Eventually, both decided to return and finish the meal Remus' mother had prepared. And yet, the kitchen stalled in discomforting passivity, punctuated by Hope's vice and the exhaustive clinking of metal utensils against porcelain plates.
Hope perused them as if joyfully window-shopping, noticing her son steal furtive glimpses of the girl across from him, solely to snap right back to his meal. For someone who bore the heaviest burdens of life, Remus appeared… seventeen. Awkward and flustered— a boy utterly unsure what to do or say.
Then, there was Eve— who ate meticulously, each bite taken with exaggerated restraint, fully aware of the audience around her but without any performance. Everything about her trumpeted a sense of continence — poised and prudent— a stark contrast to the rebellious exuberance of Remus' other friends. But still, her son glanced, knife pausing, suspended each time Eve so much as swallowed.
"So," Hope began, tapping ash from her cigarette, "can't do magic myself, but I know what's what. Remus' mates call 'im a right genius at Defence..." her nose scrunched, "Defence of…?"
"Against the Dark Arts," Remus mumbled, red tinting his ears.
"That's the one," Hope said with a bright grin. "What 'bout you? What's your gift, like?"
Eve laid her fork down to fold her hands in her lap.
"Nothing."
Remus shot up, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, "That's not true!" Hope raised a brow. "You're clearly an herbologist," he went on, tumbling in a rush. "You're exceptional at it! You can revive runt seedlings– you even have the keys to the greenhouses!" He wildly swung his knife. "No other student does– not even prefects! And you're brilliant with numbers!"
"A mathematician?" Hope interjected, both brows lifted now.
Eve eyeballed the ceiling, searching within her lexicon.
"She's good with plants," Remus uttered, the heat now enveloping his entire face.
"Botany, is it?" Hope dug.
"Somewhat," he responded lowly as Eve remained plastered to the beyond, trying to untangle Muggle terminology.
"Fair play!" Hope declared. "Plants it is, then!" By inches, Eve mustered the weakest of smiles. Which only intrigued Hope more, inspecting while blowing out thin streams of smoke. "Says a lot 'bout you, that does," she nodded once, "plants don't ask for much, do they? Just a bit o' care, a bit o' attention."
Eve struggled to find the words to connect with the woman. Her throat constricted, and the silence strung out again. Remus shuffled his feet, rotating the knife between his fingers.
"Mam," he said, jaw taut. "Maybe Eve should rest."
Hope did a once-over of them. Her son rigid, on guard, as if he'd rather be anywhere but there, while the girl gripped her hands together into a deathlike knot— both on the verge of crumbling if another question came her way.
"Aye, course," she agreed, smooth as anything, stubbing out the cigarette. "Eve, love, no need t'be shy. Treat this place like yer own!"
Without hesitation, Eve crisply nodded once and rose from the seat.
"Thank—" but it cracked. Like greased lightning, her face pinched and a hand shot out, striking to brace herself against the table's edge. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the wood to outrun the surge of pain.
"Your legs," Remus deduced immediately, wide-eyed.
"My knees," Eve stated, not meeting his gaze. She gradually balanced her weight, clearly favoring one side. "It's nothing."
"It could be fractured," he voiced distantly, pushing back the chair. "Let me–"
"It's nothing," she insisted.
Evoked with alarm, Hope added loudly, "Love, let 'im take a look!"
"I've come this far," Eve explained, firm but edged. In truth, there was something humiliating, or somewhat uncomfortable, having Remus' hands on her bare legs in front of his mother. "They can wait a wee longer."
Remus opened his mouth, prepared to argue, but Hope caught his stare— a finger slicing across her neck, signalling a dead end.
"Let 'er rest," she instructed, lighting another cigarette. "You can fuss over it later."
Eve offered a polite smile. "Thank you, again, for having me."
"You're welcome anytime," Hope returned straight away. "Stay as long as y'need. We'll make a proper holiday of it— hot choccy by the fire, the whole lot." The heat crawled back up Remus' body.
"Er— yeah," he agreed meekly.
"Thank you," Eve echoed for the third time before scuffling out of the kitchen. Despite blundered knees, Hope smirked as she observed — and heard — the girl retreat by mastering the art of walking on tiptoes.
With lips still slyly twitched upward, she turned to Remus.
"Well," she announced, reclining into the chair. "I like 'er."
Remus' expression screwed up as if her hair had disappeared. "You do?"
"'Course," Hope answered, snorting at his harried appearance. "She's polite, humble—"
"Bloody quiet," Remus scoffed, as though that should disqualify all else.
"'Cause she's a listener," she said. "Observant, curious. Looks at things, tries t'figure 'em out, an' then speaks." She took a long drag, eyes thinning. "Didn't you say she's brilliant with numbers?"
Remus slumped in his seat. "Yeah?"
"An' why d'you reckon that is?"
"Had to be this room, didn't it?" Fergus Fitzpatrick's leer lifted to a crudely patched door with mismatched boards, hastily fixed and then neglected. Its once-decorative carvings embellishing them were damaged, rubbed into nubs.
"Dermot called upon the House," Duncan sighed, fingers drumming absently against the table. "It's been the heart of the House for 13 centuries, Fergus."
But the heart of the House of Laigin was no more than a threadbare chamber upon the long-held grounds of the Fort of Kings, hollow but enduring along the River Barrow in County Carlow.
It was no spectacle of wealth or power.
Once-crimson wallpaper peeled into jagged strips. Moth-eaten drapes hung limply over tall windows— color lost to time. The ceiling sagged, exposing patches of lath and gaping holes that uncovered the brittle skeleton beneath, while dampness crept through the walls, depositing stains and a nasty tang of mildew. A long, ramshackle table was arranged uncentered and inelegantly near the window. Its surface was scarred, uneven, and flanked by mismatched chairs— some spindly, others obscured in grime, upholstery torn or missing. Dim light filtered through the few candles scattered over it, the flames trembling from incoming drafts of the fort's numerous gashes.
The county lords of Leinster Province occupied their seats in an array of family colors, but the frail light made their velvets appear dull, almost spectral. Only the polished silver lion crests, pinned to their chests, marked their bond to Duncan Kavanagh— the House's Head.
Fergus took a gander at the younger brother placed across him— the last to arrive with his daughter, Bridget. He skimmed over the MacMurroughs; a peevish inspection nabbed Dermot's unseemingly bent posture and his daughter's forcibly straight one.
"Called the roar, did ya?" Sean O'Farrell raved. "We're sittin' here near an hour now, in this stinkin' room, waitin' to find out what we're roarin' for." Despite Dermot and Duncan's restlessness, the younger O'Farrell's rant elicited chuckles from a few.
"Well," Timothy O'Toole interceded calmly, "all the lords are here." He surveyed the table, squinting, calculating them. "Lovely—" Fergus' harsh snort abruptly interrupted him.
"We're still waitin', so we are," Oran O'Moore revealed, the most reserved of them all.
"We are?" Sean exclaimed. His neck twisting from one end to the other, stewing over how many they could possibly be.
