The Bulstrode lands felt like they were transported out from another time.
Tamsyn understood, intellectually, that magical Britain had undergone a very different process of historical development over the last few centuries than had the Britain she'd known growing up. Their societies hadn't become fully isolated from each other until the implementation of the Statute of Secrecy around the turn of the 18th Century, but they had begun to slowly diverge well before that, due in large part to complex political and economic factors. Magical lords had been, of course, lords, in the mediaeval feudal sense — though some of the older Noble Houses had in fact originally been royalty of one petty kingdom or another dating to the Dark Ages or even all the way back into antiquity — and so had naturally been major landholders, under similar social and economic pressures as their muggle peers at the time. There had been some old Celtic sanctuaries which had been preserved through Christianisation, hidden under wards, as well as a tiny handful of all-magical communities dotted across the Isles, such as Hogsmeade or Caoimhe's Refuge, but the majority of magically-endowed humans had been peasants like any other, toiling under lords magical or muggle, without the means to learn or practise any magic besides old folk witchcraft.
Despite being largely integrated into mainstream society, lords with access to magic were still incentivised to act in somewhat different ways, which caused their interests to slowly diverge — a process which sharply accelerated with the intensification of enclosure in the centuries proceeding from the Black Death. Due to various social and economic forces ongoing at the time, it became more profitable for muggle lords to evict their peasants and convert commonly-held farmland into pasture to raise sheep or cattle, which gradually eroded the feudal system which had held sway over much of Europe for centuries, but magical lords didn't face the same decision. They had more profitable avenues available to them, in enchanting or alchemy or the apothecary trade, which did not require breaking up common lands. If anything, lands ruled by magical families were incentivised to retain their peasantry, since the labour under their command could be turned to cash crops which required a degree of magical skill and knowledge to properly exploit. While there were exceptions, the magical elements of the aristocracy resisted enclosure — and even saw a boom in the peasant population, as others evicted from their homes found their way to new lands, the soil coaxed into super-productivity through ritual magics to better harness the greater volume of human labour available.
So it was no great surprise that, by the time of the English Civil War, the magical aristocracy had found themselves with such diametrically opposed interests from what, in the end, turned out to be the winning side. Rather than surrender their way of life — not only the lords, but various all-magical communities and old sanctuaries might have been forcefully modernised as well — the mages instead decided to retreat into Secrecy. This had hardly been an uncontroversial decision, sparking off a series of civil conflicts and eventually culminating in a world-spanning war between magical peoples, but those same forces which wished to retain their wealth and privilege by isolating themselves from the world changing around them had naturally been in the more advantageous position, and so the supporters of Secrecy had won in the end. The 'border' had been porous for the first couple generations, muggles and squibs filtering out and common mages filtering in — for most purposes, it was difficult to distinguish a peasant gifted with magic from one who was not — but exchange between the two worlds sharply tapered off, allowing them to more quickly diverge.
While on the other side of the curtain the mediaeval system was entirely disrupted, swiftly transitioning toward modern capitalism and industrialisation, mages largely retained it, with some innovations. The exact picture varied somewhat from country to country, but generally speaking agricultural production remained in something much like a feudal system of organisation, while in more urban settlements the old craft guild system was further developed, shaped by the new legal and economic environment mages had developed under Secrecy. In Britain, the House system was innovated to rebuild the economy in the chaos of the transition, though the strategy was hardly universal, the particulars varied across Europe. The system wasn't static, of course, there were developments and new formations over the generations — some countries, such as Aquitania, even reformed their way entirely out of feudal relations — until they'd eventually reached an existential challenge in the form of the Communalist Revolution. Europe was quite mixed now, between countries which had dismantled the old system to implement a new democratic order, coming in various particular expressions in different locales, and those which had retained the older aristocratic system, reformed to greater or lesser degrees.
Tamsyn was aware that Britain was one of the more conservative countries, though this hadn't necessarily been the case in her time — the Revolution had been ongoing then, and it hadn't yet been clear how long-lasting its impacts would be. Britain was perhaps the ICW country that had been least impacted by the Revolution, and while the Light had instituted some surface-level reforms, the fundamentals of the country were not so deeply changed from the 40s. Of course, while Tamsyn knew, intellectually, that magical Britain was a very agricultural, feudal society, that wasn't something she'd seen, much. She'd spent all of her time in Hogsmeade or Charing, or else visiting the Davises or the Malfoys. The closest she'd come to actually seeing rural life had been at the Malfoys' — the Davises were a far newer family, and more urban — but even then she hadn't looked that deeply into it, had been preoccupied with other matters. She'd learned quite a bit about it from a much younger Melanion writing to her about the reforms Andy instituted after the Revolution, but that was hardly comparable to experiencing it herself.
Living with the Bulstrodes, though, felt like stepping into another time, in a way that visiting the Malfoys simply hadn't.
After the gathering at the graveyard had concluded, Melanion, Barty, and Tamsyn had apparated back to the house in Manchester, quick packed up a few things before proceeding to the public floo hub in Chester — hidden under aversion charms, just in case — and travelled to the Bulstrodes' using the password they'd been given by Crispin. They arrived in the guest hall, where they were greeted directly by the Lord and Lady of the Family, Felix and Mared, who'd already been standing in the floo room waiting for them.
It wasn't unusual for a noble family to have a significant structure intended to host guests, often large numbers of them. The nobility held a variety of formal balls and holiday observances and the like, which could often involve quite a large population of attendees — and while that would require a fair volume of party space, it was also considered hospitable (though not required) to have a number of bedrooms available for those guests who ended the night too thoroughly intoxicated to safely travel home. It was quite common for the guest hall to be a wing of a larger manor — like the Malfoys' and the Davises', and Clyde Rock according to Liz's description — though it wasn't unusual for there to instead be an entirely separate property for the purpose. The Blacks had Ravenhome, for example, which had once been a manor house but after Secrecy had been remodeled into an absurdly luxurious guest hall — Tamsyn hadn't been there, but she'd seen pictures.
The Bulstrodes' guest hall was a separate structure, like the Blacks', but it was far more... "Modest" didn't quite seem the right word. Tamsyn was somewhat surprised, stepping out of the floo, to find that the room on the other side was constructed almost exclusively of wood. The hearth itself was ceramic, of course — of the magical variety, smooth and teased into curling designs, intensely alchemised — but the floor and the walls and the ceiling overhead were all made of warm brown wood, with a reddish-golden sheen Tamsyn assumed was an effect of some sort of varnish. Some of the floorboards were hidden with large, colourful rugs, a few lamps hanging from the trusses supporting the ceiling, facets of stained glass sending chinks of coloured light twinkling against the wood surfaces.
The overall effect was quite plain, honestly. Tamsyn knew enough to tell that the hearth and the lamps had involved alchemy at some point in production, and possibly the varnish on the wood as well, but other than that it seemed...almost mundane, hardly screaming magical in the way so many other structures of the nobility tended to. The decoration was even quite minimal, all things considered — the waves in the ceramic of the hearth were subtle, she assumed some significant craftsmanship had gone into the rugs and the lamps, but they were hardly flashy. One could make a very similar-looking room entirely with non-magical methods, and, given this would be the first thing any guests would see on arriving, it was almost shockingly modest by the standards of the nobility.
Of course, she was aware of what the Bulstrodes' politics tended to be like, so she assumed that impression was intentional — though there might be an element of practicality as well, since the Bulstrodes weren't especially wealthy to begin with (by the standards of the aristocracy).
