Mercy Anne didn't know what else she could do.
In many ways, Britain reminded her of home, though in other ways it was still very foreign. They were both rather conservative countries, yes, but that meant something different in Europe than back in Massachusetts. She'd visited Romania — the ICW's student duelling tournament happened to be going on, and why not — and that country had been more like home, in some ways. The occupation of the country during the Revolution had resulted in the old noble families being practically exterminated, or at least thoroughly enough there weren't enough of them left to rule the country any longer, so they'd had to put together a more democratic government instead, which looked...somewhat like the Commonwealth. The climate had even felt vaguely similar. But the local dress was different, and of course the language, and Romania was...
Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but Romania was far more open and diverse than Massachusetts — the 'purebloods' there, as the Britons would call them, tended to be super Christian, but a different kind of Christian, mostly various Reformed sects. There were a few other groups, Quakers and more moderate Protestants, that sort of thing, but no Catholics and definitely no Orthodox Christians. (Honestly, Anne still wasn't sure what the difference was between those last two.) And the thought of there being a mosque on the central square in Salem was absurd. Anne had legitimately never met a single Muslim, ever, before visiting Romania. The culture in Massachusetts wasn't quite as oppressively socially conservative as it used to be — at least in part due to pressures from local Indians (the ones who hadn't been forced out over the centuries) and muggleborns and their descendants, they'd had to liberalize at least some — but it was still a deeply religious country, and in pretty radical sects too, the people there could be, well. There were reasons she'd left as soon as she'd graduated. The government in Romania had been vaguely comparable, complete with political participation only being open to people who owned property, but the culture had felt far more liberal to her.
Not as liberal as muggle America, of course, or the communalist countries, Christ. Her first stay in a communalist country — a week in Austria, on the way from where her portkey had landed in Holland to the tournament in Romania — had been one hell of a culture shock. If she hadn't already spent a year in Anishinābēwaki it would have been much worse, but still, it'd been a lot. Anne could imagine some of the more stuffy adults she'd known growing up would near faint at some of the clothes people wore around there — the lecture she'd gotten one day in primary school just for wearing shorts, honestly, Mr Graydon would probably have a heart attack at some of the outfits she'd seen women walking around in. And nymphs and goblins everywhere, yeah, as you might expect, Massachusetts didn't have a lot of nonhumans around. Of course, there really weren't very many in America to begin with — wilderfolk and selkies and mermaids and the like, sure, but that was mostly it — but the rare occasions they turned up in Massachusetts they weren't taken in with open arms, to put it mildly. And Jesus, werewolves, they'd finally stopped just executing werewolves whenever they were found back in the 20s, but the restrictions and surveillance they were still subject to, most of them fled to neighbouring countries (mostly Miskatonic or Indian nations), and she could not blame them.
She'd been certain she must not have understood correctly when the woman running the hostel she'd stayed at in Vienna had said they didn't charge for beds, at all. (Apparently the dialect in magical Austria was quite different from the German used by the muggles and the similar-but-not-quite-identical German used by the magical nation of the same name, so, oops.) The residents were expected to help out, keeping the place clean and preparing meals and the like, if they took advantage or broke anything they might be hit with a sort of fine, she guessed, but for the most part staying there was completely free — the expenses were covered by the state, to make sure there was somewhere for poor travellers and itinerants to sleep while passing through the city. That was, just... And it hadn't just been humans staying there, there'd been a handful of nymphs, Anne had even shared her room with one, the first time she'd ever actually met one in person. Which hadn't been bad, no — the place had been nice enough, her roommates (including the nymphs) perfectly friendly and pleasant — but the whole thing had been a very clear sign that she'd been in a foreign country, that was all.
Britain was more familiar than Romania, in some ways more than others, and definitely more than Austria, but was still its own kind of foreign. They spoke English, at least, though Anne had underestimated how common the old Celtic languages still were. They were actually still the dominant languages in the country, in fact, everyone just learned English as a second language so they could all talk to each other. The further you got from the centers of government and commerce the worse people's English got. And it could fall off pretty quick too — Anne had only needed to walk a few blocks off Diagon Alley in Charing (in London) before all the signs were in the local language, the chatter on the street completely incomprehensible. (She'd actually found a place to stay around there, specifically so she could pick up the language as long as she was in the country. Her Cambrian was about done, but her Gaelic was barely passable, not much of that around here.) The more modest dress was very familiar, though more colourful and elaborate than most people did back in Massachusetts...among the commoners, anyway, the nobility tended to be somewhat more plain — more expensive materials, but less in the way of complicated decoration or whatever else. The people where she'd been staying, and in the camp at the World Cup, tended to be more friendly and gregarious than back home, but also very consciously polite, formal in a way Romanians hadn't been, really, which was more like home.
Though, their formality obviously had its limits — she couldn't count the times she'd been hit on. They used pretty indirect language — definitely not coming right out and saying it, like had happened a few times at Chimiwāsikāning, more subtle than that — but still, in the village she'd grown up in approaching a woman like that would be unseemly. True, she was from an especially conservative community, it wasn't quite as bad in town, but even in Salem that would be kind of sketchy behavior, at least in public.
Of course, Massachusetts could be absolutely ridiculous about mixed-gender public spaces — there was a tavern in Salem, started by a muggleborn a couple decades ago, which was regularly fined for serving men and women in the same taproom (they made enough to afford the fines, cost of doing business, but still) — which had always seemed extremely weird to her, even growing up with it. As much as Chimiwāsikāning had been one hell of an adjustment, once she'd gotten used to it there were aspects of how the Anishinābēg did things that she definitely preferred.
And, obviously, they were all literally pagans. There were some Christians around, but really not very many, most mages who were religious at all instead following various polytheistic religions. Which was kind of weird to think about, honestly, but also not her business.
One of the more foreign things about Britain was their government — that was really not much like Massachusetts at all. Not that Anne would say the government back home was good, they had their own serious problems. Municipalities (or the wards of larger settlements) were still often run by the local congregation, which was an absurd thing to be around in the late 20th Century, and the national government was only open to people who owned property. Not just actually having any office, she meant — bureaucratic jobs and even appointed executive positions were open to most residents — but you literally only had the right to vote if you owned land. Since Secrecy had squeezed mages into little protected enclaves, and the land in those enclaves had all been bought up by the people already in Massachusetts at the time, that severely limited the number of people who could vote — and since the property they held could only be subdivided so many times to house future generations, it was often only the heads of the old families who had any political power whatsoever.