"Are ya blind or what?" Fergus shot forth, dashing a hand over the members and then slapping it on his son's shoulder. "The Heir— look around, will ya?" For some, it was a revelation; for others, it was an acknowledged concern, manifesting with varying degrees of unease. "We're called here by Dermot, an' we're all missin' the feasts, but this meetin' won't happen without the Heir," he stated, nearly growling. "Have ya copped on at all?" He zeroed in on Sean's mother, Feena. "More water than sense sloshin' around in there, is it?"
Feena's chest rose, but she held her tongue, too acquainted with Fergus' love for unfiltered tirades.
"And where's Aoife at, then?" Ida O'Connor Faly questioned, addressing Duncan directly.
All fixated on their Head, whose unyielding facade settled into an eerie gloom.
"With her friends in London," Dervilia Kavanagh suddenly spoke, her painted lips curving into a tight smile. She folded her hands and placed them on the table. "This meeting can begin."
"It bloody well can't!" Fergus retorted.
"He's right, sure enough," Bran MacKehoe croaked in a timeworn voice, their eldest member. "In all me born days, there's never been a meetin' in Loingsech's chamber without the Heir." He broke into a coughing fit, retrieving a mangy handkerchief to stifle the sound. His daughter, Finola, looked to Duncan with exasperation knitting lines across her forehead.
"Has word been sent?" Finola asked.
"Yes," Dervilia answered, neck-snapping towards Finola. "She's enjoying London so much that she's asked not—"
"Aoife won't attend!?" Bridget blared, breaking the rigid demeanor. She bent over to gawk at her aunt.
"The Heir's refused the call, is that what I'm hearin'?" Sean inquired.
"We're to fall in when the Heir's objected?" Cuan Fitzpatrick amplified, teeth nearly bared.
"No objection," Duncan clarified, lifting a palm to soothe them. "And not without my say."
"I won't have it, not on me head or me heir's," Bran rasped with a nod to Finola. "This isn't right, Donncha. Where's Aoife?"
A storm brewed in Duncan as he grappled with the mounting discord.
"In London," Dervilia reiterated. "Given the border restrictions, it'll be hours until she arrives."
"Well, call us back when the Heir's after arrivin', right?" Ida pitched brusquely.
"The O'Conors will grant an exception," Feena intervened. "I'll send word now. Mairéad and I are close— she'll take me at my word."
"Ah, sure, one o' ours'll apparate her here," Roger O'Dunne said casually. "Won't take long, like."
Everyone's attention returned to Duncan, who appeared trapped between two worlds.
"As I—"
"An' who might ya be at all?" Fergus hounded.
Dervilia met him full-on — the Lord of County Kilkenny — not the lion pinned to his chest, but a wolf. With a delicate, deliberate exhale through her nose, she held back any snide remarks, maintaining the forced, now condescending, smile.
"Someone hit you with a memory charm, Fitzpatrick?"
"I've memory enough to know this chamber's for Labraid's blood, an' that's the end of it."
The others grew quiet, their faces cast down. Ida drew her lips inward while Kevin Kinsella choked on a suppressed scoff. Dervilia remained static, her stare locked on Fergus. Then, she directed her lour towards Duncan, who was shackled, tongue-tied at the table's end.
"Aye, the lad's right," Bran croaked. "This here was built for Loingsech's blood— anythin' else'd foul the magic in the walls, so it would."
"Duncan!" Dervilia blustered breathlessly. He pressed a knuckle to his mouth, unblinking.
In the end, Fergus and Bran— everyone knew the truth. His wife shattered centuries-old magic that safeguarded words, secrets, and vows forever embedded in the blood of Labraid Loingsech's descendants— the founder of their House that spanned all of Leinster.
"Dervilia, outta respect, would ya leave us be so we can move this along?" Owen Cosgrave requested, pointing a finger to Dermot. "Dublin there's like a lad struck dumb, an' he's not goin' to speak a word while you're here."
Dervilia stiffened.
"I am a Kavanagh."
"By marriage," Ashling O'Toole pointed out gently.
"Dear, please," Duncan whispered as his wife threw daggers at him.
"We're missin' the bloody Heir," Fergus reminded.
"She'll be informed," Duncan assured him, exhaling loudly. "Waiting for the O'Conors, sending word to our own... delays the meeting. We can start. All the families are present, the heir's presence is a formality—"
"Not the High Lord's Heir!"
"We — the county heirs — are expected to act when Aoife's refused?!" Cuan grilled, backing his father.
"No!" Dervilia lashed out. "She requested not to attend— no objection." Then, she stood gracefully, casting a fiery glance at the others. "Your oaths will proceed." With that, she strode through the one-ajar door, which swung shut behind her as soon as she stepped into the hallway.
"Feck me, I thought she was settlin' in for the night," Roger jibed.
"You'd think by now she'd know what an oath is," Keira Kinsella mumbled.
Several laughed or tried to stifle it while their Head remained somber. Duncan, too, questioned his daughter's whereabouts— Eve was expected to attend. The message had been dispatched. She knew to act appropriately— why had she chosen otherwise? His mind whirled as he roamed over the county heirs old enough to be present: Cuan Fitzpatrick, Barry O'Byrne, Sean O'Farrell, Finola MacKehoe, Ashling O'Toole, Keira Kinsella, Bridget—
His heart shattered.
Right, he remembered.
Eve had a place among them, but it would never be as an heir.
Yes, Duncan knew, although Eve was unaware of it. He had ever since Aoife — their banshee — had chosen her. Contrary to common belief, including that of those seated before him, the banshees had not vanished to the Otherworld. And it pained him that it was his daughter — out of so many — whom their banshee had embodied.
"Lookit, just call us back when the Heir gets here," Ida aired, preparing to stand.
"Aye, but we've been called in— Duncan's after permittin' the Heir to stay away anyway," Owen said, massaging his temple.
"Indeed," Dermot acknowledged, retrieving two folded sheets of parchment from his breast pocket and placing them side by side on the table. "These are from Mancel Palancher—"
"Bloody hell," Hugh O'Byrne exclaimed, slapping the table. "We're sittin' here because o' Palancher—" Duncan raised a palm to the Lord of County Kildare.
"He plans to stop importing to the United Kingdom."
A heaviness befell them.
"What's it got to do with us at all?" Barry O'Byrne questioned, nose scrunching.
"I'd like to know meself, so I would," Roger added.
"Claims the war is interfering with trade," Dermot explained. "He wants our help relocating Palancher Imports from London to Dublin." Owen emitted a low whistle while Fergus reclined with crossed arms. "And tails in London..." Kevin's brows furrowed. "We'd be responsible for everything. Mancel no longer wants to engage directly with the English."
"About time, wasn't it?" Ashling mumbled to her dad.
"Feck's sake, he'd be better off tellin' the Brits to feck away off," Hugh snubbed.
"Price?" Kevin asked.
"Ours," Dermot replied.
Kevin Kinsella and Roger O'Dunne exchanged knowing glances from across the table— just about salivating.
"Mairéad won't take kindly to that," Feena said in an exhale. "The borders are regulated now, and this could well be seen as helpin' the English."
"Or they'd take it as a threat, thinkin' we're a Trojan horse for English influence," Sean chimed in, focusing on the ceiling. "Not that they don't already think that much of us."