After greetings had gone around, the three of them had been led past the banquet hall and into the guest apartments, where they'd found a table set for a small, late evening meal out in the middle of the gallery. The gallery actually looked quite nice though, again, constructed with simple materials and with relatively minor decoration. Most surfaces were still made out of wood, but nearly the entirety of one wall was instead glass, looking out onto the grounds beyond — it'd been late enough that first night, the lights glaring off of the glass, that Tamsyn hadn't been able to see much more than vague outlines of trees, curves that could be hills. There were more lamps casting coloured light every which way, and toward the ceiling the transparent wall transitioned instead into stained glass, panels shaped and coloured to take on the form of leaves and curling vines, flowers in red and yellow and white. The opposite wall was hardly featureless either, carvings done in curling designs, the form of a deer or a fox or a bird showing itself here or there.
...No, not carvings — they weren't cut into the wall but rising out of it, and seemed to be assembled out of pre-shaped blocks of wood, similar to the stained glass opposite but in three dimensions, some even painted to add a splash of colour. The technique was quite interesting, and had certainly required a fair amount of careful planning to get everything to fit together as intended, but Tamsyn didn't know the proper word for it. It was also surprisingly mundane — she could imagine no magic had been required at any point in the process, simple artistry and skilled labour — but at that point she'd already come to expect that of the Bulstrodes.
There were still a couple servants there finishing setting the table by the time they arrived, going a little stiff as they realised they were in the presence of the Dark Lord. But before long they were gone, leaving the five of them to nibble at cheese and candied nuts and sip at narrow glasses of...a liqueur of some kind, she couldn't identify the flavour. Not bad, of course, but Tamsyn had been a dirt-poor orphan before being trapped in a book for five decades, her palate simply wasn't developed enough to distinguish this sort of thing.
Melanion mostly used the relatively brief conversation that first night to properly ingratiate himself with their hosts. Tamsyn had been the one to approach the Bulstrodes in the first place, and while they would much prefer the adjustment to their politics she'd been (carefully) planning with Melanion, she was well aware that they hadn't quite fully trusted that anything would change — they'd become intensely disillusioned with Melanion's leadership in the latter years of the movement, as he'd become increasingly deranged. They hardly came out and said as much, but hearing similar claims from Melanion's own mouth, seeing and hearing with their own eyes and ears that his sanity had been returned along with his life, Tamsyn could tell that they found the conversation reassuring. The pair almost seemed openly enthusiastic by the end of the night, even, all smiles as the three were shown to their rooms and the Lord and Lady took their leave.
The rooms were also unusually simple for the purpose, though comfortable enough. Made primarily of wood, with more of the colourful glass lamps, the floor almost completely hidden with thick, fuzzy rugs, there was a small sitting area, a few armchairs and a stack of shelves filled with books, a sleeping area divided with a heavy deep red curtain for a minimum of privacy. There was a toilet with a sink, but no bath or shower — presumably they would have access to baths elsewhere. By this point Tamsyn had been quite tired, so she'd dropped her bag on one of the chairs, undressed, and flopped into the thick, soft, terribly warm bed, slipping off into sleep in short order.
Since there was little enough for them to do just now, Tamsyn spent most of the next few days familiarising herself with the Bulstrode lands. They were somewhere in the area of the Chiltern Hills — she wasn't certain of the precise physical location, but with magic involved it hardly mattered — the rolling earth alternately blanketed in fields and woods. The guest hall was in a somewhat isolated spot, at the peak of a wooded hill, paths leading away under the trees in various directions. Their first day, shortly after breakfast Tamsyn was assigned a guide in the form of a girl about her age, perhaps a year or two younger, by the name of Florence.
She had later realised that this had been something of a test: Florence was wilderfolk. Tamsyn had noticed immediately, of course — Florence presented herself more or less believably human, but wilderfolk minds had a particular lack of focus which made them easily distinguishable — but she wouldn't be surprised if people who weren't themselves mind mages didn't expect she would. She didn't think their hosts thought they were lying about their new political direction, but if this change didn't reflect legitimate conviction it could be all too easy to fall back into old ways — ambushing them with nonhumans and watching their reaction was a simple enough way to attempt to gauge their sincerity.
When Florence's species was eventually 'revealed' that afternoon, Tamsyn only asked what consequences her true form being an herbivore had on her diet while in human shape — there had been meat and dairy at lunch. (She'd actually been surprised when Florence turned out to be a deer solely for that reason, she'd half-expected a canine or something.) None, apparently — while in human form they could eat whatever humans could — though wilderfolk did tend to have peculiar tastes that was more a matter of psychology and personal preference, interesting...
Florence had put on a believably human performance for most of that first day, but abruptly discarded it the moment she dropped Tamsyn off back at the guest hall for the night. After explaining that she'd be back to continue showing her around tomorrow, Florence shot her a crooked, toothy, almost smug grin, unceremoniously shed her clothing, leaving the plain but prettily-embroidered peasant dress in the grass, shifted into a deer, and bounded off into the woods, her aura practically singing with glee.
...While it certainly might provide a point of evidence as to the sincerity of their reformed political programme, seducing her guide might cause social complications. Perhaps unwise.
(Tempting, but unwise.)
Of course, they could hardly tell their hosts that Tamsyn was a reembodied horcrux — British mages could be quite superstitious about such matters — so she was maintaining the Mercy Anne character for the entirety of this visit. This was hardly a great imposition, especially as she needn't bother implementing the degree of fractional self-delusion necessary to fool Dumbledore should he lose hold of his manners and attempt to read her mind. And besides, she quite enjoyed playing the role — she'd never truly been an ordinary person, thanks in large part to her mind magic awakening so young, and it could be entertaining to inhabit one. (For a certain definition of ordinary, Mercy Anne had her own eccentricities.) So, since Mercy Anne was an American who'd only had limited exposure to life in magical Britain, and that primarily in urban centres, the Bulstrodes had seemingly decided it would be appropriate to...give her the experience, she supposed.
And the assumption that she knew little of what life was like for the average person wasn't even incorrect — on paper, perhaps, but she'd never seen much directly. She'd hardly even come into contact with any peasants she could copy memories from, and she likely wouldn't have thought to do such a thing at the time regardless. In her original life, she'd been far more concerned with establishing a place of security for herself in this new society, if she'd given any thought at all to the literal peasantry it wouldn't have been very seriously.
Which was foolish, in retrospect — even greater than his mistakes with ritual magic, Melanion believing he could orchestrate a revolution in a society he'd never truly understood had been the very height of hubris.
Most of the population on the Bulstrode lands were distributed through a handful of little villages, surrounded by fields and orchards. The buildings were rather simpler than the guest hall, of course, but they were hardly boring. Made out of a mix of stone and wood — sometimes even both materials in the same structure, as though repairs or additions had been made at different times — roofs mostly ceramic tile — the materials toward the tops seeming newer, tacked-on, she suspected previously thatched roofs had been replaced relatively recently — the external faces hadn't kept their simple lines and natural colours, the corners and eaves and doorframes twisted into waves or plaits, some looking like wandering vines with carven leaves and blossoms. There was plenty of glass, though not in the form of windows, used as decoration to add a bit of colour, some walls featuring entire mosaics of stained glass. In the basic structure, it didn't look so different from depictions of mediaeval farming villages Tamsyn had seen before, though cleaner and almost shockingly colourful.
All of the little houses were surrounded with gardens, the village very green, which was something of a surprise to Tamsyn — there were fields just beyond, so that seemed sort of superfluous? Though, apparently they were for a different purpose. The fields were primarily grains and a magically-altered variety of grass that could be processed into paper — the source of much of the 'parchment' in magical Britain, in fact — as well as a handful of other cash crops, which were managed collectively by the entire village. The gardens around their homes, though, belonged to whichever family lived there, they were free to do whatever they liked with them. Fruits and vegetables were common, as were source plants for dyes and a variety of herbs for potions. Tamsyn even recognised cannabis here and there, which she supposed wasn't some great shock — it had been brought here by Scandinavians back in the Dark Ages, it'd been being grown on the Isles for ages (alchemically altered to tolerate the dreary English weather, of course). Florence explained that caring for the gardens was a common chore for children who weren't ready for the harder labour often required in the fields or the orchards, which she supposed made sense, but it was also to have a few extra things they liked, and even just play around with new plants for fun.