As awful as that sounded, though, it wasn't actually as bad as Britain, who still had an actual hereditary aristocracy. She'd kind of expected it to be somewhat similar, before she'd realized just how few families the Wizengamot represented — the noble families were a far smaller fraction of the population than eligible voters in Massachusetts. It helped that, as small as the original enclaves were, it was perfectly allowed to buy muggle property, ward it off, and then register it with the Commonwealth, getting yourself political rights without having to get your hands on the limited property in the enclaves. It could be difficult to come up with the money to do that for most people, sure, but it was way easier than it was for commoners in Britain to be raised to the Wizengamot — it'd been about a century since the last time that'd happened, seriously, it was ridiculous.
For all the faults of Massachusetts, they did have a fundamental belief in the virtues of democracy. The logic that supported it was a religious one, which then brought in other problems — even into the modern day Massachusetts was still firmly theocratic, having resisted secularization more or less successfully — but the culture there did recognize that people (see: Christian, married, land-owning men) had a fundamental right to a say in how their society was organized. They also had a deep interest in the health of the community overall, so were more likely to be concerned with the well-being of everyone within it — even people who didn't have any political power, they were still a part of the community, so their interests still needed to be taken into account. The leadership in the country were prone to very paternalistic attitudes when it came to the disenfranchized people under their rule (see: anyone who wasn't a married, land-owning man), and their concern was often sharply limited to those they personally considered part of their community (and it varied from person to person just how broad that sense was), but they weren't just putting on a show, they did legitimately seem to give a damn. As oppressive as the religiosity could be at times, it wasn't without its advantages.
The rulers of Britain, on the other hand, were nobles. Anyone in America, magical or muggle, could tell you aristocracy was some horseshit.
The Ministry wasn't so bad, at least compared to the Wizengamot itself. Ordinary people were far more represented there — though the leadership were still disproportionately nobility, but you take what you can get — and the internal culture seemed a lot more...practical, and professional, than the sort of airs the nobility tended to put on. All the performative statements and circular debates going on in the Wizengamot since the riot, ridiculous, but the Ministry seemed to have immediately settled into work, securing free medical treatment for the injured and cleaning up the damage and identifying the dead (and shipping them back home to relatives) and starting proceedings for property damage claims and remuneration for those injured in the fighting, all managed in relatively short order. Some things fell through the cracks, yes — lingering in the Ministry, Anne had overheard several complaints over issues to do with people's remuneration and the rare misplacement or mishandling of remains — but from what she could tell, the officials running the Ministry were reasonably competent. The investigation part hadn't really gotten anywhere, but Anne didn't think that was their fault, necessarily, they were doing what they could.
(Actually, with how deeply the guilds and academia were involved in the Ministry, it sort of reminded her of Miskatonic — she had enough tact to not point that out to any locals.)
The problem was that the Ministry was only empowered to enforce the law, and those laws were written by the Wizengamot. The nobles were very protective of their own economic interests, and that was reflected in the law, the economy and legal structure around it designed to serve them. Some commoners at least had someone advocating on their behalf, due to the presence and the power of the guilds, but the guilds only covered skilled trades — unskilled laborers were pretty much screwed, itinerants even more so. Far too many of them signed themselves into slavery just to avoid starving to death. (Naturally, the institution of 'corporal indenture' was extremely unpopular among poor commoners, but those who benefited from it also happened to be the same people who held the reins of power, so.) And there were cultural differences between the nobles and the commoners, though these tended to be milder, their interests not directly in conflict as they were in economic matters. It was obvious just looking at them, their aesthetic preferences distinct, but it came up in less frivolous things too.
Even in the short time Anne had been here, she'd realized that the commons held less xenophobic attitudes, just in general...though there was some variation in that. The more wealthy, professional-class commoners tended to have more positive feelings toward muggles and muggleborns, working-class types more suspicious of the muggle world, almost superstitious at times; on the other hand, it was inverted when it came to nonhuman beings, the poorer someone was the more likely they were to be welcoming toward nymphs and wilderfolk and whatever else. There were exceptions — some of the poor people she'd met were surprisingly paranoid about vampires and veela, for example — but the general trend was unmistakable once she'd noticed it. But the culture of the nobility had racialized the matter of muggleborns in a way even the more intolerant commoners hadn't, this odd 'blood purity' concept of theirs, and many of them could be fervently human-supremacist, the tone of some of the things she'd read and heard honestly unnerving. And reminiscent of home, somewhat, but that was not a flattering comparison.
One of the curious things about the Ministry was just how open it was. Back in Salem, the grounds around Common Hall were open to the public, but you couldn't just walk into the government offices without being stopped and asked what you were doing there. In fact, when Anne had first visited the Ministry, she'd expected to be stopped by someone, that she'd explain what she was doing here and be handed off to someone who could deal with her, or simply turned right around and kicked out. She hadn't expected to be allowed to, just, walk around, she'd actually needed to approach workers on her own to get pointed in the right direction. There was security around, "Hit Wizards" in their black and blue combat-ready uniforms posted near the entrance, the Atrium separated from the rest of the Ministry with golden archways enchanted to detect cursed objects and polyjuice and the like, here and there throughout the building the occasional police officer in plain greenish uniforms wandering about. But they mostly ignored her presence, in the week and a half or so she'd been visiting she'd only been approached by security once — and he only politely asked her what she was doing wandering around the Law Enforcement offices, pointed her toward the complaints office, and walked off again.
Not that she expected her complaint to get anywhere. Nothing was getting anywhere, nobody was listening to her at all, she didn't know what to do. Not that she could entirely blame them, honestly — the DLE offices did seem very busy, people constantly bustling around and shouting, dealing with the fall-out of the riot in addition to their usual business...and apparently their internal ethnic conflicts heating up, though at this point that didn't seem to be anything more than bar fights and the occasional stand-off between the police and the Gael's nationalist militia. (She had heard about a second, smaller riot in Glasgow, but supposedly that just happened sometimes, she wasn't sure whether it was related.) She'd been surprised when she'd gotten here that Ireland wasn't already an independent country — she'd thought they were, they had their own damn quidditch team and everything...
Anne's little investigation had brought her to Albania first (after delaying to catch the duelling tournament in nearby Romania). She'd heard rumors that 'Voldemort' was there, in some form — and it turns out those rumors were entirely correct, the Albanian government was perfectly open about it. His shade had been discovered up in the mountains somewhere, not long after that Hallowe'en, and they'd just...warded the place off, so muggles wouldn't go stumbling across him, and...waited for the problem to go away? Anne had been astounded when she'd found out, she— Surely they could have found someone to do an exorcism or a purification ritual or something to get rid of him permanently, and instead they'd...stood back and done nothing? just waited? She didn't understand it, she didn't understand it at all.
And they really should have done something — the Albanian authorities reported that 'Voldemort' had left containment and disappeared, years ago now. They had no idea where he'd gone, but he wasn't in Albania.