"What's the terms we're workin' off now with them? An' what way is their coffers lookin'?" Ida interjected.
"Like a feckin' pile o' shite. An' that all depends on what terms you're talkin' about, and with who," Roger responded.
"They've kept to themselves since Grindelwald. Broke with the Americans after 1920. Throwin' high levies and controls on everything else. Near put a full ban tryin' to prop up their own," Timothy O'Toole outlined slowly.
"Isolationists, sure, take a look at how they handle foreign affairs," Hugh tacked on.
"Ah, but sure, they still need them. Can't have everythin' comin' from one island— we know that as well as they do," Kevin quipped.
"And didn't we go from Masters of Coin to Masters of the Shadows as well, so we did?" Owen drawled. "This suits us fine— the Shadows. Palancher'll bring in even more for us, easy enough."
"But neighbors they are, and they'd see this as takin' advantage of their weakness in wartime. Relations'd be soured for decades," Sean contended.
"Ah yeah, 'cause we're best feckin' friends, is that it?" Ida mocked, rolling her eyes.
"We've still to consider the consequences— within and beyond. There's every chance they'd act against us," Feena said sharply.
"We'll offer the O'Neills their share, split with Ulster," Owen suggested, shrugging. "Me kin in Dundalk'll see to it."
"We'll take Carrickfergus for our bit," Roger hitched on with a nod. "No point puttin' all eyes on Dublin when Belfast'll handle it grand." And by their bit, they all knew it meant the rusted side of the coin.
"That's the right way to do it. Always good to keep our closest allies an' kin, even those without Loingsech's blood, on side. O'Neills'll be glad for it," Bran concurred.
"Fantastic," Feena huffed, shaking her head. "The O'Neills and Kavanaghs— an' when Mairéad asks, what shall I say?"
"That we're Masters of Coin." The resolution was a blade, and Dermot's stare the grip holding it. "Ireland's wealth."
"And it's been our seat for centuries," Bridget asserted.
"The Saxons— aye, they're troublesome enough — but they've been key partners," Bran wheezed. "This is all about coin. It's not a matter of intelligence or war, so it's not."
"Masters of the Shadows?" Feena denounced with a snicker. "That's got shag all to do with Intelligence, hasn't it?"
"Clean hands, is it? Since when!?" Kevin spat, nearly causing the splintered chair to cave as his torso busted forward. "How d'ye think we're keepin' the country fed? What's Longford got but a few bogs an' lakes, eh? Feck all else, I'd say."
"Our other dealings bring in more than enough to make it worth the hassle," Roger upheld, locking onto Feena. "Longford's had its fair share, hasn't it? Ye've the least lads and the wettest land. But still, ye live high and mighty up in that castle of yours." He dramatically rubbed at his chin. "Sorry now— where is it ye're lordin' over us from this time of year? Longford Castle or Rathcline Castle? Hard to keep up with ye havin' two."
"Are we done posturing, or is there more?" Timothy cut in, an unimpressed glance passing over the O'Farrells and Roger. "Sure enough, we're not the Taoiseach, nor responsible for Intelligence." He straightened up. "This would lead to growth and far greater leverage. Others might follow Mancel's lead. We could use it to strike better trade deals with England— with or without their Ministry's involvement." His expression gave nothing away, though he briefly glimpsed at Roger. "This would make us the most powerful faction by far."
"As if we're not already, eh?" Ida laughed.
"O'Conors took a chunk outta that," Fergus grumbled.
"We'd go for a bigger one, easy enough," Owen proclaimed.
"Only if all goes well," Finola MacKehoe sighed. "If it doesn't, we'll take the blame for openin' Ireland to the likes of the English."
"Are you hearin' yerselves at all?" Feena demanded, absolutely cutthroat. "Espionage, smuggling— and then we go takin' what little trade England's got?" She drew a breath. "Do you think they'll take that lyin' down!? Help the Pirates outta London, and they'll make sure we regret it!"
"I only see a win," Kevin maintained, smirking.
"Kinsella's right," Hugh agreed. "Palancher settin' up in Dublin, workin' with Belfast— that keeps the O'Neills onside, doesn't it?" He gave a slight shrug. "The English'll whinge, but sure what can they do? Shut the ports?"
"They'd be left with nothing— trapped with their war," Barry, his son, easily concluded.
"But if the war were to end, now..." Feena advanced. "The backlash— it'll hit all of Ireland, so it will."
"Ah, but that's if the war ends at all," Oran O'Moore wondered.
"Palancher Imports in Dublin helps us," Bridget interrupted the feud. "If anything, it'll harm them more than it will us." Her voice steadied. "The O'Conors were never exactly friends, and the O'Neills? They're well prepared for whatever comes. We've nothin' to fear."
"And Mairead'd sanction us if she could— so why bother frettin' about them at all, like?" Owen appealed bluntly, drawing laughter from many.
"An' who's to say who's fightin' who over there?" Kevin continued, grimacing. "It's nothin' but chaos. They've not the lads for it, an' sure even if they did, we wouldn't have a clue who'd be comin'."
"Chaos is grand, makes the price good," Roger commented.
"Feck it, let's just get on an' vote, lads," Ida decided, clapping once.
Duncan watched her as they sat directly across each other, rubbing an unusual piece of jewelry he wore— an iridescent thumb cover. After the passing of Oran's father, she had proved herself at a very young age by winning the third most crucial seat in their faction— Master of the Vaults, granting her unprecedented authority. In many ways, he had always hoped Eve would follow in Ida's footsteps.
Alas, life was cruel.
When no one contested, Duncan nodded curtly and stood.
In Irish, he announced, "Shall we vote?"
Nods, grunts, and murmurs emanated from all directions.
"All in favor, palms on the table— heirs included."
One by one, they did as told— and Duncan started counting from one end to himself.
"Very well," he stated, "those in favor: Íde Ó Conchubhar Fhailghe of County Offaly; Eoghainín O'Coscraigh of County Louth; Ruairí Ó Duinn of County Meath; Tadhg and Aisling Ó Tuathail of County Wicklow; Caoimhín and Ciara Cinnsealach of County Carlow; Aodh and Fionnbharr Ó Broin of County Kildare; Diarmaid and Brighid Mac Murchadha of County Dublin…" He placed his palm on the table.
"Seven of twelve counties in favor," Duncan placed his palm down, "since that's a majority, the Head of the House of Laigin votes in favor."
"Useless!" Fergus bellowed in their native tongue.
"Fergus," Dermot seethed.
"How many of you've pledged to Mancel?" He scrutinized Owen. "We need to join the dragon's pit, too?"
"Lookit, Fitzpatrick," Owen replied flatly in English. "No need to be makin' this complicated."
"Sure, this is tradition, an' there's no changin' it," Bran noted.
"We needed the full House for this, did we? What're we shakin' over?" Fergus jutted his chin at Kevin. "County Carlow here thinks he's gonna be rollin' in gold, but Dublin's called for the House? That's fear, that is."
"Is this happenin' or not?" Ida scowled.
"It must," Finola said.
