The Apothecary Man

It was deducible by simply allowing a glance to flutter over the daughters of Rookwood that inherently, these young women-to-be where deeply, irrevocably unhappy and there was nothing anyone could do to repair what were very deeply seated problems, cracks in the pretty facade. When Athena had first met them she’d sensed it immediately. She’d seen Kendall’s woodenness and his father’s thinly veiled disappointment beneath his impassive expression. She’d seen Cordelia’s strained smiles, tired eyes and weary expression. None of them were happy and little, honestly, had changed.

If anything, it had only gotten worse.

The entrance of Augustus and Archibald had only exemplified a fact that Augustus I had already been well aware of: his inability to produce healthy sons. When his wife then died and his second heir along with her, it was enough to send him well and truly over the edge. While he was not sober in his self he was sobered in his thoughts. He did not betray his mourning. He did not let her absence worry him. Any indication of such a loss was perhaps his inability to stay at the manor for more than a few days - as though there was nothing tying him to their home and if he lingered there long enough, his father would find some dinny woman who would.

Understandably, Augustus wanted no part of that and Kendall was going much of the same way, clearly contented by the fact he had both an heir and a spare. He was never home. As a result, Athena had inherited three children as well as two of her own. One was too old to respect her as a mother figure and, understandably, didn’t really want to be her friend, either. She was left amused by the likes of the Deputy Minister while the others, ignorant to Elijah’s position, found him pompous and irritating but no less brilliant when he calmed and showed them his art or weaved his magic into something pretty.

Aurelia knew far better than her sister what it meant to be a Pureblood. Cordelia hadn’t sugar-coated it. Perhaps that was her own bitterness, manifesting into a selfish showcase of what her daughter’s life would turn out to be. It explained almost to the letter the way Aurelia’s hands shook and seized up in fear, in anxiety. It elaborated on what Athena had long assumed to be an inherent and irrational but no less excusable fear of her grandfather. She wanted a touch more than being bought and sold, grumbled at due to the expense of her dowry. She wanted a life for herself. And her sister....well, she’d never be tamed.

Cecilia was a Rookwood man trapped in a young girl’s body, Athena was sure of it. She was headstrong and brash, brave and incapable of holding her tongue - so perhaps, in that respect, foolish. Athena was more than positive that as she grew she’d develop the swaggering arrogance they brought with them, the easy, cheeky smiles and the inherent ability to talk about herself in all situations - awkward or otherwise. And, of course, the ability to draw people to her like moths to a flame - she, the pretty Rookwood who knew exactly what she wanted.

Her spirit hadn’t been snuffed out like her sister’s. She had been too young and still was far too young to see what the intention was for her. She’d be sent off to live with Yaxleys or Macnairs or Notts or Parkinsons or Bulstrodes or Goyles, heaven forbid. She’d bow to her husband and kiss his knuckles and bear his sons. That was the plan - it had always been the plan. Athena held out a little more hope for Cecilia, though. Perhaps she’d do what Athena had always wanted to do: go to a magical university, study and gain an insight into their world and go off and do what she loved. It was too late for Athena but not for her girls.

“No thank you, Mr Albus.” Aurelia shook her head and ducked it a little, dropping her hands back from the table and into her lap. Athena didn’t have to look to know they were seizing up, her fingers curling into her palms as they shook. “It would be inappropriate.”

Little girls shouldn’t know such words. Athena felt her step-mother’s disapproving voice rattle around in her mind. What was ironic and truly inappropriate was the fact that, despite murdering the woman in cold blood, Apolline Goyle still haunted her step-daughter, providing insight and clarity where she could as Athena waded through uncharted waters. It was a help, if not also a curse. Still, Athena felt she’d always be grateful for the ghost that liked to sit in the parlour, wearing prettier robes than the ones she died in, often sat reading, waiting, knowing Athena had something to say.

Sometimes, Athena wished her own mother cared enough to do such a thing. She suspected it was too much to ask of Cassandra Holloway. It was enough, wasn’t it, that she’d given birth to the girl? No, never enough. It didn’t substitute a mother, life.