Over the next month, Anne had jumped around the Continent, but she didn't really know what she was doing. She hardly knew anything about 'Voldemort', she'd never been to Europe before, so the chances she'd, just, stumble across him by chance were pretty much zero. She'd heard rumors, here and there, but always vague enough there was little she could do to confirm them, she hadn't gotten anywhere. When she'd come to Britain, it was mostly just to attend the World Cup, she hadn't been looking into 'Voldemort' that seriously.
But then the riot happened, mages in the black cloaks and white skull masks of the Death Eaters throwing curses into the crowd indiscriminately, when they fled leaving the Dark Mark behind them. And Anne was very, very unnerved. Mom was equally disturbed, the tone of her first letter after the event rather, well.
Anne had been even more disturbed when, not long after the riot, Director Fox of the "Department of Mysteries" (whatever the hell that was) had reported to the Wizengamot that 'Voldemort' had been in Britain only a couple years ago — hunting unicorns for their blood, supposedly, which was an unpleasant thought. In fact, "Mysteries" believed he was still here, though they didn't know where he was or what he was doing. Which, inexplicably, nobody seemed concerned about at all! Fox claimed they didn't think he had anything to do with the riot, but the reaction to the revelation that the Dark Lord was active in Britain had been bafflingly muted — it hadn't even been in the papers, Anne had only found out about it talking to people at the Ministry! Regardless of whether he was responsible for the riot, they should be doing something, did they want him to come back? That was what was going to happen if they just let him do whatever he liked undisturbed! Didn't they get that?!
Apparently, the official position of the British Ministry was that the Dark Lord had died on that Hallowe'en — his spirit had lingered for a decade afterward, but if he was reduced to hunting unicorns to sustain himself the magics supporting that must be unravelling as well. At this point, there was nothing to worry about, he was as good as gone, permanently.
Which was fucking stupid. Honestly, when one of the officials in International Cooperation had given her that line Anne had been so taken aback she'd been completely speechless, just... One of their own executive officials said he was active even now, probably attempting to re-embody himself! Weren't the aware of the statements being made by their own government?!
Anne had been coming down to the Ministry every day ever since the riot, over a week now, trying to get through to someone, trying to... She didn't know what, exactly. Get someone to take it seriously, maybe? The man who'd nearly brought their whole country to its knees was wandering free around their lands, and they weren't fucking doing anything...
It seemed she wasn't the only one frustrated about it. While making a nuisance of herself in the DLE offices — she realized she was probably being a pain, but she didn't know what else to do (nobody was doing anything!) — she'd spotted Albus Dumbledore also making a nuisance of himself no less than three separate times. Anne didn't follow Britain closely, Dumbledore was probably one of only a handful of British citizens she would have recognized by sight before her visit — he'd been the leader of the ICW for decades until just recently, he was well known back home. (Though how people felt about him sharply varied, common opinion in Massachusetts and Anishinābēwaki on the Communalist Revolution and Dumbledore's role in its conclusion were polar opposites.) She'd gotten close enough, once, to overhear the conversation he'd been having had been very similar to some of Anne's, suggesting the DLE should assign at least a small team to try to hunt down 'Voldemort', at the very least close enough to observe him and try to figure out what he's doing. No dice, though, he wasn't getting anywhere any quicker than Anne was.
It was extremely frustrating. And she'd need to leave for home soon. Chimiwāsikāning had breaks synced to agricultural life the same as European schools — though they didn't quite line up, due to their use of New World crops and the slightly different growing season — and she only had a couple weeks left before classes started up again. She couldn't stay here much longer. Her mother's suspicions had proven correct, but nobody was doing anything about it, seemingly not taking the prospect of his return seriously. She didn't know what to do...
Defeated once again, Anne wandered out of the Ministry, slow and downcast. She wasn't looking forward to going home, having to tell Mom everything she'd learned. It wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. Since moving to Anishinābēwaki, she honestly didn't like visiting home in general, but the looming talk about this didn't make the idea any more attractive. She should think about moving Mom to Anishinābēwaki — she was hardly happy there, it'd probably be good for her. Though Anne didn't know what she'd do for church, there weren't exactly a lot of congregations around...
Anne was drawn out of her thoughts, wandering down the street only a couple minutes out of the Ministry, when she realized someone was following her. It was hard to describe the feeling, exactly. When other people described feeling eyes on the back of their head, she'd thought it was this they were speaking of — Anne always knew when someone was looking at her, even when they were trying to be subtle about it. It wasn't something she could explain, rationally, she just...knew. A sign of latent Seer talent, she assumed, which wasn't so much of a surprise, when she thought about it. Mind mages were a special class of Seers — it was pretty common for mind mages to have some degree of the Sight, even if it was underdeveloped. She also always knew when someone was lying to her, alongside a couple other less noticeable things, so that seemed like a good bet.
(Being able to feel people looking at her had gotten a bit unnerving as puberty had started having its way with her — she'd rather not be quite so viscerally aware of how often older men checked her out when they thought they could get away with it — but it could also be rather exciting, in the right situation. Context was key, after all, in practically any human experience. For example, it was possible she enjoyed teasing Corey in public a little too much.)
Long used to picking up this kind of feeling, Anne managed not to give any sign she knew, just kept walking normally. The main street in Old Town was wide and open, plenty of room for people to set up temporary stands, selling all kinds of things — she lingered at a jewelry seller (mostly ceramic and glass, cheap materials but vibrantly colorful and very finely detailed), mostly so she could use the opportunity to take a surreptitious glance behind her. It only took a blink to spot her tail, Anne turning back to the merchant, reacting not at all.
It seemed she was being followed by Albus Dumbledore. She'd like to say she didn't know what this was about, but she had a suspicion she did.
{Finally, Tamsyn thought. It'd taken three close passes for him to take the bait...}
She'd admit, it was a little intimidating to be stalked by Albus Dumbledore, of all people — one of the most powerful (mortal) sorcerers in the world, intelligent and accomplished and famous and, yes, dangerous. Not that she thought he would do anything to her, of course, and certainly not in public, but the skin all along her back was crawling, pins and needles, uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her. She lingered on the market street longer than she'd planned, wandering aimlessly from one stand to another, and while the stands or the crowd might break line of sight, Dumbledore kept following her, very stubborn about tracking her. Honestly, if he wanted to talk he could just walk up to her and introduce himself, he didn't have to be creepy about it...
The longer she could feel Dumbledore fucking stalking her, she grew progressively more annoyed. She could just apparate out — well, leave Old Town and then apparate out — but she didn't really think... Well, if nothing else, she had the feeling Albus Dumbledore, at least, would take her seriously. She had overheard him badgering DLE officials with similar concerns, after all. She had no idea if talking to him would actually accomplish anything, especially since they'd have to get his suspicions of her out of the way first, but it might be worth it? At the very least, it would be something she could tell her mother when she got back home — yes, the British government was completely useless, but at least Dumbledore was looking into it...