"Feck it," Cuan muttered, resting his palm on the table. Fergus glared at the back of his son's neck but then noticed the others who had voted against doing the same— even the O'Farrells.
"Feckin' hell," Fergus growled, slamming his hand down hard. "I'll take the bloody vow, but we'll have no part in this shite."
"No one asked you to go traipsin' off to England— the bloody vow is for us, not them," Timothy retorted dryly.
At last, with all palms on the table, Duncan exhaled, concluding in Irish: "The House of Laigin accepts the allegiance of the Palancher bloodline. So long as they stand with us, they are bound to our cause, as we are bound to them. From this day until the last of their progeny. By soil, sea, and blood, this bond is sworn. As a descendant of Nuada, I take this vow and rise."
And then, they rose, palms flattened to the dilapidated wood.
The table stirred beneath them, thrumming as if it were alive. A sharp sting pierced their fingertips, snaking up their arms like tendrils of fire and ice entwined. It sank into their skin, weaving through muscle and marrow, settling in places unseen. Some gritted their teeth against the burn, while others barely flinched, their hands already littered with scars.
When they pulled away, the marks remained— a thin white line etched into flesh, neither raised nor raw, but there. Some bore two or more; others had crosshatching patterns, reminders of binding promises, debts, and contracts that could never be unmade.
"It's done."
And the table became lifeless.
A storm raged outside, battering Hook Head and Rindowan Hall with blocks of rain. Inside, bewitched oil-fed lanterns bathed Duncan's study in an unnatural steadiness, resisting the cold drafts that seeped through— a ceaseless presence in every corner of the Kavanaghs' home.
Dermot leaned against the arched window, peering into the drenched night. Duncan sat in a voluminous armchair, angled toward Dermot, one hand resting on the wooden arms. Two glasses of whiskey lay on the small table, untouched. Instead, both listened as the storm lashed against the glass, assessing which force of all would last the night.
"Let me guess..." Dermot broke the hush in Irish, the language rolling fluidly between them. "Rerouting through Dublin and Belfast— mighty but reckless?"
"No," Duncan responded reservedly. "Reckless are the English. We cannot risk our ports, seas— nor the ports and waters of those who rely on us for safe passage during their war…" His voice dropped an octave lower. "And those long before it."
"And those who've betrayed us since?"
"Van Hall wrote."
"Surprise, surprise," Dermot snorted.
"The whole Rhine— ours once more."
"Until the van Halls decide otherwise." Dermot's knuckle tapped against the stone.
"With coin, expecting loyalty from a Dutchman is expecting the sun to rise from the west," Duncan remarked lowly, throat clearing. "And your talks with the Palanchers? Will they know the full extent of what we do?"
Dermot smirked, shifting slightly so his shoulder pushed against the cold stone. "If they learn, they'll look away or adapt." He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, rolling it up. "You left them no choice." He traced the brightest scar tattooed on his skin. "I heard your words," he chuckled, "accepts the allegiance of the Palancher bloodline?"
Duncan maintained an unwavering focus on his brother.
"I suppose that's what made you Master of Coin," Dermot voiced. "They called me ambitious, but you were cleverer."
"Maybe."
"The Palanchers, the English will have our cooperation, on our terms." Dermot bent down for the glass of whiskey, bowing it towards his brother. "You always made sure of that, unlike father." A second passed as he sipped the liquor. "Funny, though, you didn't mention Potter."
"Neither did you."
"Didn't think it was necessary."
"Neither did I."
Dermot's stare sharpened, lowering it to Duncan's iridescent-covered thumb.
"You know."
Duncan said nothing, tending to the hail now pounding Rindowan.
"You know what happened."
"Mulpepper doesn't have enough coin to feed himself. The little supply he receives from Lin Xuan when he can afford it isn't difficult to track."
"Nor is it difficult to lose sight of," Dermot added, but the amusement vanished. "You know who switched out the dragon threads, don't you?" Duncan remained mute. "Bloody hell," Dermot huffed, laced with edged enlightenment. "You just wanted Palancher."
"You wanted Palancher," Duncan amended.
"Of course I did," Dermot agreed. "But aren't you worried?"
Duncan finally chuckled. "Worried?" He reached forward for the whiskey. "A young girl sneaks in the middle of the night and switches out vials. What of it?"
"You don't wonder why?" Dermot spurred.
"Children do childish things."
"Rerouting Palancher Imports from London to Dublin is childish, is it?"
"Dominoes," Duncan muttered, shrugging lightly. "Paranoia."
"But why? Why steal it?"
"Expensive passion," Duncan guessed.
"And go to such lengths to strip how many scales to cover it up?" Dermot wasn't buying his brother's indifference. "You know the rumors," he continued, "if she's a student..." Duncan cut him off with a dismissive scoff.
"Dumbledore—"
"Dumbledore isn't invincible."
"Dumbledore wields the Elder Wand," Duncan revealed sharply, watching his brother's mouth slightly part. "Yes, Death protects Dumbledore— he is no ordinary wizard." He knocked his iridescent thumb against the whiskey twice. "Don't be foolish, brother; there is much you don't know."
"Cautious, not foolish," Dermot exhaled, blinking slowly. "And our dealings?"
"Fine, I've heard no concerns."
"Not those."
Duncan nearly rolled his eyes. "When you read a book in the shadows, Diarmaid, there's a chance you'll miss a word. Your other trade is already risky— if the Scourers pluck a load or two, that's no surprise, now, is it?"
"Unless the Scourers have been recruited by…" Dermot never finished the sentence.
"Maybe they have."
The words were spoken carelessly, deafened by the thundering skies.
The brothers exchanged intense gazes.
"I am Ireland's Master of Coin," Duncan declared. "It was not our coffers." His voice tightened. "I won't concern myself with mediocre magic or equally mediocre acts."
Duncan lifted the glass of whiskey to his brother, as if in tribute.
"I gave you the cards you wanted," he drank, "now, play them."
"Yer dad's back," Hope grumbled as Remus descended the stairs.
The day had been long— heavy with smoke and stillness. After eating, the three of them had retired for a much-needed pause. Remus had intended to read until Eve woke, but sleep had crept in unnoticed somewhere along the way. Now— judging by the lack of light filtering through the window— hours had slipped past without him realizing.
"And?"
"Dunno. Eve's been starin' at the fire since I lit it. He came 'round 'bout an hour back, straight in there, asked her name, then told me t'tell you that he wants a word."
Remus' shoulders dropped.
"I know, love, but— made this for 'im," she offered apologetically, handing him a mug of hot chocolate. "An' here, take this for yourself." She passed the other over. "I'll grab the two for me an' Eve. Maybe a bit o' sweetness'll soften 'im up, eh?"
With a sigh, Remus balanced the two steaming mugs and dragged himself toward his father's study. He tapped the oak door with his foot, the wood creaking to signal his arrival, and punted it open without pausing for an invite.
"Mam said you want to talk," he announced, stepping inside and setting the mugs on the desk.
Lyall Lupin peered up from some report, inhaling deeply as he removed the glasses crookedly perched on his nose.
"Indeed."