Of course, while they did obviously eat the fruits and vegetables out of their garden, they didn't need to, it wasn't as though it was their only source of food. Part of the arrangement of working the fields and orchards and whatever else (which were owned by the Bulstrodes) was that their needs were provided for in return — the gardens were supplementary, not essential. And obviously the materials for some things must have come from elsewhere, particularly the stained glass Tamsyn kept seeing elsewhere. The ducks and goats and the like that were seemingly crawling around all over the place were also theirs, but again, supplementary and not essential. It wasn't as though the Bulstrodes would let their people starve to death if their gardens failed or they had a bad year, but sometimes it was nice to have a little extra, and playing around with their gardens was something reasonably entertaining to do with their time.
It didn't seem entertaining to Tamsyn, but she would simply take the locals' word on the matter. Because Florence did introduce her to the locals, of course — they spoke English, if somewhat strongly dialectical at times, it was easy enough to communicate. The residents of the couple villages Tamsyn was shown were generally human, though she noticed the unfocussed feel of a wilderfolk mind here and there...with the addition of a couple nymph families, surprisingly. Barty had mentioned that there were nymphs here, but there truly shouldn't be. The presence of nymphs in a particular location needed to be registered with the Ministry, under the authority of a custodian who would be held responsible for any violations of Secrecy which might result from their existence — in short, all nymphs in the country were reduced to slavery by law, the vast majority used for agricultural labour. But Tamsyn had checked the records at the DRCMC, out of curiosity, and while there were some wilderfolk registered under the Bulstrodes (though certainly far fewer than their true population) there were no nymphs at all. Subtly, taking care to leave as little of a disturbance as possible, Tamsyn picked through the mind of a nymph man they were speaking with, searching for...
Ah, it seemed he was an escapee from some plantation elsewhere in the country, the Bulstrodes had agreed to offer him sanctuary so hadn't reported his presence to the Ministry. (A bondsman fleeing his custodian was a crime, for which he could easily be sent to Azkaban for a year or two before being returned.) A fair number of the other nymphs had similar histories, or were a generation or two removed from one. The Bulstrodes did strongly support the end of obligatory alien status for wilderfolk and nymphs, so Tamsyn supposed she wasn't especially surprised that they were violating this particular law in such blatant fashion.
Their clothing was also somewhat interesting — like their homes, they were relatively plain, simple garments made of linen and hemp, but were rather more colourful than she might have expected, dyed in a variety of colours and decorated with at times surprisingly complex embroidery. There was an almost... Looking at them, the peasants with their modest clothing, there was a peculiar weight, or perhaps a sense of belonging, like...
Tamsyn couldn't describe the feeling, honestly. She assumed this was some impression she was receiving through the Sight, but she'd never much developed the talent — when she did occasionally get funny feelings, it could be difficult to interpret just what they meant. (Liz was better at navigating this sort of thing, she suspected, despite the younger girl's relative lack of knowledge and experience.) The feeling was peculiar enough that she did ask about their clothing, smoothly transitioning into an extended discussion of the topic. The handful of locals they were speaking with seemed unexpectedly enthusiastic to share, in fact, they hadn't expected legitimate interest from someone important...
(Florence was telling people who Mercy Anne was, of course, to general bemusement. Nobody, it seemed, had expected Melanion to have children.)
After getting the general picture, she thought she might have an explanation for what that feeling was supposed to be. The raw materials for the fabric were grown right here on the Bulstrodes' lands, flax rendered down to fibre each autumn — the process was significantly less labour-intensive than Tamsyn was certain it would have been for mediaeval muggles, simplified through the use of alchemical reagents and enchanted tools. They showed Tamsyn the inside of the weaving house here in the village, though it wasn't in use at the moment, various devices folded up and stacked against the walls. (Last year's crop had already been processed into clothing and/or sold.) The fibres were spun into thread with these things here, the thread then woven into fabric with these things here, and there were more tools for various steps in the process, craft details that largely went over Tamsyn's head.
She did pick up on an interesting detail, however: there was a significant amount of witchcraft involved. There were little rituals at various points in the process — Tamsyn wasn't even certain whether the locals realised some of those were legitimate magic, simply how it was done, practices developed over centuries...or perhaps even millennia, continually iterated over the course of history — but there was also a sort of folk enchanting done by means of the weaving process itself. Different patterns could be worked into the fabric, which would produce particular effects when properly performed — the repetitive motions of guiding the threads in a certain manner essentially served the same purpose as runes, or the ritual of brewing a potion, which was honestly fascinating. But they would also sing while weaving — often in harmony, alongside several others in the house working on their own projects simultaneously — through the sound of their voices and the complex craft of forming fabric from thread tuning the magic in the environment to imbue their clothing with a variety of beneficial properties. The effects were hardly impressive, quite subtle and crude compared to modern clothing enchantments, but they were certainly more comfortable and more durable than mundane fabric, which was impressive enough all on its own...especially since none of them had gotten any formal education, and most of them couldn't even read.
More than anything else, the process reminded her of goblin enchanting techniques — the properties of metals and gemstones and glass characteristic of goblin work were achieved through singing over them as they were melted and coaxed into shape — which was absolutely fascinating. She was deeply curious when and how this magic had been developed, but she was aware there was no point in asking. This was a folk tradition, passed down from one generation to the next — they wouldn't have recorded the history of the craft itself, and there simply wouldn't be books about it, anywhere.
(Not for the first time, Tamsyn found herself intensely frustrated with the disdain modern mages had for folk witchcraft.)
The magic in the process, she thought, explained the funny feeling she was getting associated with their clothing. Most people here crafted their own clothing, or might have received an item as a gift from a loved one — made by their own hands, and enchanted by their own magic. Their clothing was tuned to them, much in a similar fashion as a wand, but at a deeper, fundamental level, an intrinsic property woven into the very fabric of...well, the fabric. (The common metaphor turned out very literal in this particular case.) It was absolutely fascinating.
Tamsyn made a mental note to write to Liz about this when she got back to the guest hall tonight — she had promised she would give Liz space to process how she felt about the previous night's revelations, but she would prefer to get the details down before she could forget. Liz was curious about textile crafts these days, Tamsyn was certain she'd love it.
When she thought about it, Liz was friends with a Bulstrode, she could probably arrange a visit to investigate for herself...though that might be somewhat awkward, under present circumstances...
Tamsyn was honestly surprised by how colourful and happy the peasants here seemed, considering they were living what was effectively a mediaeval lifestyle, with the addition of some magical comforts. (The insides of the homes were larger and more comfortable than she'd expected from the outsides, some enchanting and more modern renovation certainly involved.) Which wasn't to say their lives were idyllic by any means, of course — all their needs were met in exchange for the labour they did in the fields and the orchards or whatever else, but much of that was quite hard labour. And they were in what she would find to be a terribly vulnerable position, were she in their place.
They were relatively comfortable, yes, but that was due to little more than generosity on the part of the Bulstrodes. The power relations between them were extremely one-sided. There were more of the peasants, but the law was firmly on the Bulstrodes' side...and the Bulstrodes were the only people here who had wands, so a revolt was likely to end quite badly. Under the terms of the law, there was absolutely no reason the peasants here must be as well provided-for and as well-treated as they were. Tamsyn was quite certain that there were innumerable peasants elsewhere in the country who lived under quite worse conditions. They were only offered the relative comforts they had here because the Bulstrodes chose to do so, out of political and religious conviction — a decision that could be reversed at any time, they could immiserate the peasants at their whim, and there was nothing any of their vassals or bondsmen would be able to do about it.
And, well, they were peasants, and they would always be peasants. They didn't receive a formal education of any kind; if they were given opportunities to make their way into the craft guilds, Tamsyn hadn't heard of it so far. Most of them couldn't even read.