Fine, then. Anne started off toward a café, one she'd gone to for lunch several times over the last week. She'd been somewhat worried about funding her trip in Europe, but most things in the more communalist countries had been surprisingly cheap (probably subsidized), and Britain's economy ran on elvish currency — the New England pound, shared by Massachusetts, Virginia, and Orange River (which wasn't even English, but whatever), didn't spend perfectly against sickles and galleons, but it wasn't that bad. Britain and Romania, which used the Venetian ducat, had been the most expensive places to stay on her trip, though it was a mixed bag between them. Food was cheaper in Britain, but the accommodations were noticeably more expensive — if she'd stayed in Iaşi that might not be the case, since tournament spectators competing for hotel rooms in the city had bid up the prices, but she'd expected that and found a nice little bed and breakfast -style place in a village up in the mountains somewhere, which had been much more reasonable. And that was despite Anne staying in a relatively cheap hotel, rather cramped and...well, not great. The cash she'd had saved up had lasted her the summer, but at this point she was starting to run dry — even if school wasn't starting up, she'd have to head back home soon anyway. But she wasn't running so low that she couldn't stop in for a late lunch.
Only a few feet away from the front door, Anne turned to look over her shoulder, meeting Dumbledore's eyes — he was some distance away, not wanting to be caught, but he was close enough to realize she was looking directly at him, his step hitching in surprise. Anne didn't wait to see his reaction, instead turned right back around and walked into the café.
This particular place was rather more modern and muggleish — which had come as something of a surprise when she'd first found it, since it was in an enclave literally called Old Town. Wide, tall windows letting in (somewhat spotty) sunlight, the inside all polished wood, tables scattered about with a few chairs at each, the walls dotted with moving photos and clippings from newspapers, the air thick with spices and herbs and tea and coffee. It didn't seem so different from muggle coffee shops back in America she'd gone to a few times with Corey, though obviously with more signs of magic. It was even similar in that orders were taken at the counter (lined with pastries and cookies and sandwiches and the like behind glass), drinks picked up around the corner over there. From her previous visits, she knew that the waitstaff would sometimes bring people's food out to them, if it was a particularly large order with multiple people, but normally they just set it on the counter with the drinks, calling out for whoever to come get their stuff. During her Europe trip, Anne had learned that was pretty normal over here, at least in more working-class establishments — the sit-down restaurant way of doing things was more common in nicer places, though there was some overlap, depending. This was actually a somewhat nicer of an establishment than you saw in most order-counter-type...-things, but she guessed they probably got a fair bit of people coming in from the Ministry and the various other trade and guild and consulate offices around here, just to grab a coffee and a sandwich quick, so it probably made more sense doing it this way for that reason.
Once inside, Anne stopped for a moment, counting to fifteen in her head. And then she continued on toward the counter, getting a cheerful greeting from the woman there — Livy, Anne had been here enough times to recognize her by now. After chatting for a little bit, commiserating about another wasted morning at the Ministry and Livy's boyfriend being a thoughtless jerk, Anne got around to ordering...mm, gonna be coffee again — she still wasn't quite sold on tea, honestly — and that lamb and bean stew sounds perfect, and another one of those cheese and tomato sandwiches...oh fine, twisting her arm, add the dried beef again, why not, that stuff was pretty good...
They were talking about the sandwich when Anne heard the door open behind her, tingly hot light magic seeping through the room — Dumbledore's aura really was very noisy, but she guessed that was grand sorcerers for you. She finished her order and turned halfway around, leaning against the counter, waved him closer, "Mister Dumbledore, did you want something, while we're at it?"
Still standing some distance away, holding back, Dumbledore blinked at her, mind dull with blank surprise. Dumbledore looked rather too old for his age, hair gone completely silver and face a mass of thick wrinkles, standing tall but narrow and fragile-seeming, the greater part of his strength having faded long ago. Despite being just over a hundred (Anne forgot exactly), he looked closer to a hundred and fifty, maybe even older — the common theory was that he'd taken a nasty curse in his famous fight with Grindelwald, but nobody knew for sure. She'd known that from pictures she'd seen, but those hadn't quite communicated how very colorful he was in person, his old-fashioned robes a riot of orange and red and blue, the stitching glinting faintly golden in places, heeled boots a vibrant red leather with silvery (steel) buckles all polished to a shine, floppy pointed hat a darker reddish color stitched with an intricate wandering pattern in orange and yellow. His glasses were even tinted noticeably blueish, which was curious, Anne hadn't realized mages did that sort of thing...though few mages wore glasses to begin with, since most deficiencies in eyesight could be permanently repaired with potions — there were conditions they didn't work for, and often couldn't keep up with deterioration with age, so you did still see glasses around sometimes, just not as often.
Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, staring at her — surprise fading in favor of suspicion, simmering around her ears — before seemingly coming back to himself, pulling on a false smile. "I think I will at that." He walked closer, his robes audibly swishing and a faint jingling coming from somewhere, his eyes moving away from Anne, seemingly reluctantly, to find Livy instead. "Hello again, Miss...Olivia, is it?"
Livy smiled, dipped her head a little. "Yes, sir, it is. I'm surprised you remember, it's been a good while since I've seen you in here."
The wince was so well concealed Livy probably didn't notice. "Ah, my long decades running a school and in politics have given me more than enough practice in learning new names — I may get one confused now and then, but I never forget a face."
Anne couldn't resist cutting Dumbledore an exasperated glance — she was positive that comment had been aimed more at herself than at Livy.
It didn't take Dumbledore long to order, just some tea and a small plate of cookies — or "biscuits", as they insisted on calling them here, despite cookies and biscuits being not even close to the same thing — and they walked off to settle at a table, toward the back corner. Anne predicted this conversation was going to get a bit uncomfortable, she'd rather avoid drawing too much attention. Dumbledore removed his hat, setting it aside on one of the spare chairs, which Anne took as a sign to pull back her shawl, resettling it around her shoulders, gathered her hair up out from under it before letting it fall again. It hadn't taken her very long to put together that the locals had a thing about covering your head in public, it hadn't been any great burden to play along — she'd had to do a similar thing all the time growing up, though normally only in church or at formal events and the like.