Remus blinked, his heartbeat easing as he regarded his father. Lyall wasn't angry, no, but unmistakably skittish. Tentatively, Remus slipped his hands into his pockets. He lingered in place, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Waiting.
"What do you know of this girl's family?"
Remus stalled, momentarily hauled up. Of all the things his father could have brought up, Eve's family had been far down on the list.
"Er, not much," he admitted. "I've only really known her since October. McGonagall offered me credit if I tutored her." He shrugged. "Um, they're Irish. Purebloods…?"
Lyall's lips pinched. "Her father's Duncan Kavanagh."
"Ireland's Master of Coin," Remus acknowledged.
"So you know more than you let on." His father's expression did half the speaking.
"And?" Remus' palms became increasingly damp. "You don't like them– like Sirius?" He cleared his throat. "Surprised you didn't ask which House she's in."
"Slytherin," Lyall addressed promptly. Remus faltered into an unnatural dumbness. His father clocked it. "Not because she's a Kavanagh," he clarified, though cagily. "It's her mother. Dervilia."
The name meant nothing to him.
"And?"
"And Dervilia isn't someone you'd want to cross," Lyall stated bitterly. "She comes from a line of very powerful, ruthless families."
Then, it clicked.
'Her mother was Head Girl,' he'd learned at their Sorting Ceremony. One of the first things he ever heard about Eve.
"More powerful than the Kavanaghs?" Remus speculated, sifting through the details, discerning whether an actual problem lurked or was merely a figment of Lyall's infamous paranoia.
Then, in a hush, Lyall abruptly spouted, "About two centuries ago, a man named John MacMahon fled Ireland for France. By all accounts— a nobody. Somehow, he married into French pureblood aristocracy— direct advisors to the monarchy, descendants of the founders of Beauxbatons, much like the Delacours." He leaned forward, peering up. "Once, they valued courtly magic— refined, light. But that marriage changed everything."
Lyall scanned the room as if someone else was there, then he focused on Remus.
"That nobody exploited his wife's lineage, climbed the ranks, gained wealth, status— even a title. But, unlike French tradition at the time, his children weren't raised as aristocrats. They were trained in darker magic, war magic. A battle family, through and through."
Remus blinked once.
"They called themselves the Clare MacMahons. But make no mistake— they were entirely entrenched in French pureblood society."
"So they're not Irish?" Remus puzzled over, grappling with the purpose of this historical recount of a supposed nobody.
Lyall weighed his head back and forth.
"By name and blood, yes. In practice? Not really. Dervilia's grandfather, Patrice MacMahon, was even more ambitious than his father. After the monarchy fell, he secured a marriage to ensure their influence remained."
Remus raised both brows— lost at sea.
"Josette Lestrange, daughter of Minette Rosier."
Remus' stomach bellyflooped.
His father grimaced. "Yes. A strategic union, tying Eve to both the Rosiers and the Lestranges."
Remus thumbed his ear in somber contemplation, succumbing to the chair across from his father.
"Who's Eve's grandfather, then?"
"Eugene MacMahon?" Lyall posed. "Oh, top of what would be the equivalent of our own Aurors. A powerful position. It strengthened their influence in France and beyond." He wrung his hands together. "To fix their broken bond with Ireland, Eugene married an O'Kelly— a diplomat family from Dublin, connected to our Ministry." Remus' sight had blurred. "If you're confused, you should be," Lyall assured him. "Their secrecy is notorious."
He ran a hand through his hair. "So Dervilia—"
"Grew up in three worlds," Lyall continued, almost conspiratorially. "Ireland, England, France— exposed to the power structures of all three, shaping her into someone who could move seamlessly between them. A snake."
"And Eve's related to the Rosiers, Lestranges..."
"Precisely." His father exhaled, then he picked up and slurped on the hot chocolate, causing Remus to grimace. "The Kavanaghs weren't… Dervilia brought those ties when she married Duncan."
Remus' eyes narrowed.
"You reckon Eve knows this?"
Lyall scoffed. "Of course."
A tomblike boulder sat itself on Remus' chest. He knew Eve had her secrets, but this? This knocked him off his feet.
But it made sense.
Evan.
"You're worried," Remus noted.
"A bit, yes. She isn't free from her mother's influence." Lyall hesitated, scouting out the door. "And she's definitely not free from her politics."
"Politics?" Remus tensed.
"Haven't you wondered why she's at Hogwarts?"
No, he thought, but his father had practically written it out for him.
"Her mother."
"Indeed," Lyall supplied. "The Kavanaghs wouldn't send their children to Hogwarts lightly. Most of the Ancient Five raise their children at home." He took another sip of the hot chocolate. "But Druella Black — now Rosier — is Dervilia's best friend. Her ties to the Rosiers and Blacks are strong. If Dervilia sent Eve to Hogwarts, she had a reason." He lowered the mug. "That's why she's in Slytherin."
A long silence ensued.
"Tread carefully," Lyall warned, analyzing his son closely. "Dervilia is loyal to her family— and I don't mean the Kavanaghs. If Eve is caught up with the wrong..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Be careful."
"Right," Remus murmured, his limbs feeling weak. His mind reeled with fragments of things Eve had said—or not said—over the past few months. "Anything else I should know?"
Lyall paused again. And though Remus beheld his father's inner conflict, he simply said, "Not everything is as it seems with that family— remember that."
Remus stood, his hands finding their way back into his pockets. Though it was new information, he had known for a long time that nothing was ever what it seemed with Eve.
"Duly noted," he muttered. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left the study, forsaking the hot chocolate, his stomach in knots. He closed the door soundlessly, one thought racing in pursuit of another, insistent and increasingly frantic: How much of what Eve had said was true?
As he stepped into the hall, he could hear Hope filling the living room with something cheerful. When Eve's voice came, it was soft— too soft to discern. Remus pursed his lips but decidedly retreated to his room.
Just when he believed he knew Eve, he felt he knew her even less than when they first met.
The air was thick at breakfast the following day. Lyall read the Daily Prophet, hardly speaking. Eve ate as she did— like a mouse. Remus kept his face down, answering in monosyllables when needed, pigeonholed by last night's conversation.
His mother, on the other hand, was completely unfazed.
"Right," she announced as their plates cleared. "I think you two should go for a walk."
Remus side-eyed the window, frowning. "It's cold."
"An?" Hope grinned, rising from her seat. "Eve should see the lighthouse before the sky turns completely grey. It's only a bit blue as it is."
Eve glanced up. "He doesn't have to come with me."
"Oh, don't be daft," Hope dismissed, fluttering her hand. "A bit of cold won't kill him."
Remus sighed wearily, but he knew better than to argue with his mother when she'd set her mind to something. If they didn't go together, she would force them into scarves, and it would be a party of three. And, oddly, he preferred to be with Eve alone than have his mother rambling up a storm just to fill the silence they couldn't.
Once outside, the cold was brutal, instantly chilling their breaths into wisps of mist. Ahead, the lighthouse stood against the winter sky, its white stone battered and worn by the sea. Everything reeked of salt and seaweed. Overhead, the sky displayed a quilt of muted grays stitched with blue. Remus buried his gloved hands into his pockets, opting for a measure of space— both to evade the winter's edge and to trail Eve from a few meters off, capturing occasional glimpses of her. She was distant— but not detached, idly canvassing the horizon to pinpoint what could lay beyond it.