There was some quote from someone about being more concerned with the innumerable impoverished individuals of unharnessed talent working themselves to death in fields and sweatshops than the particularities of Einstein's brain, but the precise words weren't coming to her. Perhaps these people were comfortable enough here, perhaps they wouldn't even have many complaints if asked, but it did still seem...limiting.
But rural life in magical Britain was something she remained rather ignorant about — and she could hardly imagine how to improve a system she didn't understand — so she would simply observe, for now.
In fact, when she met up with Florence their second morning, she asked if it wouldn't be possible to...spend some time in one of the villages, a few days at least, to better familiarise herself with the lifestyle and the people. She was rather taken aback by the question, but after a moment of thought she concluded that there was no particular reason that shouldn't be possible — they'd talk about it, see if there was someone who'd be willing to host her for a time, Florence would tell her when they arranged something. In the meantime, Tamsyn was given a tour of the orchards, and a cider mill, and the greenhouses, the workshops dotted around here and there...
A few days after they'd arrived there was to be a proper welcome dinner, held up at the manor. Tamsyn hadn't stepped foot in the manor yet, but she had seen it from the outside, expansions made over the centuries around the old keep at its heart, stone and wood and glass. More or less the entirety of the Bulstrodes would be there, along with a few representatives chosen from the villages scattered throughout their lands, plus a small handful of Knights who'd been integral to the resurrection effort — the Malfoys had been invited, for example, including young Draco but excluding Lucius's mother. (Melete had a complicated history with the movement, and wasn't considered entirely trustworthy.) Tamsyn expected speaking with the Malfoys to be somewhat less uncomfortable now, given that she'd demonstrated her good will toward Narcissa where Liz was concerned, but on the other hand she fully expected some manner of dramatics from Draco. Since he was friends with Liz, and was hardly the most politic noble boy of his age Tamsyn had ever met, he would likely require some reassurance that she would be safe before he could manage to relax.
It would hardly be a high formal event, but it would still be appropriate to clean up somewhat. Florence led Tamsyn back to the guest hall for lunch, and then left her to her own devices for the rest of the day — presumably whoever was giving out instructions realised she would prefer to prepare properly. She spent a fair fraction of the afternoon jotting down some thoughts and reading, before heading down to the baths to clean up. Her assumption that there would be somewhat old-fashioned open baths somewhere in the guest hall had turned out to be correct, sex-segregated baths hidden away below ground. Compared to similar facilities she'd seen before, these were somewhat modest, made of alchemical ceramic, decorated only with curling vine designs just below the ceiling, some painted flowers in the corners, the lights low to keep glare to a minimum, orange and murky. Hardly luxurious, but nice enough.
"Hardly luxurious, but nice enough" seemed to be a rather consistent pattern at the Bulstrodes', Tamsyn had learned.
Mercy Anne owned hardly any 'proper' formalwear by the standards of the British nobility, and while she did have the means to rectify that Tamsyn hadn't bothered — presenting herself not quite naturally as a member of their class befit the character, after all. While she expected someone associated with the Knights would make a point of 'properly' outfitting her ahead of formal events, this dinner shouldn't have such high expectations, so whatever she already had would do. She chose the same dress she'd approached Lucius in nearly a year ago now, which was arguably the nicest thing Mercy Anne owned. It would still be somewhat plain for a high formal event, but the deep blue fabric of the gown was rich enough, subtle black embroidery throughout giving it some texture, the red and white lacey decoration matching the brocade detailing on the corset. Wearing corsets still made Tamsyn vaguely uncomfortable, but the defensive enchantments Barty had helped her script that she'd stitched onto the inside were quite impressive, she could feel the magic thick and crackling close against her skin, it wasn't so bad.
Since this was a more formal event, there would be one additional affectation in line with Mercy Anne's American sensibilities: a lacey shawl in white with blue stitching, draped loosely around her shoulders and folded up over her head. She made a point of dressing somewhat more modestly than she might for herself when she was being Mercy Anne, intended to reflect a lingering influence of her upbringing in what was a very conservative, religious country. It had once been considered appropriate for Christian women to cover their heads, a parallel development of the same tradition still common among Muslims and some Jews, and while it wasn't common for women in Massachusetts to do so in public, it was still obligatory in churches, and by extension while attending various formal or official functions. While Mercy Anne wasn't legitimately Christian anymore, of course, she wouldn't feel properly 'dressed up' without something like this, would feel self-conscious about it despite rationally realising that the culture in Britain was different.
This particular strategy had the additional advantage of the folds of cloth draped over her shoulders partially hiding her cleavage — whenever she was wearing anything that might be considered somewhat revealing by the standard of Massachusetts, Tamsyn always made a point of acting somewhat self-conscious. Of course, that wasn't always a negative thing — she'd worn this dress out with Corey once, which had been entertaining — but at a more formal event it made character sense for Mercy Anne to feel she had to cover up a little.
(Honestly, Tamsyn enjoyed vicariously feeling people's appreciation and attraction, but she was being Mercy Anne this evening.)
She wasn't surprised when she left her room to find Melanion and Barty already waiting — she had begun to prepare before the two of them, but she'd lingered somewhat in the bath, and she'd needed to do the cosmetics by hand lest some passing magic destabilise a glamour. Melanion was wearing the same priestly costume they'd prepared for his resurrection, night-black robes and hooded cloak with finely-detailed embroidery done in silver. Barty was dressed relatively modestly by noble standards, but the Crouches weren't particularly wealthy, and she guessed he might be attempting to match the less flashy aesthetics the Bulstrodes preferred. The trousers and waistcoat and long jacket — browns and greens, embroidery on the waistcoat and buttons gleaming gold — would be perfectly fine among the commons, but would stand out somewhat among the nobility.
Tamsyn hadn't seen this particular outfit before — she suspected he must have ordered it while posing as Max Ollivander, but she supposed it didn't truly matter.
"There you are, Mercy Anne." Melanion didn't look her way, gazing through the glass wall out over the grounds, but it was hardly as though he needed to. "You've finished quite close to the mark — I expect our escort to arrive any minute now."
"Yes, well, you know how fine dinners can be for women." She walked up to the table still sitting in the middle of the gallery — she didn't think this was meant to be here ordinarily, but it seemed their hosts had decided it was a convenient breakfast spot for them — pretending as though she wasn't fully aware of how Barty was watching. Pulling out a chair with a flick of her fingers, she swayed down to a seat, drew herself a glass of water. She didn't turn to give Barty a crooked little smile until after she'd taken a slow sip. "Good evening, Barty. I suppose the outfit is a success, then."
There was a sharp flinch in his head, Barty belatedly realising he'd been staring. He cleared his throat, turned away to look blindly outside, consciously suffocating the urge to shuffle in his seat. It was very difficult to hold in a grin, doubly so while also picking up on the wry amusement wafting off of Melanion.
...She had a thought, again, but this wasn't the right time. Later.
"So, Father, how have your talks with our hosts gone? I assume you've been meeting with them, anyway — they've been dragging me around to visit the farming villages and the cider mill and the like, but I think you'd attract rather more attention than I do."
"I suppose that depends on what manner of 'attention' you're referring to," Melanion drawled, a somewhat dry ring to his voice. Barty picked up on what he meant, with another prickle of embarrassed discomfort, which Tamsyn was certain was why he'd done it in the first place — she didn't expect Melanion to enjoy teasing people any less than she did. "I've been left to my own devices for much of these last few days, which is quite welcome, truthfully. Having a proper body again after so long has been...something of an adjustment."
"I understand perfectly, believe me — I was tripping over my own feet for the first couple hours, and it took days just for the contact euphoria to wear off. I think it was over a month before I relearned how to sleep properly."
Barty gave her a surprised look, but Melanion let out a long, agreeable hum, his mind simmering. "I haven't managed sleep yet, I'm afraid. I finally drifted off for a time earlier this morning, but that was hardly enough. I've been relying on a wit-sharpening potion to ensure I won't say or do anything impolitic."