The table fell into awkward silence, for a moment. His elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of his chin, Dumbledore stared across the table at her, pale blue eyes sharp and attentive. Anne stared right back, sitting straight and proper with her hands primly folded on her knee — meeting his eyes, all but daring him to—
There was a lance of magic, bright and hot and sharp to her senses, stabbing directly in at her mind — there it was. Anne didn't so much block the legilimency probe — not true mind magic, felt wrong, definitely the charm — so much as reach out and bat it aside. Which was a far more complicated trick than it sounded like: she had to let the charm begin to infiltrate the extension of her mind she'd reached out to meet it, then yank the magic up into her control, so then she could push that to the side, the rest of the power of the charm following behind carried along with its momentum. A neat trick, especially in so short a window, but not difficult for a mind mage to do — and impossible for anyone who wasn't a mind mage. Anne immediately retaliated, lashing out at the solid occlumency shielding his mind, but she intentionally made the attack thin and flimsy, instantly shattering and dissolving apart once it struck. Something he would feel, but that couldn't possibly be misinterpreted as a legitimate attempt to invade his mind.
Dumbledore reared back in his chair a little, his eyes widening. Anne smirked back at him, thin and sharp. "That was very rude, Mister Dumbledore. Do you often assault young women you've only just met?"
Somehow, he seemed even more taken aback by that than their lightning-fast mind magic exchange. "Nothing of the sort. I assure you, Miss...?"
"Creswell." There was a faint flicker of surprise from him, she raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose this is a good enough of a time to get down to introductions as any." Shifting her posture a little to more comfortably hold out a hand over the table, she offered, "Mercy-Anne Creswell," intentionally squishing her first and middle names to make it more obvious they were normally said together. "Most people call me Anne."
He hesitated, briefly, before taking her hand in the muggle fashion without hesitation. "Albus Dumbledore. And I do apologise for my bluntness, Miss Creswell, but I didn't mean any offence. I was merely attempting to test your mental defences — if I hadn't found any resistance the charm would have resolved, its intent satisfied."
...Anne guessed that was plausible. She hadn't attempted to analyze his attack as she pushed it aside, and the portion that had penetrated the extension of her mind had been too small a fraction for the spell to resolve. It didn't feel like a lie, so she guessed she'd just take his word on that. "And do you have an equally reasonable excuse for following me all the way here? Because, you know, where I come from, people don't look kindly on older men stalking young, unmarried women."
Dumbledore was amusingly startled by that suggestion, physically twitching and rearing back a little, his mouth parting just slightly — obviously, Dumbledore was gay, so it might not have even occurred to him that someone might assume anything untoward. After a second of stunned silence, he said, "I apologise again, Miss Creswell, I didn't mean to...make you uncomfortable. I'm afraid I didn't consider what I was doing quite so thoroughly as I should. I was carried away by my curiosity — when I saw you back at the Ministry, you...reminded me of someone."
That was surprisingly delicate, honestly. Her reaction must have dispelled the suspicions he'd had at first, though she had no idea what part of it had done the job. Giving him a humorless smile, Anne said, "You don't have to beat around the bush, Mister Dumbledore. I know I look like my father."
He blinked. "Your father."
"So to speak." Anne would personally say he didn't count, since Mom hadn't seen him since literally before she'd been born, but that was beside the point.
"I hadn't realised the...transformation was quite so extensive."
"Well, I can't say I ever asked my mother what he had in his pants, but I know I wasn't planned, so I guess the transformation must have been quite extensive." The look on Dumbledore's face made putting it that way totally worth it. "It's not particularly difficult to do. I mean, it does take extensive reconstructive blood alchemy, so, a lot of effort, but the magic isn't super advanced. People get their sex changed all the time." All the time, that made it sound more common than it was, but it did happen — often enough that practicing blood alchemists would even include it on advertisements listing their services.
While Dumbledore processed that revelation, they were interrupted by a server walking up with their lunch — not Livy, someone from the back, she didn't recognize him. Of course, the man immediately recognized the former Chief Warlock, and unlike Livy was not particularly pleased to see him — Dumbledore's star had waned significantly over the last few years — but he was perfectly polite on the outside, setting down their things, asking them if they needed anything else, even daring to throw Anne a flirtatious smile as he did, before wandering back off toward the kitchen. Somehow, in the few moments since, it'd slipped Anne's mind that she'd ordered soup. She gathered her hair back, pulling out her shawl to fold it over her hair a couple times, holding it against the back of her neck. There, that should do, felt sturdy enough.
Dumbledore's eyes stayed on her as he fixed his tea, hands moving automatically from a century of routine. He waited for her to taste her stew (very dense and flavorful, good stuff), as Anne knew was polite in some circles, before asking, "I wonder, Miss Creswell, how much do you know of your father?"
Anne grimaced. "Let's not use that term, please. I never even met the man, he returned to Europe before I was born — hardly what I would call a father. I know I used it myself a couple minutes ago, but I was just being blunt to make a point. Just call him the Dark Lord or Melanion or whatever." Not Voldemort, since British mages could be very silly about that name, didn't want to make a scene. "And, you are allowed to call me Anne. If that's just too informal for you, Mercy Anne is fine, I guess." Back home the older generations could be very particular about proper address, especially across sexes, so.
"As you wish. And, I'm Albus, then."
Trying not to smile as she imagined the look on her mother's face when Anne told her she was now on first-name terms with the famous Albus Dumbledore, she nodded. "Right, then. Anyway, I don't know that much more than what's publicly available. You know, some pagan priest or whatever — I don't know much about that, was it...Persephone, or something?"
"Hecate, I believe — or Venatrix Trivia, as adherents call her. I don't know much about the faith myself, I'm afraid. The purebloods can be quite...insular in their practices, at times." And Dumbledore — Albus, yes — being a commoner from a poor family (and even himself raised Christian), was hardly likely to be invited to join one of the nobles' weird mystery cults.
"Right. It doesn't really matter, I guess — I'm pretty sure he only got into the cult in the first place to attract followers." Anne paused to take a bite from her sandwich, Albus patiently nibbling at one of his cookies. "He was already going by Melanion then, but that wasn't always his name. He was born Tamsyn Riddle, in an orphanage in muggle London. Muggleborn, far as anyone knows. My mom looked Riddle up a little, found a few pictures, which is how I know I look like him. Um. Her? Whatever. I don't know how Riddle ended up becoming Melanion, but I guess it's not really important.
"My mother met him in...Seventy-Two? The early Seventies, anyway, shortly before the war over here started picking up. It was a sort of good-will trip, I'm told — making contacts in various governments to lean on when they got into power, seeing if they can start new cells of their cult in other countries, you know the idea. He didn't have a lot of success back home, I'd say the trip was mostly a failure."
"Back home," Albus repeated. "From your name and your accent, I would guess Massachusetts?"
"Yep — a little village up in the hills I'm sure you've never heard of. He didn't do so well with the leadership in my country — people are very Christian back home, while some of his politics might have gone over well they didn't take kindly to the weird religious stuff — but the embrace of old witchcraft, taking a more...spiritualist, almost ecstatic angle to it, that part appealed to ordinary people more, the poor. So, he had some success in Massachusetts, just not very much. And not enough that the cult is still around at all, it faded away pretty quickly after he left."
