. As his vassals were repurposed away from farms entrusted to their individual responsibility, and more toward orchards and fields they would collectively manage, the peasants had been moved, bit by bit, out of their old hovels into villages built for the purpose. The new homes were rather nicer, with more modern furnishings and amenities, and the greater concentration of the population made it easier to arrange proper bathing facilities, common worship space, and a small list of other goods — for example, healthcare and education.
This transformation had still been in its early stages when the original Tamsyn had left Britain, but it had continued in her absence, and since Lucius had taken over as Lord of the Family. According to Lucius, nearly all of their vassals could even read now — that might not seem to be any great achievement, but Tamsyn was aware that such a high literacy rate was truly very rare among the magical British peasantry. Naturally, the Malfoys did not offer such benefits to their peasants out of some selfless sense of charity, Andy had been perhaps the most candidly class-conscious aristocrat Tamsyn had ever met. (Perhaps appropriately, given his name.) The wealth that had come to the Malfoys as a consequence of the Revolution had been largely liquid, and potentially fragile — he'd used that wealth to diversify the family's investments, yes, but he could build a more stable foundation by getting his fingers into as many markets as possible. That meant building a base of not just financial investment and of distribution, but of production as well.
The conversion of the lands around the Manor was intended to make them more profitable, yes, but concentrating the peasants together in villages could just as easily have been a vulnerability. After all, if they were living closer together, they could more easily discuss their grievances and perhaps organise an effort to at least cause a serious headache for their lord. (Withholding one's labour was not an entirely unfamiliar concept to mages, after all.) But, as Andy would frankly explain if asked, one's 'inferiors' were far less likely to rebel if their needs and their wants were addressed.
And there was a hidden benefit to 'providing' his vassals with an education: they might in time show aptitude for one trade or another, which Andy could then use to get fingers into the trades as well. Ever since Andy had become Lord Malfoy, the family's economic influence had spread throughout the British economy like a stubborn vine, not only at the top level, through various investments and donations and business, but even at its very foundations, in primary production and in the 'low-skill' craft trades. Lucius, while perhaps less ideologically committed to the scheme than his grandfather had been, clearly understood the practical utility of it, the family's reach only continuing to grow.
It was common knowledge that the Malfoys were the wealthiest family in magical Britain, at present. Tamsyn suspected most people underestimated just how far their influence reached.
And so — apparating onto the crushed marble drive just outside of the gates, the familiar hills half-hidden with unfamiliar orchards, the swaying grass around speckled thickly with flowers of every shape and colour, the Manor ahead unrecognisable — Tamsyn was struck with an odd, bittersweet feeling. Sometimes, she was reminded how quickly time had moved on without her. The magical world tended to be slower to change than the muggle, especially in these last centuries, but standing here fifty years later, seeing what was now and yet remembering what was then, what still felt to her to be only a couple years ago relegated to a quickly-fading past, it...
Well. She felt very old, sometimes — like a relic of another time, removed from its proper place.
Tamsyn lingered outside the gates for long minutes, simply observing the much-changed environment. Finally, brushing off the queer nostalgia with a thin sigh, she turned and stepped through the gates. The seemingly solid iron parted around her as easily as smoke, the wards letting her through — Andy had replaced the wards, but the original Tamsyn had never been disinvited, and so she was welcome. She took the walk up the drive at a leisurely stroll, her eyes wandering over the marble and glass face of the Manor ahead, the extensive stables here and there, the open grass thick with flowers, the formal garden ahead.
Oh! That was the same fountain! In Tamsyn's time, it'd been at the centre of a garden courtyard, rose bushes and redcurrants. The last time she'd been at Malfoy Manor, she and Andy had taken a lazy lunch in the shadow of that same fountain, the winter air warmed by environmental wards and softened with mist...
And now she was remembering kissing him, the air patterning with the light noise of water against water, which she would rather not do — she didn't enjoy missing people, it was unpleasant.