"It'll come in time. Less than it took for me, I suspect, you've slept more recently."
"True enough. In answer to your original question, I have spoken with our hosts a few times, yes. They were somewhat reticent at first — I'm certain you recall from our discussion that first night — but they have become warmer with each meeting. It seems Felix and Mared approve of the new direction of the political programme. More enthusiastic than they intend to let on, in fact — they do attempt to maintain a certain degree of formality in my presence, but neither are fine enough of an occlumens to prevent their emotions from colouring the environment around them."
"Hardly anyone is." The exceptions were generally either mind mages or Seers, or sorcerers who could channel the magic around them finely enough to prevent any contamination. It was quite rare to actually run into one, though — most people had no reason to develop the ability to convincingly lie to mind mages.
"Mm. They have of course never said this directly, but they are also quite reassured by the...adjustments made to my temperament."
There was a flash of a surprise from Barty, followed by an intense sizzling of nerves, the man sitting tense and frozen in his chair. Taking another slow sip of water, Tamsyn gave the side of Melanion's head an innocent smile. "Good, good. I had hoped they might."
"Tamsyn..." The anxiety in Barty's head had practically flared into outright panic when Tamsyn effectively admitted what they'd done, but he failed to come up with anything else to say besides her name, eyes nervously flicking back to Melanion.
He turned away from the glass to give Barty a mild look. "Do try not to break character, Barty. It is to our advantage that nobody doubt Mercy Anne is who she says she is."
Wincing a little, his face pinking a bit, Barty said, "Of course, Father, I was– I didn't mean to..."
"Oh relax, Barty, we're not in trouble." Turning back to Melanion with a smirk, she drawled, "Or at least I assume you enjoy being sane."
"Are you attempting to irritate me on purpose, Mercy Anne?" he asked, his voice low and cool and sharp. The tone didn't match his mind at all, though, still flickering with faint hints of amusement.
"There have to be some privileges to being a princess — I assume I'm allowed to get away with a bit of teasing, when we're out of earshot of anyone who will care."
"I suppose being made to suffer a degree of childish disrespect would be one of those burdens of fatherhood I've heard tell of."
"Seems so."
"Mm." Melanion gave her a flat look for a couple more seconds — still amused, if also somewhat exasperated — before turning back to Barty. "Mercy Anne is correct: I am not angry with you, my son. If I could not see merit in the attempt, I would have intervened when I encountered hints of the scheme in your mind."
Barty flinched — he hadn't realised Melanion had known what they were doing ahead of time. Tamsyn hadn't either, to be far, though she'd put it together as soon as she'd gotten the memory of the entire speech from Barty, a couple mornings ago now. Obviously he couldn't have prepared a speech centred around recovering from accidentally driving himself insane if he hadn't known the recovery was going to happen. If he thought Melanion could have improvised that whole thing on the spot, he was maybe given him a bit too much credit, but that wasn't entirely unusual for Barty.
"If I am being honest, I do appreciate the effort taken on my behalf. It was not something that would have occurred to me to attempt — if I had not been able to feel out the sincerity of your intent for myself, I doubt I would have cooperated, given the mental condition I was in at the time. While I was aware, then, that my identity was being altered through the use of ritual, far less clear were the deleterious effects it was having on my intellect, and my...stability. Even then, I would not have thought to ask for help, and I certainly wouldn't have in the vulnerable state I was in until just a few short days ago. I do appreciate my newfound clarity of mind, and it is something the two of you could only have accomplished in secret. Should you have brought the proposal to me, openly, I suspect the person I was then would have refused, on principle.
"However, while I am pleased with how the ritual turned out, my approval in this case does not give either of you leave to attempt any similar thing again. I know this was your project from the beginning, Mercy Anne," he hissed, turning to give her a heavy, cold glare. One finger coming up to gesture warningly at her, his mind sharp and intense, the environment around them turning frigid and crackling, voice low and hard, "Do not attempt to subvert me again. I will not be so forgiving a second time."
Tamsyn simply smiled against his ire, made a little respectful dip of her head. "Of course, Father." She let a short pause pass, the threatening aura of magic gathered around her loosening away, Barty catching his breath. "You're welcome, by the way."
Barty short her another shocked, frustrated look, but Melanion chuckled, low and rumbling, shaking his head to himself.
Not long after that, Tamsyn felt a mind approaching, turned to see a man turning the corner to approach their table. A Bulstrode, definitely — tall and broad-shouldered and heavy-browed, long curly hair a vivid red-orange, the look was very common among the family. They hadn't been talking about anything particularly sensitive anymore regardless, but they went quiet as the man approached, turning to watch him. As he neared the table, Melanion said, "Marcus, unless I'm much mistaken."
A faint smile flicking at his lips, Marcus came to a stop a couple metres away from the table. His head dipped in a little respectful bow before he spoke. "My Lord. You're not mistaken. The guests have begun to arrive — by the time we get there, I expect we'll be fashionably late."
"Very well, let us be on our way, then..."
Marcus lead the way out of the guest hall and down the path through the trees that would ultimately lead to the manor, introductions going around while they were at it. While the news had gotten around, so Marcus wasn't surprised that Melanion had a daughter, he had expected her to be somewhat younger — which was slightly ridiculous, honestly, given the timeline of the war Melanion wouldn't have been able to make a trip to America much later than Mercy Anne's conception without his absence being noticed. It was relevant because the seating at the table for certain important persons had been arranged, and Mercy Anne had been put near the children (teenagers, by the sound of it). She was at the edge of the children's end, though, and they were allowed to move around over the course of the meal, so that would be fine, she was sure she'd be able to find someone interesting to talk to.
It seemed Marcus had volunteered to escort them up to the manor, largely for the opportunity to speak with Melanion without needing to worry about certain proprieties, or ceding to his uncles or aunts or whoever else. The Bulstrodes were large enough of a family for there to be a degree of internal politics going on, and the sense Tamsyn had was that Marcus didn't necessarily have the social capital to monopolise the conversation in meetings with Dark Lords. (So he'd jumped at the opportunity to be in a position to ask what he wanted to without stepping on any toes, clever.) From the sound of it, Marcus had been involved last time around, at the periphery of the political side — not necessarily the cult as such, and he hadn't been recruited into the militant side, so he hadn't been Marked — associated with the populist-shaded interpretation of the movement that tended to be more popular among the commoners or less fantastically-wealthy noblemen among their ranks. Oddly enough, they considered Narcissa to be one of them, perhaps not entirely inaccurately — the motivation behind her politics might be somewhat different from theirs, but they ended up on the same side of many of the disputes within the Knights regardless.
Of course, the adjustment to their programme Tamsyn had suggested just so happened to put the message coming from the top more in line with Marcus's thinking, and that of those like him. Her feeling was that Marcus was trying to determine how sincere this change was, and he also had some questions about their plans, both political and strategic — trying to decide how optimistic he should be, and whether he should consider participating more fully than he had last time around. He was quite pleased with the conversation by the time they reached the manor, but it was hard to say what would come of it, if anything.
(Not that that was unusual when it came to such things — organising a political movement involved countless little discussions like these, and it was impossible to determine which would ever lead to anything until well after the fact.)
The hall they would be having dinner in was at the edge of the manor, so they needn't enter the sprawling building and navigate the internal halls, instead simply walking through an open glass door straight into the proper room. At this point, Tamsyn wasn't surprised that the dining hall featured a wall of glass looking down from the hill the manor was situated atop, though this room was somewhat unique among those she'd seen so far in that half of the room's surfaces were glass — two walls and the ceiling, the panels overhead curling up and down in waves, stained in deep colours to muddy the brightness, the absorbed sunlight seeming to set the whole ceiling aglow, obviating any need for lighting. Though Tamsyn was certain there would be enchanted lighting somewhere, she couldn't see any sign of it from here, the space seemingly illuminated through carefully-redirected sunlight alone.