Just as life didn’t substitute a father; and that was all Aurelia wanted. It was all Cecilia wanted too but she was too pig-stubborn to admit it. Athena had charged herself with looking after the girls.

“It’s very kind of you to offer, Albus,” Athena found her voice finally. Aurelia nodded dutifully and Athena sighed, shaking her head. “I need to stretch my legs,” she declared. “Would anyone like something other than water?”

Cecilia nodded immediately, reaching forward to take the drinks menu from the middle of the table. She placed her order - some sort of elaborately flavoured water, Aurelia nodded meekly for the same and Athena looked to Albus, waiting for his before getting up, attaching Augustus to her hip and making her way over to the main counter.

At the table, Cecilia was content, having missed the tension and was happily tucking into her chips, carefully avoiding the salad she’d ostracised on the other side of her plate. Aurelia had hesitantly returned her hands to her cutlery but was watching the way they still jittered with thinly veiled embarrassment. She shook her head, remembering the way her uncle had scorned her father for what she believed to be out of her control. The event only exacerbated the shakes when Augustus looked at her the way he did - with such palpable disappointment.

“I am sorry.” Aurelia began hesitantly, tapping the side of her fork against her fish. “It...”

“You always say sorry,” Cecilia complained boorishly. “Don’t be sorry for once, Lia!”

Aurelia’s lips set in a thin line and she nodded, heeding her younger sister and lapsing dully into silence as she focused on her meal, sufficing with prodding at it and cutting odd bits rather than actually eating it.

“Uncle Thaddeus says that a Rookwood never says sorry, Mr Albus,” Cecilia added proudly.

Aurelia was weak - that was the message of that comment. It was as though, regardless of being sisters, it was still dog-eat-dog: Canis Canem Edit.

Family meant nothing to them.

It was a mild, barely there twinge. Not disappointment really. More of unease. Like the twinge you felt when you walked by the road and saw a woman trailing after her husband, or a child shaking in his place, head bent as his mother screamed at him publically, or a house-elf kicked on the streets. The faint disquietude in your heart when you knew something was wrong in the world, and you could do nothing to correct it. Aurelia’s quavering voice as it shaped over the word, ‘inapproppriate’, reminded him of that.

Maybe he did have a dim, faded saving-people-thing after all.

Albus bent his head again, taking a morsel of food into his mouth, tongue tracing around the cracked lipline to take in all of the juices. His hand lay flat against the warm, roughly textured table-cloth, his other still tucked into Archie’s hip. “No thank you,” He murmured, as Athena trailed off with Augustus. Eyes, as they were apt to do, latched onto the only moving things in the surroundings: the inscrutable Rookwood sisters, the short and the tall, one munching away at her food, the other picking at it like a sparrow. And he was struck again, by parallels could be drawn in the strangest of places. Who had ever known that he would find living, mirror-images of himself and James in two young Pureblood girls?

The way Ceci snapped, the way Aurelia opened her mouth in protest and closed it again, lips thinning, silent but not repressed despite all appearances. He had never been repressed after all.

And the other one. James. For all the hatred that Albus had borne for his father, and all the love and unsatisfied hope and expectations placed on his mother, there was no other individual on this earth who he shared a more complicated relation with than his elder brother. James. Merlin, even that word twisted, settling heavily on his tongue, rebelling even as the person had, several and several times over. That complicated, twisted web of awe and respect and resentment and contempt that bound him to his brother, forever underscored by….-love? Perhaps? Perhaps not?- had Albus’s mind spinning. What can you say about a person who you’ve had drawn-out, bloody physical fights with, cursed and spit at till you had no breath? What can you say about a person on whose shoulders you’ve cried? It wasn’t just Albus’s fault; as noble and perfect as James was to the world, he was just as cruel to his younger brother. Blowing hot and cold, comforting once, sneering the next, like he didn’t have the strength to hold it back any longer. His mask wouldn’t come on in front of James either. They were each other’s metaphorical, and literal punching bags, be it unhealthy or not. And Albus was sure he would cry, cry as he never had if James died. Out of grief or guilty relief, that wasn’t sure.