In time, she came to the front door. She didn't bother knocking, simply turned the handle and pushed one side of the oversized double doors in. The doors opened into a grand entrance hall, bright and shining from the sun let in through the tall windows. Every surface was built of the same white marble, or wood alchemically treated into the same perfect white, or else gleaming polished silver, narrow threads between the floor tiles, trim around the windows and the narrow bars between the frames, curling tracery here and there on the walls and along the bannister of the wide, dramatically-curling staircase ahead...
It was a little much, harsh and inorganic, as impersonal as a museum — that was, of course, the intent. Such features were designed for guests, not for residents. Supposedly the private rooms meant for the family were rather more homey.
Tamsyn was yet gazing around the sterile entrance hall, the door hardly even closed behind her, when there was motion overhead, a figure striding out onto the narrow balcony wrapped around the three internal walls of the hall, looking down over the floor. Clearly having been caught by surprise, Lucius was somewhat underdressed compared to his typical presentation — all in pale blue and white, plain trousers and a button-up shirt, the collar button left undone, even as he stepped into view pulling a jacket up over his shoulders, tugging the lapels straight. His hair was tied up in a loose bun, held in place with a reddish ribbon, the colour sharp against the white of his hair, which was honestly an amusing look for him. He'd rushed enough that there was even a pinkish tinge to his cheeks, seeming slightly out of breath.
Lurching to a sudden halt, his hands planted on the railing, he said, "Tamsyn. I did not realise you were coming." There was a note of accusation on his voice, that she'd abruptly appeared without invitation.
"Oh? I'm certain I said that I must come by to begin the catalyst soon."
Lucius scowled, a sharper expression than he'd normally permit himself in public. "Do not play the fool, Tamsyn, it doesn't suit you."
Smirking up at him, she shrugged. "I wished to take the scenic route. This place is...different, from how I remember it."
"Yes, I imagine it is." Lucius paused for a moment, briefly glancing over his shoulder, before beginning to walk toward the stairs. "Regardless, I would prefer you not simply invite yourself to the Manor without a prior arrangement."
"Whatever could be the matter, Lucius — don't enjoy surprises?" Tamsyn was well aware he didn't, of course, she was simply teasing at this point.
Partway down the stairs, he gave her a sharp look. "Narcissa is at home."
...Ah. Yes, there was that. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything."
Lucius didn't quite roll his eyes. "I expect you will need to examine the site," he said, passing over her suggestive comment as though it hadn't been said at all. She was aware Narcissa was a lesbian, of course, but Lucius was such a stiff, formal, proper man, it was fun to tease.
A short walk through a couple gleaming white and silver corridors, the only colour a pale blue seen on a rug down the middle and the trim around doors — yet far too austere for her tastes, but that was the Malfoys — and Lucius led her onto a narrow staircase leading belowground. The stairs ended at a much plainer hallway, built primarily of greyish unadorned brick. Near the stairs were open doorways into large storerooms, further along smaller spaces packed with casks stacked nearly up to the ceiling and racks filled with bottles, but as they got further from the stairs they reached rooms with sealed doors, some crackling from powerful wards. Lucius led her to one near the end — he produced a key form somewhere, as it was turned in the lock the wards sealing the door dissolved, the released energy popping and snapping on the air.
The heavy wooden door was easily opened with a turn of a handle and a gentle push, Lucius waved her inside ahead of him. She kept a close eye on his mind as she walked past into the room beyond, looking for any sign he meant to seal the door behind her. Simple reflex, she had no reason to expect a betrayal — besides, as impressive as the wards were, she was certain she could break out if it came to it.
If this space had had a floor before, it had been removed, underfoot only sandy, chalky soil. The room was dominated with an oversized carbon steel cauldron at the centre, standing over an enchanted firepit recessed into the ground. All around were cabinets, some with open faces and others with solid doors, rows and rows and rows of glass bottles — the contents of some clear, white alcohol, others showing the glittering gentle blueish glow of starshine, and still others the thick molten silver of unicorn blood. Hanging from hooks at one patch of bare wall were a variety of overlong stirring implements, a handheld diamond mill. Tamsyn stepped to one of the closed-face cabinets, opened the door to find large bins of alchemically-perfect gemstones, shining with borrowed moonlight.