"I cannot think of a time Melanion was known to be away from Britain for long enough to allow such an extended trip to the Americas, but I suppose it's possible — his movements in those days are hardly well-documented, and he was certainly powerful enough to apparate across the Atlantic." Of course he could, it was hardly difficult, more an exercise of will than of power. Albus could definitely do it, probably could have when he was Anne's age. "Do you know if he had any significant success in other American nations? I had heard rumours that he was seen in Miskatonic, but I hadn't given them much credence..."
Anne snorted. "He did visit Miskatonic — he was kicked out on his ass in less than a week." At the surprise pulsing from his head, Anne rolled her eyes. "They support anti-Statutarian movements over there in general, but Melanion's brand isn't their thing, to put it mildly. The whole, mages using our power to rule the muggles, and such nonsense — the story is they were strongly put off by Melanion's disdain for muggles. Miskatonic is a mixed institution, you know, it's a muggle university too, they hardly bother with Secrecy in the Valley."
"Yes, I'd heard about that, but I'd always assumed the stories were exaggerated. If the muggles of Miskatonic were in the know, word would have spread outside of the Valley by now."
"I don't know what to tell you, Albus. It's some kind of ritual magic or something, I don't know. I've been there before — out of curiosity, honestly, the image of Miskatonic in Massachusetts isn't much better than it is here — and I'm telling you, the muggles there definitely know something fishy is going on. How many of them know about magic and mages and our whole secret world, hard to say, but they don't tell outsiders about any of it. That the place is just like that, you know, every town has its quirks — and other people don't know what it's like there, they'll just think the locals are superstitious weirdos, don't want to embarrass themselves bringing it up, you know. I don't know what they did, or how or why it works, I just know it does."
Albus seemed rather disturbed, which was fair enough. That effect was certainly from some kind of deep ritual magic — nothing else could have an influence so generalized and broad-reaching — but with how many people it affected and how large an area it covered and how long it'd been active, it'd almost definitely required human sacrifice. Anne wasn't an expert, but she thought it probably required more sacrifices to keep it up, as a matter of routine. As much as Miskatonic wasn't full of absurd mass-murdering black mages as people sometimes made it out to be, the town really very ordinary-seeming on the surface, there were some things that were very unnerving about the place.
"Anyway, my mother got drawn into the entourage forming around him during his stay in Massachusetts. By that time, Mom had been... Well, she was in a state that she was vulnerable to being drawn into that sort of thing, you know. Not the fascist militia part, I mean the cult part. It's a long story, and very personal, it's not relevant." {Tamsyn did have a story plotted out, involving sexual abuse and family drama sparking around it, but the only person she'd told any of it was Corey, and even he didn't know very much. Her other friends at Chimiwāsikāning had picked up enough to know there was something unpleasant in her family history, but they were tactful enough not to ask. Because, if the story Tamsyn had designed were true, obviously Mercy Anne would be reluctant to speak of it — not telling anyone actually sold it better.} "And, I don't know if you've ever seen him playing up his cult leader persona, but he can be a seriously charismatic bastard when he wants to be. I've seen Mom's memories, in a pensieve, and, well, the religion stuff is still weird to me, but I don't entirely blame her for kind of falling for him a little. A lot, really.
"And she wasn't the only one, either — she was well aware he had other lovers in their little cult, but she was deep into it enough she didn't care. Apparently this was just something that happened wherever he went. Like I said, charismatic bastard. I've never met any, that I know of, but I wouldn't be surprised if I've got several half-siblings out there."
A faint frown on his face, Albus said, "I don't think I've ever heard of anything like this, but I can't say that I'm surprised. Tamsyn always had been a terribly vain creature, and showed little care for her peers even as a child — it's truly no shock that she would exploit her followers in such a way."
It took some effort to keep a reaction to that off her face, Anne focusing on her food for a moment to better distract herself. {Tamsyn thought she might be mildly offended. Vain creature, honestly — she hadn't been any more concerned with her appearance than the noble girls at school, rather less so in some cases, but he didn't like her, so those same behaviours everyone engaged in became a character flaw when she did them. Not that that was unusual, she wasn't the only woman he didn't approve of she'd heard him speak of like this. Sometimes she wondered if Albus realised how misogynistic he sounded when he immediately jumped to these kinds of judgements. Probably not.}
{Tamsyn fucking hated this man. She eagerly awaited the day he was dead at her feet — hopefully it would hurt.}
Uncomfortable with the subject, Anne decided to change it. "He's coming back, isn't he?" Prodding at her stew, the spoon clinking against the ceramic, Albus didn't respond right away. "I mean... He died that Hallowe'en, but he wasn't gone — people knew he was just floating around in the mountains in Albania, apparently. The Department of Mysteries, whatever the hell that is, even says he's in Britain, doing something and everyone is— Nobody is doing anything, the Ministry just kept brushing me off! I don't know what's happening, why isn't anyone doing anything about it?"
Albus was silent a long moment, watching her — light blue eyes cool and still, showing nothing of the roiling heat in his head. It was impossible to tell what was going on in there without getting closer, which wasn't a good idea, for multiple reasons. He was definitely frustrated with the Ministry himself, of course, but there was an edge of... As much as he'd been playing it off, seeming to accept what she was saying about who she was and where she'd come from at face value, he wasn't actually as certain of the truth of it as he was acting. Not that Anne had necessarily expected him to entirely believe her right away — she realized the story was a bit much, especially with how larger than life, almost...inhuman Melanion's reputation in this country was these days. Even someone who'd known him before he was the Dark Lord, the thought that he might have done something so ordinary as father children probably seemed just weird. And Mysteries had said the Dark Lord was more active now, so, yeah, didn't blame him for being a little suspicious.
{Tamsyn fully expected Dombledore's doubts to linger for some time, months or even years. But that was fine, she didn't need him to trust her immediately — just to decide it was better to keep her close, to utilise her abilities for his cause even while watching for some sign of duplicity. It shouldn't be difficult, that was exactly what he'd done with Snape, she only needed to get herself in the same place: just close enough to easily knife him in the back.}
After a moment, the sharper edge softened somewhat, the frustration untouched but the suspicion loosening — not entirely, it was still there, just weaker. He'd clearly come to some kind of conclusion, but it was impossible to say what. "The Dark Lord's first campaign of terror waged upon this country left terrible scars through her very heart. So deeply that some wounds, over a decade later, have not yet closed. It felt, then, to all of Britain, that we stood on the edge of disaster, that the world as we knew it would come to an end. To those who have lived their entire lives in peace such...profound uncertainty can be difficult to comprehend. There is a rhythm to life, its expected patterns continuing from one generation to the next, and interruptions to these patterns can be quite traumatic to experience, for any society. It is not the Dark Lord's rule in itself that many feared, but the collapse of society as they knew it, the order that had typified their lives, and their parents', and their grandparents', and so forth and so on, that was what was feared — and then what was to come after, that nobody knew. Nobody can know, in circumstances such as those.