They might or might not be the final guests to arrive, but the others hadn't taken their seats yet, still standing around chatting, so they weren't late yet. Only a few seconds after they'd stepped through the door, they were spotted by Lord Felix, the man immediately getting everyone's attention so he could properly welcome Melanion (and Mercy Anne) to the hall. The next several minutes were taken up with greetings, one person after another after another introducing themselves to Melanion and Mercy Anne — Barty had quickly abandoned them as they began to make the rounds, slipping off through the crowd.
Of course, Barty's situation was somewhat delicate. He was officially dead, but his survival wasn't a secret anymore, at least among the inner circle and the Bulstrodes. However, the crimes he'd been associated with, and in particular the implications of his connection to his birth father, made too close of an open involvement with Melanion politically complicated. They planned to solve that problem by permanently altering Barty's appearance and introducing him as someone new, but until such time as that could be arranged he needed to be held at an awkward arm's length.
He would need to take some time away from the Knights to properly establish his future identity, but if anything he was excited about the prospect. Barty had always had a love of theatre, one which his birth father had never allowed him the opportunity to properly embrace — he'd taken to Tamsyn's suggestion of making himself a Continental actor of some strip with enthusiasm, was almost antsy to get started. So, once they were in view of other people Barty melted away without complaint, joining the Bulstrodes and guests gathered for dinner as smoothly as though he han't come in with Tamsyn and Melanion at all.
Lord Felix had introduced Melanion to the hall as the future Lord Protector, somewhat cheekily, but only a few of the people they spoke to addressed him as such. People used the proper title and honorifics for a princess with Mercy Anne far more often, which was...peculiar. She wasn't certain how to interpret that, and nobody was considering why they were doing so clearly enough for her to pick it up in passing.
(It was vaguely flattering, of course, but still peculiar.)
After however long it took to make introductions, Lord Felix suggested they should get dinner started, immediately setting off a confused tumult as the dozens of people in the hall attempted to find their way to their seats. There were two long tables stretching across nearly the entire breadth of the hall, and then a third at one end, turned ninety degrees — this table was for the Lord and Lady, certain important Bulstrodes, and their guests, including Tamsyn and Melanion. Lord Felix guided Melanion to a chair at the middle of the table, turned to face the hall, while Lady Mared appeared at Tamsyn's elbow to show her to her seat a few down to the left.
As Marcus had warned her, she was being put at the border between the adults and the children, though her guess that 'children' truly meant teenagers had turned out to be correct as well. Tamsyn immediately spotted Draco — they'd never met, of course, but that Malfoy-white hair was easily identifiable — and the tall red-haired girl around his age might be Liz's friend Millicent Bulstrode.
Tamsyn had only been seated a few seconds before she noticed Millicent eyeing her, mind tense and cool but curious. The girl twitched at being caught, lurching around to face one of the other young people instead, mind crackling with nerves. Hmm.
The first course was already set out on the tables before they arrived — cheeses and fruits and nuts and the like, served with a sparkling drink of some kind. (Definitely alcoholic, but she couldn't tell if it was wine or cider. Fine wine was wasted on her, honestly.) Immediately seated around her were some younger Bulstrodes and a Rowle just reaching the end of his NEWT study. Not closely related to any of the Rowles she knew, she didn't think, but it hardly mattered. People were very curious about the Dark Lord suddenly having a daughter, so the conversation for the first while was very much focussed on her, an endless litany of questions. Which was somewhat irritating, especially since she meant to speak with Draco and Millicent at some point during the dinner, but their curiosity wasn't hurting anyone — there would be time enough to get to Liz's friends before the end of the night.
She didn't find her moment until after the main course. Somewhat to her surprise, the dishes were changed by hand, human servants coming in to swap out the old plates for the new. Since she had Bulstrodes right here, she went ahead and asked — she'd sort of assumed house-elves handled this sort of thing, that dishes would be popped in like– like at the fancy events during the Triwizard Tournament. (She'd nearly used meals at Hogwarts as an example, but of course Mercy Anne hadn't gone to school there, and would have little reason to know that sort of detail.) The Bulstrodes didn't have any house-elves, it turned out. She had a feeling that she had been aware of that before, but it must have slipped her mind. The people doing the serving were also the kitchen staff, and were having their own meal simultaneously, occasionally dipping over to check the drinks or whatever in here — the same meal, apparently, just in a different room.
One of the Bulstrodes said that they'd normally eat in the same room, they were just moved out of sight when they had guests over, to accommodate the sensibilities of the more stuffy nobles. Huh. All right, then...
There were candied fruits and cakes and puddings and the like for the dessert course — and more wine, naturally. The atmosphere of the hall was very loose and relaxed by this point — Tamsyn suspected all the wine and cider helped — and it didn't seem that anyone was in any particular rush. She supposed the intent was to linger for some time, chatting while nibbling on the desserts and sipping at the wine. People were also moving around rather more frequently, picking up to go sit down next to someone new, a dozen little conversations going on all over the hall. There had been a little bit of that going on the whole time — it seemed like a few of the spots around Melanion and the Lord and Lady were even unassigned, free for people to come and go — but obviously that was rather more difficult to do when you were dealing with a proper plate of food than if you only had a single glass of wine to take with you. Countless people had cycled in and out to speak with Mercy Anne, but she'd suddenly found herself in a bit of a lull, left on her own for a brief moment.
To her right, there were a few familiar faces gathered around Melanion — Barty, Lucius and Narcissa, Lord Felix and Crispin Bulstrode, Alan Rosier, Robyn Vane. They were huddled in a quiet but intense conversation, Tamsyn guessed likely discussing their next steps. Rebuilding the Knights of Walpurgis would take some significant effort — delicate, as they wouldn't have the support of the sanctuary to lean on this time, in the early days — especially since they would prefer to work in secret for as long as possible. There were important matters of supply, who to approach in what order, how to approach different sectors of society and even specific individuals. When and how to reveal themselves. What to do about their comrades who'd survived Azkaban all this time, that there was an interesting question...
To her left, at the end of the table, were Draco and Millicent, with two other boys their age Tamsyn didn't recognise. One she assumed was Mirabella Zabini's son — Mirabella herself was holding court at one of the long tables over there, and there were few enough black people in magical Britain — but she had no good guess as to the identity of the other. With the exception of Blaise, who wore an easy smirk, the other three seemed stiff, uncomfortable, as though quietly wishing they could be anywhere else.
Tamsyn took a last glance around the room, before popping up to her feet, swaying for a second on her heels — wine, a little light-headed — and swishing over toward the left end of the table. She was still a few steps away when Blaise glanced up, straightened in his chair a little. "Put on your polite face, everyone," he drawled, eyes lingering on Draco in particular. "We're about to be graced by royalty."
...Now that she was closer, she could feel that Blasie wasn't quite so at ease as he pretended — he was preoccupied with something, concerned, but it would be difficult to determine what by without intruding. Forcing a somewhat self-conscious smile on her face, Tamsyn said (in her American Mercy Anne accent), "That's really not necessary. Besides, we're all friends here, aren't we?" She slipped into the seat next to Millicent, the younger girl — significantly taller than Tamsyn, because Bulstrodes — visibly stiffening, her mind tight and tense. There was some kind of reaction to the claim they were all friends from the boy on Millicent's opposite side, but it was hard to feel out with the girl's aura directly between them.
"For a certain definition of friends, I suppose." There was an ironic note on Blaise's voice, that must have been a joke — Tamsyn didn't catch whatever it was, but the boy on Millicent's other side let out a snort.
With a crooked little smile, she said, "Yes, well, I'm still catching up. Blaise Zabini?" She pointed at him as she asked, which she knew was rude, but she was doing that on purpose, trying to force a more relaxed air.