She closed the door again — the reservoirs had needed to be charged to impart certain energies, too long exposed to the environment and they'd be contaminated — glanced up at the ceiling. In a ring over the cauldron, runes had been carved into the stone, carefully set with plaster and painted over with an alchemical lacquer. Isolation spells, stasis spells (easily switched on and off by twisting the fitting of a critical reservoir), translocation spells...
"This will do," Tamsyn decided. "I will need a key of my own, of course."
"Of course." Lucius handed her a plain metal key — it looked ordinary, but the magic on it was so intense that Tamsyn could feel it sizzling against her fingers. "I do ask that you send word before you arrive."
"I have a better idea." Reaching into her bag, Tamsyn pulled out a wide scroll. She walked over to one of the blank sections of wall, unrolled the paper, and stuck it to the wall with a couple of charms.
"Ah, I see. A schedule."
"Yes. You'll notice I arranged the steps into a calendar — I'll need to come in on every day marked with a job. I'll leave this here when I leave."
"Very well. Shall I leave you to your work, then?"
Tamsyn nodded, shrugged the strap of her bag off her shoulder, letting it fall onto the dirt. "Lock the door behind you. I should be finished in...oh, about an hour or so."
As soon as Lucius was gone — the heavy door closed and locked behind him, the wards crackling back into place — Tamsyn got straight to work. Of course, before starting the catalyst, she had to do a quick cleansing ritual, to prevent contamination of the product — this, naturally, required undressing. It was probably a good thing that her brewing space was underground, away from windows and behind a locked door.
Not that it made any particular difference to her, but she imagined one of the staff might have peculiar questions for Lucius if they noticed an unfamiliar young woman in the house, brewing in the nude.
The catalyst was not an especially complex potion — the difficulty lay in the procurement of the components and the measures necessary to prevent contamination, not in the preparation. Once she'd quick burned any contaminants off of her (wincing slightly at the pulse of harsh light magic), she started in on the liquid base, pouring in two bottles of alcohol for each bottle of starshine. The process was painfully slow, since she couldn't use any magic she had to open and pour each bottle by hand, and the internal volume of the cauldron was enormous, going through dozens of bottles. Tallying up the total volume in her head as she went, by the time she reached the right number she'd gone through half of the alcohol and about a third of the starshine. She quick glanced over her calendar, and yes, that was correct, good.
She kneeled down to fiddle with the firepit, after a bit of poking around figured out how to get it going. It didn't need to be particularly hot, just set to steam — she would need to boil most of the water out of the alcohol, but slowly, to allow the various elements time to settle into the proper arrangement. That would do. Tamsyn removed a tray of gemstones charged with moonlight from one of the cabinets, closed the door to avoid spoiling the rest, set it down on the dirt not far from the cauldron. She retrieved the diamond mill and one of the stirring blades in the wall, and got to work grinding down the gemstones.
The catalyst wasn't difficult to prepare, no, but it certainly was tedious. The entire process would take weeks, yes, but the mechanical process was also a pain. She'd needed to manually pour out the bottles one by one, and the charged gemstones also had to be crushed by hand — using any direct spellwork would contaminate the spellform, with potentially catastrophic consequences for the end product. Due to that combination of factors, Tamsyn was the only one of their present conspirators who could be trusted with the project: Lucius didn't have the temperament for such meticulous work, Barty couldn't spend so much time away from Hogwarts without suspicion, and Melanion wouldn't be able to avoid contamination in his present state. There were a handful of Knights who could possibly manage it, but most of them were presently in Azkaban.
The diamond mill looked like some bizarre fusion of a colander and a waffle iron. Roughly bowl-shaped, the handle could be separated into two halves, allowing the layers of the bowl to swivel open. Tamsyn would place a small handful of charged gemstones between the layers, hold the device over the cauldron, and press the two halves of the handle together, which did take some degree of physical effort — the interior of the mill was designed to give a little around the stones to allow it to close, but the resistance was still enough that it was difficult. Once she got the handle to snap closed again, she would twist it a quarter turn, and there would be a snapping and a popping as the mill ground the gemstones down, tiny specks of glowing glittering dust raining down out of the bottom of the bowl. Then she'd turn the handle a quarter turn the opposite direction, more dust drifting out with more high muffled grinding noises, switching it back and forth until further tripping of the mechanism failed to get any more diamond dust falling out. Then she'd start the process over, opening the bowl, tossing in a few gemstones, closing it, grinding them down, and again, and again, and again, now and then pausing to gently turn the contents of the cauldron around with the long, flat-edged stirring implement, and then again, and again...