As always, as expected.
But it was different now— a piece that no longer fit where he had thought it had.
"Bit of sun tricked me," he commented as they walked down the narrow path. "Colder than I expected. But it's about the only thing worth seeing."
"To you, perhaps."
To me, he echoed inwardly.
Remus shot her another sidelong glance.
She was inspecting the lighthouse.
"So," he asked, both halting to a stop, "what do you think?"
"It's lonely."
Remus' nose crinkled as he, too, examined the lighthouse's hazy silhouette. Perhaps he had to come to terms with the fact that he would never wholly understand Eve.
"Right, down we go?" He nestled his chin into his scarf. "Or want to go back?"
"I'll go," Eve replied, continuing onward. "You can return."
For a fraction, Remus recanted but strode quickly to her side.
"The point was for me to show you around."
"But you don't want to."
"Didn't say that."
"Didn't have to."
"You can read minds now, can you?" Remus charged.
"No, that'd be horrid," she muttered.
The wind intensified as they reached the shore, brushing them with sea spray. Eve continued to the water's edge, fixated on the restless infinity. The waves churned against the rocks, endless and untamed. Remus dallied behind, motionless, goosebumps rippling over him. Eve, though, well, not even the wet cold could shake her. And he had spent months trying. Except — after all that— the deadlock prevailed.
"So," he called out. "When were you planning to tell me?"
Eve followed the question as the current captured it, back still to Remus.
"Tell you what?"
"That you're related to Evan."
She stiffened. For a second. So brief that if he'd blinked, he'd have missed it. Then, gradually, she peered at him from over her shoulder.
"Why?"
Stepping forward, Remus mirrored her and chose not to answer the question.
"What's going on? With you, him? His role in all this?"
"Role?"
"Don't do that." He stomped over her with unmistakable fervor. "Don't act like you don't know." He shook his head once. "Your mother's a Rosier and a Lestrange."
Her chin tipped in encroaching speculation.
"Yes."
Remus swore something ghosted through her then— playful, taunting. There and gone. His jaw tightened.
"Answer the question."
"If I don't?"
His pulse pounded in his ears.
"Then prove it."
"How?"
"Your left arm."
For the first time, something unhinged beneath Eve's composure. Fleeting, but there. She faced him, applauding the tournament as she waited for his following words. But Remus didn't waver, even as shadows swallowed all light from her.
"Show me," he reiterated.
Unperturbed by his intimidation, she held his stare — unmoved and entirely inscrutable — save for the briefest glimmer of… Recognition? Dismissal? It was gone before he could name it.
Then— a scoff. Almost. But not quite.
"Where do you find the audacity to assume the Rosiers are involved in that?"
Remus flashed a look sharp enough to wound.
"You'd have to be blind not to realize it."
"Sight, that's all?" Her brow arched, unimpressed.
He refused to let her slip away from this.
"And it's not just the Rosiers," he withstood. "The Blacks?" He straightened, agitated, and fired up, immune to the frost around and between them. "The Blacks are pureblood fanatics— fact. Sirius is one of my best—"
"Sirius Black's a pureblood fanatic?"
Remus gawked. "What?! No! That's not what I meant—"
"It's not what you said."
"You're deflecting," he snapped.
Eve didn't even blink.
"Does it truly matter, one way or the other?"
"Yes! This isn't a game!"
"I think you like games." Eve's lips curved faintly. "It's why you keep me around, isn't it?" Quiet, but it thundered through him. Remus sucked in a breath.
"Then why run here?" He interrogated. "What're you afraid of? Was it really a Death Eater? Or did you do something you shouldn't have?"
Eve became a canvas wiped clean. Too clean. Too much effort to be clean. Then, the smallest muscle in her cheek twitched— frustration? Laughter?
"Do you think I'm a Death Eater, Remus?"
The unfiltered question cut through him.
His stomach hardened, forcing him to anchor his vision to the rocky ground.
What was she playing at?
"It's yes or no, Eve." His throat tightened, but he willed the lump away to concentrate on her. "I don't think you're like them. Or the rest of Slytherin."
Eve watched steadily.
"But I am a Slytherin."
Remus flatlined.
Then inhaled.
Held it.
And released.
"Do you believe magic should be kept within magical families— yes or no!?"
Eve's attention momentarily drifted to the side before settling back.
"You want me to say yes, don't you?"
And just like that—he knew. She was playing him. This was a game. A high-stakes game of wizard's chess, where every move had been calculated before he had even sat down to play. It stoked his frustration, fanning the flames, but he quelled the sudden flare by grinding his teeth.
"The truth— yes or no." A taut string frayed at the edges with dreadful apprehension. "Was it a Death Eater?"
"What are you accusing me of, exactly?"
"Everything they believe— the Blacks, Rosiers. The ones who..." Stilted, rushed, he forced himself to think straight. "Are you one of them?"
"If I were?"
He froze.
"What if I've lied to you this whole time?" A smirk toyed at the corner of her lips; his attention nailed to it. "What would you do then?" With one step, she moved closer, acutely aware of every subtle shift. The question, as well as her scrutiny, bore into him. "Would you hate me for it?"
The gravity of it suspended him entirely, forsaking him to wrestle with an asphyxiating possibility. He didn't know how to answer. On one side, he had seen her limp on their way to the beach. He wanted to heal her broken bones, recite Penmon's history, collect stones with her. But on the other— he wanted to throw up. To rip. To scratch at his skin as he did every full moon, as if he could rid himself of the sheer, unbearable thought of being such an idiot.
Eve's features softened as she drew out the tumult brewing inside him.
Why? Remus wondered suddenly. Was it pity? Kindness?
"That's the problem with you," she said gently. "You want the truth — written out — but you wouldn't know what to do with it once you had it."
A derisive, short snort left him. "Right. Better off not telling the truth at all, then?"
"Keeping secrets is not—"
"Rubbish," he retorted.
Neither spoke as they rounded out— only the world fed the emptiness. The wind roared, whipping through and tugging ferociously at their clothes, sending strands of hair dancing about Eve's face. The sea clamored ever louder against the jagged cliffs, the sound reverberating through Remus' chest.
Growing dreary, he capitulated.
"Why won't you tell me anything?"
Eve bent down and picked up a stone, rolling it between her fingers. She studied it, tracing the small cracks along its edges.
"Why should I? Does it matter?"
Remus opened his mouth— then shut it. He didn't have an answer. Or maybe he wasn't ready to admit to one. The clock ticked, and the weather wasn't growing any kinder, but he stayed, debating it with profound deliberation. Then, deep inside, a retaliation surfaced— unexpected.
"I know you have a secret. A very dark one."
She raised the stone higher, forcing him to look. Dull, cracked, unremarkable— nothing special at all.
"There's a darkness in you, too." She peeked over at him. "Don't pretend."