Blaise assumed, feeling slightly exasperated, that she'd correctly guessed who he was because he was the only black person in the room, which, yes, had helped. Making a sarcastic little bow right there in his seat, "At your service, Your Highness."
"Yeesh, that's still weird. And, Draco Malfoy — I've met your parents, both have spoken of you at one time or another — and you must be a Bulstrode..."
Some quick pleasantries went around, the other three more or less properly introducing themselves — the or less was primarily Millicent, who little more than grumbled her name, eyeing Tamsyn suspiciously. The fourth teenager she hadn't recognised by sight, but she did recognise his name: Gladwin Bletchley was the captain of the junior duelling team, Liz mentioned him now and then. She was somewhat surprised by his presence here, honestly. Draco and Millicent were expected, and of course Mirabella knew everyone, that she would bring Blaise not unreasonable. From what Tamsyn had been told, Mirabella had never been directly involved in the movement — she was associated with them primarily due to being close school friends with a number of the second generation of Knights, most especially Bellatrix — but she had been and remained an important social contact. She'd probably be even more influential going forward than she had been the first time around, now that she'd managed to accrue no small degree of wealth and political power to herself over the last decade and change.
But Gladwin Bletchley was a surprise. There had been one or two Bletchleys in the movement the first time around, but the family as a whole had certainly not aligned with them — they were a Light family, and hardly amenable to a project such as the Knights of Walpurgis. Perhaps he was somehow related to...the Bletchley in the inner court, what was his given name? She had no trouble keeping straight the Knights she'd gone to school with, of course, but she sometimes forgot the later recruits. Regardless, maybe it was a direct familial connection to that Bletchley, maybe the Bletchleys' politics had so thoroughly shifted since Tamsyn had last been paying attention, it was hard to say.
The Bletchleys were also an odd choice given how short the guest list was, but perhaps they were more closely aligned with the Bulstrodes than most? Curious, she'd try to remember to ask Crispin later.
Of course, now that she knew who he was, she did understand why he seemed so stiff and uncomfortable here — he was another friend of Liz's, along with Millicent and Draco...and also Blaise, perhaps, she was certain Liz had mentioned him at some point...
"You all attend Hogwarts, yes?" she asked once the introductions were through. "I know you do, Draco, and Millicent — I've heard you're the first Bulstrode to attend in some time, Crispin mentioned you."
More than anything, Millicent felt uncomfortable, her mind all but cringing and almost seeming to lean away from Tamsyn in her chair. "Did he?" There was something on her voice, the thought behind the tone too subtle for her to pick up — Tamsyn guessed Millicent didn't have a great relationship with that particular uncle, but it was hard to say.
Pretending not to notice Millicent's odd behaviour, she said, "He did. Anyway, I've visited the school grounds a few times, to watch the Tasks, but I've neve been inside. The grounds are quite nice, but I think I prefer Chimiwāsikāning." She got blank looks and raised eyebrows at the question. "Chimidēwigamig Agondēwāsigankāning? It's an American school, I went there for my Mastery."
There was a brief silence, before Blaise asked, "Is that in Virginia? It doesn't sound like a place you'd find in Massachusetts."
"Oh no, further west than that, a little past the northern shore of Ojibwē-Gichigami. Sorry, um, they call that one Lake Superior in English."
"Ah. That's one of those big lakes in the north of the Americas," Blaise said to the others, "the largest one, furthest to the west. Isn't it bloody cold up there?" he asked her.
"In winter, sure," she said with a little shrug. "Around the beginning of January there'll be a few weeks where it gets seriously cold — it'll hit thirty-five below at least once a year, and yes, I do mean Centigrade." The British teenagers winced, Tamsyn gave them a little smirk. "It also gets hotter there than it does here, though, in August it can spike above forty now and then. You guys have the Atlantic giving you mild weather, that far inland they see more extremes in both directions. And they get a lot of big thunderstorms, and plenty of snow, coming off the Lakes.
"I do like it there. The school is floating out on a lake, in the middle of a great forest. Thunderbirds have been using the site as a nest for ages, long enough that their magic has begun to shape the environment. When a thunderstorm passes during the night, you can see lightning in the water, the lake almost glowing. Very pretty."
"Wait, the water?" Draco asked, seemingly despite himself. "Shouldn't their magic have, I don't know, changed the winds in the area, or the trees around?"
"Thunderbirds are born underwater — didn't you know that?"
"Oh, no. I'm not familiar with thunderbirds, honestly, there aren't any around here."
"Right, of course, everybody knows all this back home. Thunderbirds will nest like normal birds — I assume phoenixes do too?" There were a couple nods, she said, "I thought so. When it's time for the infant to hatch they'll wait for a storm to come, and they'll carry the egg over into a lake and drop it into the water. The infant will hatch during the height of the storm, and somehow find its way out of the water to be collected by the parents, but no one's really certain about the details. There's something of a light show, apparently." There was a theory that they were instinctually imitating the circumstances of the wild magic which had spontaneously generated their species, however long ago that had been, but nobody knew for certain.
"Phoenixes have a ritual sort of like that," Blaise said, "except they bring their eggs to certain mountains out in the middle of the Sahara to hatch under the midday sun. We're not sure where exactly, they keep it private."
"Reasonable — wouldn't want human poachers staking out their nesting grounds. But anyway, as I was saying, tell me about Hogwarts! I've thought of asking some of the adults around, but I get the impression the place has changed a lot over recent decades."
There was a snort from Gladwin, but he didn't say anything, the question instead taken up by Millicent. "Why do you care? Don't you have a Mastery already?"
"Sure, but..." She glanced around for a second, then leaned a little closer to the table, lowering her voice. Giving the impression that she was sharing something she probably shouldn't — by the way Draco and Gladwin reflexively leaned in to mirror her it must be landing. "Don't go telling people this, it's not a sure thing yet. But, my Lord Father thinks I should be given opportunities to learn more about Britain — especially in this calm before the storm now, when we don't have to worry about security as much — and Lucius suggested he may be able to arrange a teaching position for me."
"At Hogwarts?" Gladwin asked in a hiss, his mind jangling.
"That would make sense," Draco said, a slightly wary edge to his voice, his eyes narrowing a little. "Father is on the Board of Governors — and I suppose someone could manage arranging a position at Frideswith's, or the new schools opening up soon, but Hogwarts is obviously the most prestigious." He didn't say aloud that obviously only the most respectable position available would suit the Dark Lord's daughter.
Of course, securing Mercy Anne a position at Hogwarts had actually been Dumbledore's idea first — it would provide her both a place to live in Britain and a comfortable income, so she could be close at hand to assist the Order — but she'd warned Lucius about it the next morning, so he could cooperate from his end. "Yes, Lucius has been very helpful. And they've been hiring extra staff to deal with the increase in the student population anyway, it... Well, I didn't expect something like this so soon after finishing my Mastery, but I guess that's the benefit to having social connections. So...?"
"Which class would you be teaching?" Blaise asked. He was also giving her a thoughtful look now, like Draco, but instead of the narrow-eyed suspicious staring, his seemed more neutral, head tilted and one eyebrow arching up.
She frowned. "Graphic Arts? obviously? Oh, did nobody mention I went for an Enchanting Mastery?"
Rather dubiously, voice low and thick, Millicent drawled, "Enchanting?"
"Sure? What were you expecting?" she asked — innocently, as though she couldn't have guessed the children might have assumed something more suspiciously Dark Arts -adjacent, like alchemy or cursebreaking or the like. "I am an omniglot, I've always had a talent for the graphic arts."
"Ah," Blaise breathed, nodding. "Maybe you'll like Babbling, then — our Runes Professor, she's also an omniglot."
"Yeah, I know, I've read her work, actually. Modular enchanting, fascinating stuff. Anyway, about Hogwarts? Come on, I'm curious, and I shouldn't be walking in completely blind..." For a couple seconds, the four young people glanced at each other, their minds simmering. "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"
She expected prevarication — Melanion was only several seats down at this same table — so she was a little surprised when Blaise simply came out and said it. "They're not happy about the idea of you being at Hogwarts. I'm not certain how I feel about it either, honestly."