Hardly a difficult project, but very tedious.
Finally, long after Tamsyn's thumbs and wrists had started to ache from the effort of forcing the handle closed, she finished this tray of stones. She quick double-checked her schedule, but yes, she was only meant to do one tray now — the second one wouldn't be going in until later this evening, after which she could let it sit for a few days. After stirring the base around for a couple minutes — it had started to steam by now, the thin cloud rising from the cauldron silvery and faintly sparkling with half-seen colour — she decided that would do. She stepped outside of the isolation wards before cleansing the stirring blade and the diamond mill, and then dressed and retrieved her bag, carefully locked the door behind her.
The Manor was stark, sterile white and blue, austere, empty, and unnaturally quiet — or perhaps not so unnatural, as there should only be two people in residence at the moment. (Plus the staff, though the elves would go unnoticed, and Tamsyn was uncertain how often they had human staff on the premises.) She'd half-expected Lucius to be lingering somewhere nearby, waiting for her to emerge, but she didn't feel him, and after a moment he still hadn't presented himself. That was somewhat inconvenient. Tamsyn did need to linger for some hours, but the new Manor was unfamiliar to her, she didn't know where to go.
After a moment of indecision, she got her bearings, determining the direction she'd come from, and turned around to walk further into the Manor. She didn't go straight toward the rear, instead taking an occasional turn to the right, weaving through plain white and blue hallways, occasionally passing through a gallery or the like — these spaces rather less stark, more decoration worked into the fixtures, the occasional painting on the walls, the subjects of portraits watching her and muttering to each other as she passed. In her time, the library would have been back here, somewhere. The place would have been redesigned, of course, but perhaps it was in the same general location...
Or perhaps not — instead of stepping into the tall, sunny, comfortable Malfoy library, she found herself walking into a greenhouse. The air in here was quite warm, but not particularly humid, perhaps simulating a somewhat arid Mediterranean climate. Curious, Tamsyn strolled lazily along the stone walk path, eyes wandering over the plants to either side. This space in particular seemed more decorative than functional, at least at first glance — many varieties of flowers, ferns in vibrant reds and violets — but as she looked closer she realised that wasn't necessarily the case. There were trees in here, fruits growing on the branches that looked as though they could be citrus, perhaps early products of Lucius's attempts to create variants that could be localised? Some of the lower plants were herbs, sage and basil and bay laurel, tall sprawling flowering bushes that...
Were those coffee plants? Tamsyn was only vaguely familiar with what those looked like, but... Another experiment of Lucius's in progress, perhaps? She was aware Lucius didn't drink coffee himself, but if he could alter the plant to tolerate the British environment, that could be absurdly profitable...
Tamsyn turned a corner, and walked into a sitting area surrounded with white and red and blue flowers, a few chairs and foot stools and side tables, facing the external wall of the greenhouse — clear glass looking out onto the grounds, flower-strewn grass before long gone in favour of trees, the posts of a simple quidditch pitch visible nearby. The seats weren't empty, one occupied by a black-haired woman in plain, light summer robes, comfortable in the heat of the greenhouse, a book in hand and an iced drink of some kind on the side table. She looked up at the sound of Tamsyn's footsteps, then frowned, her head tilting.
"Ah, hello, Narcissa." They'd never met in person, but Tamsyn recognised her from photos in the paper.
One eyebrow arched up, slightly taken aback by the use of her given name, overly familiar for some random person speaking to a noblewoman — Narcissa's first assumption had been that Tamsyn was someone from one of the villages who'd managed to get lost while coming in to use the floo. (Not a likely option, she was familiar with all of their people in the trades who might have reason to come and go, but the most reasonable.) After a short pause, she asked, "Excuse me, have we met?" Her tone wasn't quite a rebuke for Tamsyn's rudeness, but it could easily be interpreted as one in retrospect if it turned out they didn't know each other.