She wasn't wrong. He wanted to deny it, mock her, or retort with a sharp, sarcastic jab— but he couldn't. She could see him. Why? How? The girl with the infinitely blank stare could see? A salute to his mother— Eve was quiet but observant. Remus blinked once, twice, bunching a fistful of cloth. What now? He harbored a darkness, just like her, which was probably why he did hold on.
"You don't want the truth," she slipped in. "You want me to be what you've already decided I should be."
"Which is?"
"Someone like you."
Their gazes met and locked. It thrust upon him a dizziness, the moment thrown even more off-balance. He measured its absurdity — perhaps too much — for Eve's downcast expression did not conceal the restrained lift in her cheeks. As though she had just knocked one of his pieces off the board.
It ignited him.
"You're avoiding the question!" Remus spat. "I thought I knew you," he pointed a finger at her, "but every time I think I do, you somehow fuck it up."
Any ounce of revelry was again extinguished, replaced by an unimaginable convulsion. But why? It was too buried this time to even toss a coin. Out of nowhere, Eve hurled the stone into the waves, the splash lost beneath the sound of the sea.
"You need a book for everything, Lupin?"
Remus' brows furrowed, thrown by the obscure accusation.
"What...?"
"You thought you knew me." It resounded calmly, but it was obvious she was struggling to maintain an intricate, artfully crafted illusion of calm. "You thought you'd decided who I am." Her eyes thinned. "But you haven't, have you?"
His jaw clenched.
"Because you won't let me."
"Because you can't."
That stung more than it should have.
"Because you won't let me!"
It erupted before he could stop himself, much harsher than he had intended. But it was too late; she had skipped around him in circles for too long. He closed in, towering over her, the stones shifting beneath his steps.
"You're right. I don't know you. How could I?" His breaths turned brisk. "I want to! But you run and hide. You answer questions with questions, riddles, twist words—" He chuckled pointedly, lifting his shoulders and dropping them in defeat. "I feel like a bloody fool for even trying!"
"And if I did?" Eve returned, measured— nowhere near his intensity. Remus inched back somewhat. "And what if I laid it all bare, and still, you could not make sense of it?" Though questions, they were more statements of sorts. She lowered her chin, examining him, assessing. "Would you turn against me for it all the same?"
He swallowed hard. This was not an easy win, but he wouldn't win it by begging or fighting. She'd walk away— as she had before. For a minute, he shut his eyes to steady his rapidly beating heart.
"Give me a chance, at least."
Eve's vision became void, and Remus readied himself for what followed— steadying himself for her to break and run.
Then, she smiled.
She smiled and, with a wide arc, pointed as far west as she could without moving toward it.
"I'm a Kavanagh."
Her arm and that name settled beside her like the stones around them.
Remus' mouth slackened.
"I know," he puzzled. "That might be the only thing I know!"
"No." Eve approached the sea, staggering on bruised knees to be closer to the shoreline. Remus dared to follow, despite the sea's tang dampening him. "Everyone thinks they do, but no." She crouched by the water's edge, picking up a wet, dark stone and tossing it between her hands. There was a long, grey crack in it. "Kavanagh," she lilted, almost lost to the wind. "Doesn't mean much to you. Not enough, is it?"
"I—" He faltered. Which piece was he meant to move?
"My mother hates me," she professed suddenly. Somehow, it came out as both aloof and matter-of-fact— as if she were commenting on the weather.
"She—" Remus blinked rapidly. "What!?"
"Like you, she doesn't understand..." Eve watched the lighthouse. "She hates it. Doesn't know who I am." He found her with an impish, crooked smile. "But I know her."
"Your mother?" Remus' chin dropped.
"She tries to convince the world that she's untouchable. It's what they all want, isn't it?"
"They?"
"She'd sell her soul to be it," she continued softly as if he was no longer there. Just her, a story, the sea, and the lighthouse. "Unlike me." There was no bitterness, no heat— just an airy clarity that unsettled Remus more than anger would have. "Remus, you won't find answers asking about blood without first asking what people will do for power." Eve thumbed the crack in the rock. "Because it's about power, not blood."
Finally, she glanced up at him.
She was no longer smiling but waiting. Waiting for him.
Remus shuffled his boots, kicking a stone into the waves.
Then, he cleared his throat, "What does any of that mean?"
"To them, the world is a ladder. The climb is everything. It's what defines my mother, what shapes her." A vague light gleamed in Eve's eye. "But I have no ladder to climb."
Remus was on the verge of casting a charm to drench her in ice-cold water.
"Eve, these fucking riddles," he vented.
"A Kavanagh," she relayed again, fixating on him.
It dangled, perplexingly dense. Why, though? Was he that daft?
It must have been the fourth time she'd said it, too.
"But she's a Kavanagh—"
"Marriage isn't a birthright."
It was true, in the end, no one knew the Kavanaghs.
"That's what this is about?" he examined, squinting. "Your mother hates you because you're a Kavanagh by blood, and she's not?"
"It's more than that," Eve explained, without rhyme or riddle. "She doesn't understand us, either."
Remus stared at her. The weather lashed at them, yet she appeared untouched by it. Securing and searching his expression as he searched hers. Gradually, he shifted toward the sea.
Fuck it, Eve concluded, detecting the progressive rupture.
"The Ancient Five are unlike the others." It was barely a whisper — but marked — as if reciting a forbidden tale. "We're older than kingdoms, empires. Before the Statute of Secrecy, before the Ministry, before the rest of them thought to carve out their own power, we'd made our oaths. Already bound ourselves to the land and its magic." The stone dropped from her hold, landing with a plunk among the others. Remus had forgotten all about it, and for whatever reason, he was surprised as it disappeared among the others. "We're older than my mother's ambitions. Older than the Rosiers, older than all of it." The near-silent declaration slithered down Remus' spine as if this was a clandestine meeting. "That's why my mother hates us. Because she clawed her way into this name, but she'll never be one of us." His brows scrunched. "She can't understand that. Just like the rest of them, just like you."
"Again, these fucking riddles." Fists balled, jerking inside his pockets. "What does that mean?"
"These aren't riddles," Eve said, sighing. "You either believe it or you don't— my mother doesn't understand, you see?" Remus blinked. She pursed her lips. "They say we're closer to the Otherworld than the rest. That we're tied to things no one can see or touch. That we carry magic in us because of birthright and blood." Eve's words were steady, certain. "Do you — can you — accept that?" It was a challenge. He knew that. "Because to know me is to accept that."
"Accept what? That your family's old?" Remus scoffed. "You're called the Ancient Five, it isn't—"
Then she stepped even closer, the tips of their shoes touching. But it was not the proximity that snapped him, but the shift in her expression. It was immediate — demanding, fierce, fast. She glared up at him, dark brown eyes appearing even darker. She lifted her left arm.
"You wanted this?"
"I—"
Eve wrenched back the layers of wool and cloth.
"Wait—" Remus's breath hitched, sight spinning. What was she doing?
She lifted her bare arm to him.
And Remus almost couldn't bring himself to face it.
But he did.
Then.
Scars.
White lines crossed over each other— some faded, others brighter.
Not crowded, not grotesque, but still carved into flesh.
He could not move.
Eve lifted a finger and traced the palest scar.