"In those moments, when terror so grips a populace, it is the unknown that is feared more than anything so mundane as privation or death. So deep is that fear, that the mind retreats before it. To contemplate such uncertainty, all the world on the edge of chaos, it is a painful thing — and people, naturally, avoid that which brings them pain. From your perspective, young enough to not remember the war, having grown up in a country an ocean away, it may seem incomprehensible. And it is irrational, perhaps — after all, the Dark Lord is no fairy tale monster, who will simply disappear if we but ignore him. But fear is irrational. Or rather, the actions people are moved to take in response to fear may be irrational — fear itself is not the problem, of course it is only right to fear that which threatens you, but when the mind is so preoccupied with feeling it often fails to think. And this country and her people, far too often, simply fail to think."
{Honestly, that was more intuitive than Tamsyn would have given him credit for — it seemed his ability to understand other people had improved since she'd known him back in the early 40s. Tamsyn had observed much the same phenomenon in muggles in response to the Great War, due to those psychological blind spots failing to appreciate the horror of renewed war in Europe until it'd been staring them in the face, and among mages, failing to learn anything from the popularity of Grindelwald's movement. But then, Dumbledore had lived through the Second World War and the Communalist Revolutions himself, and of course the conflict with the Knights of Walpurgis, so she probably shouldn't be surprised.}
"To those of us with clear eyes," Albus continued, "there was never any doubt that, one day, the Dark Lord would return. There were signs, even in the days immediately after that Hallowe'en, that he endured in some form, and more than enough of his followers had escaped consequences to assist him in the inevitable effort to claw his way back to life. I warned all who would listen at the time that this war was not over, not truly — and I wasn't the only one, a collection of clear-headed individuals from multiple layers of society and of every political persuasion giving warnings of their own. But the trauma our people had been through — so fresh, the wounds not even begun to heal — few were ready to hear it. Few wished to hear it. They clung at stability, pasting over the cracks, and moved on. Doing all they could to not even glance toward the abyss they'd nearly tumbled into, not realising as they did so that they still walked along its very precipice.
"And it is frustrating, for those of us who see clearly, know something must be done before it is too late. Action must be taken before the crisis strikes, if it is to be avoided, but to convince people to act in the absence of exigent circumstances, to see the looming threat for what it is before it comes... Well, that can be very difficult. And as frustrating as it is — and it is frustrating, terribly so — I find I haven't the heart to blame them, when it comes down to it. For people will avoid what causes them pain, and the thought of the Dark Lord's return is a fearfully painful one indeed."
Anne nodded, slow and morose. "Is there anything to be done at all? Just sitting and waiting... I'm not looking forward to going back and telling my mom about all this, honestly..."
"Go back? You're not in the country to stay?"
"No, just for the summer. Classes are starting up again soon."
"You're still in school?"
"Well, Mastery study, obviously. I'm studying Old World enchanting at Chimiwāsikāning. That's the school in Anishinābēwaki — it's in Ontario, on the muggle side, somewhere just north of Lake Superior." Anne wasn't certain where the school was located precisely, but she did know it was well north of the capital, across Ojibwē-Gichigami, which was close enough for Albus.
There was a spark of surprise from Albus's head, his eyes widening just slightly. "Ah yes, I believe I've heard of the school before, though I doubt I could reproduce the name without prompting. You know how some languages in that region of the world can be. If I recall correctly, it's built floating out on a lake, yes? Am I thinking of the right place?"
"Yes, that's it. It's very pretty, though the wind can get really bad in the winter — the lake freezes, you know, and there are no trees out on the ice to stop it. At one point last year snow actually drifted over the dorm I was staying in, we had to melt our way out in the morning."
"Oh dear, I can't even imagine." Of course he couldn't, they didn't get snow like that here. Chimiwāsikāning didn't get that much more snow than where Anne had grown up (away from the shore, where the Atlantic kept the temperatures too high to get as much), but the drifting out on the lake made it seem like much more than it really was. "And you're studying enchanting? You may not know this, but that subject was not a particular talent of your– of Melanion's, I mean."
"I didn't know that, interesting." {Tamsyn had done as well in Runes as in any other subject, it just hadn't been her favourite.} "I guess that's a good thing — I already look enough like him, I'd rather not have too much more in common with him, you know. But, I am an omniglot, I've always done well with the graphic arts. Enchanting is basically just a language, you know — it doen't work quite on the same principles, but the glyphs you're carving do still communicate something. Writing a script feels to me rather like writing a poem, interpreting or breaking an enchantment or ward very much like having a conversation. It's intuitive to me, always has been."
"How fascinating." And Albus was fascinated, a light in his eyes, an intensity that hadn't been there a second ago. {If Tamsyn had to guess, contemplating the potential uses of an omniglot cursebreaker — after all, he had horcruces to find, and presumably Melanion had defended them somehow.} "Bathsheda Babbling, our Runes Professor at Hogwarts for some years now, is an omniglot as well. I'm given to understand that the talent can be quite useful in the field. And in various other areas as well — you are fortunate to be so gifted.
"As to your question before," he continued before she could think of how to respond, "whether there is anything to be done about Melanion. I've suggested the Aurors begin an investigation, to hopefully ascertain his whereabouts — given his current state it's possible they could exorcise him or bind him somehow, but at the very least we would know where he is and what he is doing. I haven't had any more luck than you, I'm afraid — it seems my counsel is no longer so welcome in the halls of the Ministry than once it had been. As things stand, I don't think that will change simply by trying again, and again, until I make of myself nothing but a tiresome nuisance. To be honest, I may have passed that threshold already — I was told by a contact of mine that the Chief Auror has asked that the details of all my visits be reported to him as soon as I depart. There is little else that can be gained through badgering poor, innocent office workers.
"No, if we want our reception to change, we'll have to bring them something new." His beard twisting with a rueful smile, eyes coolly twinkling, "After all, I've found myself of late burdened with far more free time than I have any idea what to do with."
Anne guessed that could happen when you suddenly ended up unemployed after decades holding three jobs at once. "We? You realize I'm going back home to America soon, right?"
"That's no reason I can't keep you informed — for your mother's peace of mind, if nothing else."
"She would appreciate that. She's heard some of the rumors coming out of Europe, she's been worried, you know. That incident at the World Cup has made it even worse, the last letter sent me..." Anne trailed off, a little unnerved at the memory. Mom could be...intense, sometimes, spending so much time obsessing over all this couldn't possibly be good for her.
"I understand. I wonder, would your mother perhaps be willing to speak with me?"