Tamsyn smiled. "Not as such. The last we spoke, I looked quite different — I've managed to make myself a living body since then."
A cold lurch in her head, Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "Tamsyn."
"The very same. After so long, it is a pleasure to see you with my own eyes." Her frown deepening, Narcissa couldn't tell whether that comment had been suggestive — it hadn't been intended to be, but the woman's unease at the thought that Tamsyn might be flirting with her was vaguely amusing. "Anyway, I was looking for the library. It used to be somewhere around here, in my time."
"Is there some pressing reason you wish to see the library?" Narcissa didn't come out and say that she'd prefer Tamsyn get the fuck out and never come back, but she was thinking it.
"The project I'm working on needs to sit for some hours before I can move on to the next steps — I thought the library was as good a place as any to linger."
Narcissa managed to keep a frown off her face, but whatever effort she might or might not be taking to shield her mind was insufficient to cover the displeasure simmering away. Her mind wasn't entirely unguarded, employing some basic occlumency on reflex, but honestly Tamsyn had hardly even noticed it as she slithered right past into the woman's mind — she simply wasn't accustomed to defending herself from mind mages of Tamsyn's subtlety.
As effective of a motivator as religious belief could be in one's followers, when properly harnessed, true conviction could be terribly inconvenient at times. Lucius had already told Tamsyn that Narcissa had been very unhappy to learn that he'd been recruited into the effort to return Melanion to proper life — while she was always irritated whenever he made serious decisions that might affect the both of them (and, more to the point, their son) without consulting her first, her displeasure had been rather more vicious this time. Narcissa had been as loyal a supporter of the Knights as any — raised in Melanion's cult from early childhood, in fact — but she believed Melanion had crossed a line on that Hallowe'en, his attempt to murder an infant a moral transgression for which there could be no forgiveness.
A transgression which the gods, at Lily Potter's invitation, had immediately and violently punished him for. She was not inclined to so much as lift a finger to help him — if it were up to her, Melanion would be left to suffer in the miserable state his own evil acts had reduced him to.
It wasn't up to her, however. As much as she hated it, as furious as she still was with Lucius, she knew, rationally, that Lucius hadn't been free to refuse. If he'd withheld his assistance, Melanion would inevitably find his own way back to life regardless — and now that he had found loyal followers to help him, she did believe that his return was inevitable. She knew well that the Knights of Walpurgis did not suffer traitors.
But that didn't mean she must have anything to do with him — she'd demanded Lucius leave her out of it, as much as was feasible.
Lucius had told her that Tamsyn was around as well, of course, but Narcissa didn't want to have any contact with her either. She had murdered a child, after all — for all her other faults, that was one principle Narcissa could be deadly serious about.
Which was annoyingly hypocritical of her, but Tamsyn wasn't in a mood to have that argument just now. She sighed, her eyes tipping up to the segmented glass ceiling of the greenhouse for a second. "If you find simply being in the presence of a monster such as I to be so intolerable, go ahead and call an elf to show me up, then. I'm not one to be offended at the indignity of being handed off to a servant."
Internally, Narcissa bristled, irritated at the unvoiced insinuation — which was intentional, of course, Tamsyn still found some of the magical aristocracy's social protocol to be absolutely ludicrous — but the feeling was unexpectedly muddled, softened by some conflicting sentiment she couldn't quite read. She thought she caught a flash of Liz, oddly enough, but the thought was too vague, she couldn't pull it into proper clarity without giving away her presence. What was that about?
She'd been a bit snide about it, but she had fully expected Narcissa to call an elf and wash her hands of Tamsyn. Unexpectedly, she instead decided to lead the way up to the library herself. The walk was stiff and tense, passing in silence, Narcissa's mind a simmering mess of frustration and hostility and disgust, and other things Tamsyn couldn't read without further intruding.
And the tension wasn't solely on Narcissa's side. Quite honestly, Tamsyn was finding her attitude irritating, but she bit her tongue, kept the thought to herself. There would be little point in starting an argument with the woman here and now.