Then, a pitch higher than the waves, she partially repeated:
"I am bound to my ancestors, the land that bore me and its will. No foreign hand shall guide me. I shall take no oaths and swear no other loyalty. From this moment until my last."
Then, just as fast, she shoved the layers of fabric back into place, concealing the scars.
"Only a Kavanagh by birth can take that oath," she clarified. "It was the first I took. The only I will ever take." Her expression darkened. "And you won't speak a word of it to anyone."
Remus swallowed.
That was no oath.
"Those are Unbreakable Vows," he countered with bated breath.
"To you, perhaps."
Remus felt numb. Her smile was weak, a shadow of something.
"There is no war worse than a war between kin." Then, softer — almost too soft to hear— "You understand?"
Remus' throat was dry.
"Why it was not the O'Conors."
A pause.
"Why it was not the O'Briens."
Another pause.
"Why it is not me."
The longer he held her regard, the clearer it became— she would endure anything for that oath: hurt, isolation, even hatred.
"When born a Kavanagh, one can't escape it."
He had pushed for answers, demanded clarity. And, for the first time, he had received some. Yet instead of simple truths, all he had found were more truths that led to more questions. No easy answer. No conclusion. No clear way forward. Eve had not misled him, but she had not made it easy, either. All of it in whispers. Secrets. On a beach in the middle of nowhere. In the end, had she been keeping him out? Or was she trying to protect him?
A swirl of wind intervened, first swirling around before drifting away, carrying the turbulence with it. The atmosphere now felt calmer—not because the sea had calmed, but because of the silence that lingered between two people who had shared both abundance and, paradoxically, a sense of lack.
"You're quiet."
Remus hesitated, then shrugged stiffly. "I don't know what to say."
Her lips pressed upward, though it wasn't quite a smile. "That's a first."
He let the jab slide, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck. "Why do you do that? Mock me?"
"I don't," Eve replied, tilting her head. "But you want answers that don't exist."
He frowned, the remnants of the earlier frustration slight but persistent. "No, they do—you just don't want anyone, including me, to know."
"Because if you knew, you might not care for what you found."
Remus scoffed. "You thought some Unbreakable Vow would scare me?" The corners of his mouth flickered. "Try again," he goaded, reaching forward to brush back the strands of her hair that had been caught in the wind, obscuring her face. And like that, the game changed. For the first time, she hadn't anticipated a move. Checkmate. A spot of surprise crossed her— then nothing. She turned away from him before it was too late. It was. He'd collared it. "I don't scare easily." A quest. A challenge. A promise. "You'd be surprised, Kavanagh."
Her pulse skipped—barely noticeable, but undeniably there. She didn't like that.
Remus tended to push—but in the past, he had relented. Because she knew how to handle people, how to predict their next move, how to steer them away from where they shouldn't tread. But this? This she had not accounted for.
Why was she standing there?
Why wasn't she shutting him out?
He was frozen to the bone. She could flee. Instead, she studied him. Truly.
Remus Lupin, an unexpected storm of pure defiance.
No one had come this far.
No one.
"Let me know you."
"You think you don't?"
He stared at her.
Was that a confession?
"I thought you'd be pleased," she murmured, unable to meet his gaze. "Now what?"
Remus wanted to demand more, to push further, but the silent look in her eyes—the vulnerable finality and uncertainty of it—stopped him. He had fought and won— so why did it feel like he hadn't won fairly? And yet, on the flip side, he couldn't help the slight satisfaction blooming inside him.
"All that just to say the Irish are loyal only to their own?" Remus snorted, shaking his head. "You might have led with that."
Then, without warning— "Why do you think so badly of me?" Not accusing. Curious. "Why do you hate me?"
Remus blinked. And for whatever reason—despite the cold—he felt warm. Too warm.
"I don't."
"You accused me of being a Death Eater."
"Eve," he sighed, faltering, at a loss for words. "I know. I'm sorry, again." He faced the horizon, frowning. "And I still have questions, but you made it very clear— you can't be one." His attention flickered down to her arm. Then back to her, finding her shoulders collapsing forward. "Believe me, I understood."
A beat.
"Thanks," she mustered.
"I do have a lot of questions, though."
For a moment, Eve just stared at him.
Then, out of nowhere— she laughed.
At first, it was nothing, a hiccup of sound— but then, she doubled over, covering her face, her shoulders shaking. Remus' ears burned, and he looked skyward. Of all reactions, he hadn't expected this. Eventually, it overtook him too—a breathy chuckle he held back behind a forced grin.
Ridiculous.
All of it.
He exhaled, rubbing his face. "We should go back."
Eve took a deep breath and nodded.
They turned together, retracing their steps up the rocky path. Eve drifted closer, her steps no longer detached but deliberate and light, as if she were finally choosing to walk beside him.
"What other questions do you have?"
Remus' brows shot up. "Are you going to answer them?"
Eve hummed, the tune sounding like a balance scale. "I can try."
"Without playing a whole game before making a point?"
"I'll try."
"Fair enough," he chuckled, "but first, we're going to fix those knees."
The cold clung to them, but the weight between them was no longer there. It had been lifted. And yet—there was something new. Something he could not name. Yes, he now understood where Eve stood. She was not a Death Eater, nor loyal to them. That, at least, was certain. What gnawed at him now? He canvassed Penmon Point jutting out into the Irish Sea.
There it was.
The Irish.
He had only recently begun to give them some mind, but the sanitized history, the limitations of magic as he knew it? He began to delve further. What were these oaths? Of being bound to a land and its magic? So deep it could not be severed? His father's hesitation surfaced. Unbidden. Stories passed down in whispers, half-forgotten fragments of folklore. Warnings dressed as bedtime tales. Remus had always dismissed them as prejudiced paranoia, as remnants of a time when they feared anything beyond their own understanding. But now, beside Eve— her hair still windswept, her gaze fixed— he was not so sure they truly belonged to the same world.
Because if Eve was a banshee — if she could be — then what else could they be?
What else were they hiding?
Even as they walked away, even as Eve smiled, even as the lighthouse shrank behind them, the suspicion festered.
Author's Note:
This story began as a simple thought—just an idea that, over time, grew into something far greater than I ever imagined. Through deep research and careful worldbuilding, I've uncovered layers of history, language, and culture that have reshaped parts of this narrative. In doing so, I've also recognized some mistakes I made along the way.
You may notice certain names changing as I work through edits in previous chapters. This is a reflection of my commitment to authenticity and a more immersive world. Whenever possible, I strive to use Irish in keeping with the setting. As a note, Duncan Kavanagh is referred to here as the High Lord (to maintain clarity), but in Irish, he would be Ard Tiarna, and the county lords would be Tiarna. These changes are part of a larger effort to honor the history and tradition that inspired this story, the banshee.
I appreciate your patience and support as I continue writing and refining this world and story so that it both fits what we know from canon, and Harry Potter fanfiction, while also recognizing that Ireland was ignored in the original stories, and when included, was not separate nor sovereign. Thank you for being part of this journey with me— I can't wait to share what's next (I think in the last chapter, I promised this one would be lighter, but alas, we will wait for the next one, it is coming- and the loose ends will, too).
-love, MM.