"Oh? Why not?"
"We all know Liz Potter."
"Aahhh, I see. Nobody told you, then?"
"Told us what?" Millicent snapped, irritation crackling on the air.
"That my Lord Father offered Liz a truce." She got a mix of confused and sceptical faces in return, let out a little sigh. "I'm serious. You know when Liz disappeared after touching the Cup? That was us. The ritual my Lord Father used to construct a new body needed the blood of an enemy — I failed to convince him to use someone else, but I did convince him that making a deal with Liz would be a better move than making her a martyr. After the ritual, they talked, they worked out a truce, and I sent Liz back to Hogwarts myself."
This was something a surprise to the teenagers here...except, curiously, Millicent. There was a lurch just next to Tamsyn, but the feeling was more of realisation, the pieces of a puzzle clicking together. Interesting.
"...So, the Dark Lord isn't trying to kill her," Draco said, a little sceptically.
"Draco, if we wanted to hurt her, we could have done it a few days ago, easy. It isn't— Look, you four are all her friends, right? I'll just..." She took another glance around, before leaning in over the table again, her voice dropping to a whisper — forcing the teenagers to lean in closer too, the intensity of the moment letting her slip in a very faint enthrallment that should go unnoticed by most anyone. "There was a prophecy, back then, about someone who would defeat the Dark Lord. That's why my Lord Father targeted the Potters in the first place — which was foolish, playing into a prophecy like that, but..." She shook her head, brushing it off with a little flick of her fingers, pretending not to notice the surprise and bemusement in the teenagers' minds at her flatly calling Melanion foolish. "We've spoken about it, and we agree that the prophecy was fulfilled that Hallowe'en. Whatever Lady Potter did that night, that's what the prophecy was referring to — so, it's over, my Lord Father has no reason to target Liz again. He thinks she could do much more damage in death, as a martyr, than she could in life, and she just wants to live her life without getting drawn into all this, so there's nothing to gain from it.
"I promise you, Liz is in no danger from me. We're friends too, you know."
Some more clattering of surprise from their minds, a very sceptical "are you really?" from Millicent.
"Sure. We stumbled across each other by chance, in Paris, during my first trip to Europe." Arguably, they did meet the first time she was in Europe, but it wasn't in Paris, or by chance — but these four weren't mind mages, so they wouldn't notice the lie anyway. But it might still be wise to say something like, "Or, not entirely chance, I guess. I spotted her out on the street, à la Île de la Cité, I recognized her, and started following her out of curiosity. She noticed me — mind mage — we talked. We've been corresponding for ah...almost two years now."
"Oh!" Millicent gasped, sitting straighter in her chair. "You're Clara?!"
"Is that what Liz calls me? I know she's been telling people I'm a Beauxbatons student she met while visiting France, but I'm not sure if she ever told me the name she's been using. People give her a hard time about the stupidest things, she didn't want people jumping to conclusions about her American friend, you know. Ask her the next time you see her, if you don't believe me." Tamsyn made a mental note to warn Liz about the adjustments she'd just made to their cover story — she'd agreed to give Liz space to work out how she felt about her after the ritual and everything, but this was important.
"...I'll do that. I'll be seeing her later this week," the silly girl said, almost challengingly.
"Ah, tell her hello from me then. I'm letting her cool off, at the moment — she's a little annoyed with me, for not warning her about the kidnapping, but." She shrugged.
"Are you the one who taught her how to make those neat enchanted notebooks?" Blaise asked.
"Oh, no, she sent me one, but I don't know where she got those." Tamsyn suspected Rita Skeeter — Liz had suddenly started talking about the idea immediately after one of her meetings with the muckraker — but she didn't recall whether Liz had ever admitted it. "It's decent enchanting work, though the referent string for the key is a little sloppy, I would have integrated it differently myself..."
There was a brief pause, the children staring at her or glancing at each other, thoughts whirring away in their heads. And then, abruptly and without a word, Gladwin stood up, and began walking down the table. "Hey Gladwin," Draco started, "what are you— Gladwin!"
Holding in a laugh, turning her voice a little shaky, Tamsyn suggested, "I think he's going to ask my Lord Father about the truce with Liz. Yeah, look." Gladwin had come to a stop standing behind and to the left of Melanion's chair, said something she couldn't make out over the crowd from here. When he actually got Melanion's attention, the silly boy seemed to belatedly realised that he was speaking to the Dark Lord, visibly tensing — but he managed to get out the question, Melanion's eyes briefly turning to Tamsyn. They weren't too far away that she couldn't make out the amused curl to Melanion's lips.
It was probably less than a minute before Gladwin was starting on his way back — he looked somewhat dazed, his pace slow, eyes staring off in a random direction. He reached his seat, collapsed back into it with a heavy sigh. The other three waited for only a couple seconds before Draco said, "Well? What did he say?"
"...The truce is real. Liz and her friends are to be protected, unless they break the terms first. He says he's been warning the Dea– er, Knights to leave her alone."
"It's possible someone might not get the news, and attack her in an attempt to impress my Lord Father," Tamsyn said. "Even though we have a truce, Liz is still being extra careful about security over the summer."
Millicent muttered, "That's why I'm visiting, later. She said Professor Snape doesn't want her alone all the time, just in case."
"Yeah, that's a good idea. But any attack on her won't be officially sanctioned by my Lord Father — honestly, I'd expect him to punish whoever is responsible, for threatening our truce." There was another moment of the four of them glancing at each other. They seemed much less sceptical now than they had before, and more as though they had absolutely no idea what to think about this development. Which was fair enough, Tamsyn supposed most of the younger generation would expect a peace between the Dark Lord Voldemort and the Girl Who Lived to be impossible. "Anyway, if you're satisfied I'm not slipping into the school to assassinate Liz, or something like that, I'd still like to know more about Hogwarts."
With a sharp shake of his head, Blaise said, "Yes, of course. Ah. Well, the first thing to know is that nothing bloody well sits still — the Castle changes, constantly."
"Really? How does anyone find their way around, then?"
"The changes aren't that large, generally. Everything will keep the same relative positions to each other, more or less, and the more frequented areas of the Castle are more stable. But the distances between things will slowly drift, and the further you get from the populated parts things become increasingly strange."
"Some places are worse than others," Draco said. "The Slytherin dormitory has a maze of passages connecting all the students' rooms — most places change slowly enough you won't notice it happening, but a passage in Slytherin might lead somewhere different than it did just the day before."
Gladwin let out a disgusted scoff. "Ugh, that sounds awful, I don't know how any of you can stand that place. Ravenclaw Tower is a little weird sometimes, sure, but it's not nearly that bad."
"Maybe you couldn't navigate your way out of a paper bag, Bletchley, but that doesn't—"
"Oh shut up, Zabini..."
As the four teenagers seemed to relax, settling in to talking about life at Hogwarts Castle and intermittently teasing each other, Tamsyn allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smirk. That turned out well — hopefully Liz's friends wouldn't do anything self-destructively stupid, now. If one of her friends put themselves in danger trying to protect her, Tamsyn had a feeling Liz would be very unhappy.
(Liz could thank her for looking out for her friends for her later, once she felt like talking to Tamsyn again.)
Bluh, not happy with this chapter either. Why is sleep so hard lately? Evil.
Anyway, as was mentioned on the last couple Children of the Gods posts, I have a surgery coming up on the 9th. It's a rather minor out-patient procedure, but I still expect there to be an interruption to my writing routine, both from that and my parents visiting a couple weeks afterward. That's going to mean delays. The plan is to do one more scene for this fic before jumping over to the other project I mentioned last time — the next scene will be quite short, but it's impossible to guess how long the surgery is going to set it back.
And that's all from me, bye.