The library was, unsurprisingly, different from the one Tamsyn remembered — rather larger, circular, and feeling very bright and open, the arcs of the pure white wooden bookshelves arranged to allow long lines of sight, the sky overhead through clear glass, the entire space filled with a diffuse glow of elemental sunlight. Different, yes, but not unpleasant. She would personally prefer less white everywhere — there was a point at which that became hard on the eyes — and it was a bit less...cosy, she guessed, private. Though, it was likely better that it was little like how she remembered — she expected being struck by bitter nostalgia while attempting to read would be distracting.
Tamsyn spent a few minutes wandering the library at random, figuring out how it was arranged. There were no signs anywhere marking the different sections, as one might expect in a public library — there was a book on a pedestal at the very centre which could likely be used to navigate, but she would rather look over it all herself. Most of the titles seemed to be in French and Latin, which was no great surprise. Latin was still a common academic language in some quarters — more common in previous centuries, but the Latin books could simply be old — and while French was the dominant international language these days, it had also been the primary language of the Continental Malfoys. Tamsyn wouldn't be surprised if Andy had acquired a significant fraction of this collection over the dead bodies of his cousins, their property surrendered to its 'rightful' owner in the aftermath of the Revolution. There were some titles in English and Cambrian, but the preference for French and Latin was immediately obvious.
Thankfully, Tamsyn could read French. Her Latin was somewhat spotty, though...
Some minutes walking around later, and she lingered in a segment of the circle that seemed to be geared toward history, literature, and politics. (Her term, she doubted mages would consider the sort of social works some of these sounded like to be politics as such.) She poured over titles for some time, occasionally picking up one to look over the inside cover and the preface before returning it to its place. Finally, she settled on one dealing with France's post-Statute cultural revival, covering the immediate aftermath of Secrecy through much of the 18th Century. Tamsyn didn't recognise the author's name as belonging to one of old France's aristocratic families, and it had been published in 1927, well after the unrest that would ultimately culminate in the Revolution had begun — that was an interesting moment to be looking back on that first century, she had a feeling this work might offer a unique perspective.
But then again, it was possible the author might have had his head firmly buried in the sand. That could be interesting too, in its own way.
The entire time she wandered through the library searching for something to read, Narcissa was watching her, mind simmering with hostility all the while. She waited to sit until after Tamsyn had picked a book and found a seat herself — not putting herself near Tamsyn, but within sight, a table and a few armchairs between them. Close enough for the sharp, harsh hissing in her head to still be easily perceptible. It was distracting, crackling away at the edge of her awareness, demanding her attention.
It was quickly wearing down her patience.
Tamsyn was through the introduction and barely a dozen pages into the book proper before she was finally sick of it. "Must you do that?"
Narcissa was silent a moment, Tamsyn heard the rustle of a page being turned. Forcefully casual, "I am uncertain to what you are referring."
She snorted — mages normally didn't make an effort to avoid putting a preposition at the end of a phrase, she must be attempting to seem unbothered. Either that, or there was some sort of aristocratic sarcasm going on there that Tamsyn wasn't cultured enough to recognise. "You needn't worry there may be some disaster if I am not kept in your constant supervision. As far as I am aware, there aren't even any children in residence at the moment."
There was a cold flash from Narcissa's mind, but at this range Tamsyn's connection was more tenuous, couldn't quite follow the thought. "So defensive, Tamsyn. That is now the second time you have referenced your past actions, while I have said nothing on the matter whatsoever."
"Not out loud, no." That was definitely a trickle of nervousness, wondering just how much Tamsyn could see. "But you needn't speak a word to be irritating — this is a personal fault of mine, perhaps, but I find self-righteous hypocrisy to be grating."
Bristling a little, Narcissa hissed, "Your crimes are not mine."
"Of course not — you prefer not to get your own hands dirty." Before Narcissa could respond to that — and she did intend to, her presence harsh and crackling — Tamsyn snapped, "One. To ensure my existence as it is, required the suffering of one child. Tell me, Narcissa, do you have the first idea, even an approximate estimation, of how many people, children included, were mercilessly exploited to produce the wealth you were born into? How many paid for your comfort with their very lives? do you even know?"