Anne grimaced. "I doubt it. She doesn't like to even think about that time in her life if she can help it. She certainly doesn't talk about it. It wasn't until after the ten year memorial here in Britain that she told me a damn thing about who my father was, and I was already seventeen at the time. Besides, I doubt she knows anything useful — it was ages ago, and I doubt anything he told her then would be useful now."
"You might be surprised. But I'll admit it is unlikely, we needn't bring up unpleasant memories with no pressing reason to. I can keep you informed certainly. But should I find something suspicious I think might benefit from a second opinion from a cursebreaker in training...?" He trailed off, his voice taking a curled suggestive tone, one bushy eyebrow raising.
Chewing on an escaped bit of dried beef, Anne rolled her eyes — honestly, he didn't need to be so dramatic about it. "I suppose that depends. You gonna pay for my hotel stays during my visits? I've already burned too much of my savings on this trip, and hotel rooms are expensive in this country, you know."
"Oh, I expect that won't be necessary. I haven't the room at my home, but I'm certain one or another of my friends would be willing to offer a spare bedroom for a few nights now and then. So, to be clear, you are offering to help with the investigation, so much as you can from across the ocean."
Anne let out a sigh, fixing the silly man with a flat look. "I'm here, aren't I? I had plenty of other options for what to do on my summer vacation. I got a few offers to visit some of my school friends, my boyfriend invited me along for a damn boating trip or something with some of his friends — he was rather disappointed when I had to turn him down." Albus was rather surprised she had a boyfriend, for some inexplicable reason, but he kept the thought to himself. "I could have done anything else, and yet here I am, blowing through far too much of the money I had stashed away, so I can wander around Europe chasing down rumors of my biological father, who happens to be a goddamned dark lord, maybe not being as dead as everyone thought. And I've looked into the bastard since my mother told me, you know, I know all about the first time around, and how thoroughly everything might well go to shit if he comes back. Let's just say, with some of the things I learned this summer, I have not been sleeping well lately.
"So, if there is something I can do to maybe stop him from coming back, of course I want to help. He's a mass-murdering genocidal maniac — what the hell do you take me for?"
Albus smiled across the table at her. Not a happy one, of course — pleased, but more a cold, resolved sort of pleased. As they started discussing what little Albus knew of Melanion's movements since that Halloween, comparing with what Anne had managed to put together, going over her school schedule to figure out what might be most convenient if he found something he wanted her to take a look at, she idly stirred at her half-eaten stew, trying not to give away her unease. She was still only a student, after all, tackling whatever defenses an actual Dark Lord might have put up over whatever Albus might find didn't feel like a great idea. Apparently she wasn't hiding it very well, Albus assuring her that it should be safe enough, and that he would be right there with her — two heads were better than one, after all. Which at least explained why he'd want her along at all, she guessed, as much as the graphic arts weren't his area of expertise he still must have far more experience in the subject than she did, but cursebreaking solo was a horrible idea...
Of course, she knew, at least part of the reason he wanted her along was to keep an eye on her. In part out of curiosity, yes — he'd hardly expected the Dark Lord to have kids out there, after all, he couldn't help himself — but that suspicion sparked when he'd first caught sight of her face hadn't entirely faded. He didn't disbelieve she was who she said she was, but he didn't entirely believe it, either. But that was fine. Anne had gotten at least some of the answers she'd gone all the way across the damn ocean to find, and would hopefully be kept in the know from here on out — and, if they were lucky, Anne might just be in a position to stop a second reign of terror from her evil bastard of a father before it even began. So Albus fucking Dumbledore could keep his suspicions, if he liked, so long as Anne got what she wanted she didn't care.
{Honestly, Dumbledore had leapt on the opportunity of using the Dark Lord's daughter against him more quickly than she'd expected — with how Liz said he could be about family, she'd thought he'd have more reservations about that. She really wished she could read his mind without him noticing... Oh well. Tamsyn would call first contact a success.}
{Which brought her properly into phase one of the plan: the infiltration of the Order of the Phoenix. This should be fun...}
And there's the other half, woo. Tamsyn having a very normal time, and definitely not being a scheming bitch — she's already told Barty she isn't one, after all.
The last bit of this chapter I'm not super happy with, I typed it out on my phone when the internet went out in the middle of a writing session and didn't come back for like half a day. But I don't think it's worth obsessing over, so. As a reminder, the Anishinābēg are an irl American Indian group, an alliance of multiple closely-related nations around the western Great Lakes, straddling the US and Canadian border — "Anishinābēwaki" is an informal term for their country, the official name would be something different (and much longer). I'm living right now on what used to be Anishinābē territory (specifically Odāwā), though I grew up in what would have been a mixed Ojibwē/Dakh̆óta area — the former is another Anishinābē group, I use their language for fanfic stuff, since it's the one I'm most familiar with (and can find the best sources for). The "Wendat" mentioned by Tamsyn in the previous chapter are another nation normally called Huron in English, related to the Haudenosaunee a.k.a. Iroquois (but not part of their alliance, and were in fact rivals of theirs), their country along the eastern shore of Lake Huron (surprise surprise) and north of Lake Ontario — they would have a minority population in Anishinābēwaki, along with the Dakh̆óta and Hōcągra (Ho-Chunk), and probably other Siouan groups I'm not familiar with. Things can be kind of tense sometimes, since the Anishinābēg are actually from New England (related to the Wabanaki, Wampanoag, Lenape, etc), but migrated west in the aftermath of the smallpox epidemic that killed literally 90% of the population of the Americas reaching the Northeast from Mexico through trade routes (before Europeans ever landed that far north), pushing out the Siouan-speaking peoples native to the Great Lakes area. There've been multiple wars, both before and after Secrecy, it's very complicated, and probably not important to babble on about right now.
Just know I put way more thought into what magical America looks like than JKR did, because she's a hack and also racist.
I think I'm going to post scene-by-scene from now on, with the exception of occasions when it makes more sense not to. Because I'm a wordy bitch, and have serious trouble keeping scenes under 10k words — yes, I'm completely ridiculous, I know — so keeping chapters under 20k is pretty much impossible. Which may or may not mean more frequent updates, we'll have to see. That illness weeks ago now really fucked me up for a time there, there was original fiction and the YouTube thing I was poking at, but I just completely lost the thread. I'm finally starting to get back into things — the last couple days were the first I managed to write over 3k in a day since maybe December — but it's still a work in progress.
Which is fucking annoying, because it wasn't even that bad of an illness. Whatever.
I think that's all I've got to say, yeah. Except, friendly reminder: Don't buy Hogwarts Legacy. You can play it if you want — I know I'm going to try it eventually — just don't pay for it. If you know what I mean.
Be gay. Do crimes.
Right, more than enough from me, bye.