"I am not responsible for the way of the world."
"And neither am I responsible for my own existence. I would have done anything to free myself from the torture that was my imprisonment in that damn book. Ginevra Weasley's life was a modest price to pay — and miniscule in comparison to the suffering that supports your leisure."
Narcissa was still fuming, but she couldn't exactly argue the point. She knew where her wealth came from as well as Tamsyn. "We are responsible for what we do in the circumstances given to us. If you were so desperate to escape, you could have simply said as much, to Lucius or myself."
"Oh, and you would have helped me?" Tamsyn drawled, turning to give Narcissa a mockingly raised eyebrow. "I'm not an idiot, Narcissa — quietly bound to a book, I'm a valuable resource; reembodied and free to wander about, I'm a liability, to your political project and to your family's social prospects. You have flourished in this time of stability, and it is not unreasonable to assume my presence may undermine it. If I had told you of my desire to free myself, would you have assisted me? or would you have had me abandoned deep in a vault somewhere, where I would be of no threat to you and yours?"
She waited a few seconds for Narcissa to respond, but there was no response coming — Tamsyn was correct, and they both knew it.
"Besides, it was Lucius who put Ginevra in danger in the first place."
"Lucius has told me that he had no knowledge of what you intended."
"No, but he didn't need to. The plot even so far as you knew it — to create a scandal surrounding a recreation of the Chamber of Secrets drama, and thereby irreversibly tarnish Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley — was one of his design. It made no difference to me who would be used to return me to life, I would have used the first suitable sacrifice I came across. It was Lucius who put me in Ginevra's hands."
Her voice low and harsh, Narcissa insisted, "You gave us both your word that Ginevra would not be harmed."
"I told you she would not be killed — the plot depended on her being harmed. Unless you believe a child of eleven may be subjected to repeated hostile spiritual possession and come through the other side without serious consequence. Honestly, if the plot had succeeded as Lucius intended, Ginevra would have most likely been sent to Azkaban! Do you consider that to be bringing harm to a child? or must she have been killed by Lucius's own hand for him to share any responsibility for it at all?"
Narcissa didn't respond, thoughts sizzling with anger and squirming with guilt. She had, of course, realised that the plot Lucius had engineered would most likely result in serious psychological damage to Ginevra, at the very least — she was perhaps unreasonably optimistic about the Ministry's willingness to consign to Azkaban a twelve-year-old girl who'd committed her crimes while under the influence of hostile possession. Certain political turns at the Ministry were beginning to present potential problems for the Malfoys, so she'd...decided to overlook it.
At least part of her anger with Lucius and Tamsyn over the whole debacle, at its core, was guilt — she had consented to the plan, after all.
"And sure enough, we are responsible for what we do. What have you done? All that wealth and power you have, built with the sweat and blood of who can say how many men, women, and children, what have you done with it? You claim to care about the treatment of children, fine enough — have you used your influence to do anything about it? I know you know how miserable of lives many in our country live, hunger and sickness and hard labour, even sexual exploitation. No, nobody likes to talk about it, but we all know it happens, I'm sure you've heard the rumours same as I. Perhaps I have simply missed it, but I haven't known you to do anything to ease the suffering of the impoverished children of this country, or to free those in bondage, or to seek to punish the worst of their victimisers. I have known you to live in ease off the proceeds of that very suffering, all the while believing yourself to be clean of sin, because at least the violence is not being done by your hands. No, you pay people to do that for you.
"I have no issues with your principles, Narcissa — I would even admire them, if only they were truly honoured. I may be a monster, but at least I am honest about it."
For a long moment, Narcissa merely sat there, silently simmering. Her mind was obviously active, cool and churning, but too indistinct for Tamsyn to read from here without making her presence known. Still somewhat attention-drawing, but not so intrusive that Tamsyn couldn't focus on her reading.
She'd gotten through another page or two when Narcissa stood up and left without a word, leaving Tamsyn alone in the silent calm of the library. Perfect, worked like a charm.
Tamsyn was left to read for some time. It turned out this particular history had been written by an advocate for reform — the author didn't state as much explicitly, but it was clear that he had some serious critiques of how French society had been reorganised going into Secrecy. In particular, he identified a certain lack of concern for the affairs of urban craftsmen and common labourers and the like, not themselves granted any direct influence in the various parlements, but ruled by the aristocracy and their lackeys.
While the author did recognise the problem, Tamsyn doubted whatever explicit recommendations he might've made would have done any good. Such reforms weren't the subject of this work, of course, but he was treating the various figures of the revival far too charitably if he had any objection to aristocracy as such. Perhaps he would have preferred a somewhat more democratic structure, but one where the nobility and property holders still retained power. She was aware that, in the early days of the Revolution, there'd been murmurings of implementing some version of the historical États généraux scheme as a proper legislative body, but there'd truly been very little chance of that happening — the rulers of magical France had been very much aware of what had happened to the rulers of muggle France after the calling of the États généraux in 1789.
Regardless, the history was still interesting, even if the voice was rather more sympathetic to certain figures of early Secrecy France than Tamsyn would prefer.
The sky above was still blue — she wasn't keeping track of the time, but she wouldn't need to check in on the catalyst until well into the evening — when she finally felt a mind cross into the library. Ah, Lucius this time. There was something of an odd feeling to him, she couldn't quite put her finger on it, so when he neared she glanced up to look. Seeming oddly unfocussed, frowning slightly...
Bemused, Tamsyn would say.
"Tamsyn," he said with a little nod, coming to a halt standing a short distance away. "I suppose you wouldn't have any commitments this evening."
She felt one of her eyebrows arch up. "I'll need to check on the catalyst later, but other than that, I don't have plans." She didn't even need to be back in America any time soon — she'd already submitted her Mastery project, it was under review at the moment.
Sounding strangely awkward, uncertain, thoughts wavering with a clear hint of confusion, Lucius said, "I have been told to inquire whether you intend to stay for dinner."
"...Am I to take that to mean I've been invited?"
"That is my understanding, yes," Lucius said. He sounded just a shade exasperated — Tamsyn got the feeling Narcissa hadn't explained what she was thinking to him either.
For long seconds, Tamsyn simply stared up at the man. Lucius was clearly uncomfortable — he did not enjoy surprises — she could see in his head that he was consciously suffocating the urge to fidget under her gaze.
Interesting.
Perhaps Tamsyn's little lecture had had more of an effect on Narcissa than she'd intended. She had been leaning into her voice, to better drive the point home through enthrallment (and also prevent her from interrupting), but she'd only meant to offend Narcissa deeply enough that she'd leave her the hell alone. By the sound of it, well.
She'd already made great progress at getting Barty on her side, and she'd just about come to an understanding with the Bulstrodes. Turning around Narcissa to her way of thinking would be a hell of a coup.
It would be wise to plan out her angle — Narcissa's politics and personal morality could be very complicated, even confusingly contradictory at times. Unfortunately, she suspected she didn't have much time to prepare. Leaning too heavily on enthrallment wouldn't do, especially as it would backfire if she were discovered, she'd have to rely all but entirely on her words. Hmm...
It took some effort to keep a smirk off her face, Tamsyn glancing up at the sky overhead and letting out a brief sigh, buying time to compose her voice. It wouldn't do for Lucius to detect a thrill of laughter on it, after all. "I'm uncertain whether that would be wise. If the Lord and Lady Malfoy were seen dining with Mercy Anne, that may raise certain questions." Not to mention, Dumbledore would certainly hear of it, which would complicate her infiltration scheme. But she didn't truly think that would be a problem, because...
"We are planning to stay in this evening."
"Ah, never mind then. In that case I'd love to. When should I be coming downstairs?"
(Religious conviction could be quite inconvenient at times, but at others it might present unexpected opportunities — it seemed as though she might have stumbled across one such opportunity, and it would be horribly foolish of her not to grasp at it.)
Blluuuuhhhhh...
Jumping over to First Contact for a couple scenes now. Oh, btw, for those who might have missed it, there's been a Discord for like a year? Invite link should be on my profile page.
Okay bye.