And the unfair thing was that although no one would believe it, sometimes he could almost be convinced that at moments, James despised their father just as passionately as he had.

There were dark circles, like hollow, sagging patches of skin, under his hazel eyes. They were hard. They were always hard.

“Al.” The voice was short, grim. “Come down now.”

Albus didn’t move, eyes determinedly fixed on the ceiling, prostate on his back. Beside him, his hands were flexing back and forth into fists.

Then the tone came, that stupid mature, resigned tone which led Albus to itch to strangle his brother’s neck. “Mum wants the whole family together for Christmas.”

Albus turned his head sideways and looked, eyes repressed and simmering with a barely-held-back glimmer. “That’s impossible even if I did come down.”

A muscle twitched in James’ jaw. “Al-“

“Please James. If you want to act like the perfect son, you’re welcome to it.” It was never like this with anyone else. The contempt was just too visible. “Leave me out of it.”

The sound of James snapping was almost audible. He turned, pulled the door open with vicious force, and his words were too quiet and sharp to go unheard. “Don’t pretend even for a second that if he was here, you wouldn’t be the darling.” A pause. “You’re exactly like him.”

The sound of the door slamming echoed in the air for hours afterwards.


“Sorry is a big word to never say, Ceci.” Because sometimes it made all the difference. Sometimes it was too heavy a word for a second, and once that second was gone, it never came back again. Sometimes sorry was all that was left to be said, and it remained unsaid for a lifetime.

“But of course, I wouldn’t know for a Rookwood…..” His cutlery clinked against the plate. Deliberately or not, even if his throwaway voice was directed at Ceci, his eyes were fixed on her sister. “But my Uncle Ron always used to say that for two such small little syllables, we do make an awful lot of a fuss. For two such small syllables, it solves an awful lot of messes. So a Potter or a Weasley should know his sorries.” And he was a Slytherin and she a Rookwood, and he would be an idiot to leave that line there as a moral preaching to yawn at. So he looked at her, and half-winked. “Regardless of whether he means it or not.”

That was Uncle Ron for you. Aunt Hermione was a nag, and the official moral police, and was an overall fan of moral lectures with a good dose of Mother Teresian philosophy and principles and integrity, and Albus was in awe of her brain and hated her perceptive skills, but her husband was slightly different. He was shrewd, and uncannily understood the kid mentality of my-parents-talk-shit. Hence Uncle Ron’s lectures were punctuated with a good deal of ‘mate’ and he thrived on getting his children to do things by appealing to their sensibilities. Case in point being Hugo’s Charms work (“you could get that cute blonde to tuition you”) or Rose’s low confidence in her Quidditch skills (“you’re actually going to let Scorpius I’m-named-after-a-constellation Malfoy beat you?”).

And wasn’t this the greatest wonder in the world. Albus couldn’t stand his family at the best of times, and put him in front of two little girls who didn’t have it, and he could think of nothing but them.

“So…,” He said, remembering the answers they had given. Sumo wrestler, James had announced without any preamble. Fred’s eyes had gleamed dead wickedly for a seven year old when he said innocuously that he would love to follow in his namesakes footsteps. Dominique had wanted to merge Muggle and Wizarding fashion. Lily had quite adamantly wanted to be a cat. “What do you charming ladies want to be when you grow up?”

“He’s sweet,”

Athena looked up, diving out of her thoughts that had submerged her in a sticky heat she would’ve done well to have extracted herself from sooner. Before her stood on of the waitresses, a different one to the useless embodiment of a girl that had served them at the table. Athena had been brusque, borderline cruel when she’d first addressed the woman but she didn’t wince or bite back, merely smiled and went to get what Athena had ordered. Now, having returned, her attention was fixed on Augustus who was leaning back heavily against Athena’s arm, darting out a hand to catch the waitress’s twirling fingers.

“Yes,” Athena conceded slowly. “He is, rather, isn’t he?”

Had she not felt so catastrophically deflated she would’ve beamed with pride at the compliment and boasted about the good breeding in her son and the fact that there was no finer blood anywhere to be found. Of course now she couldn’t bear to. It was as though that switch had been clicked off and instead she mourned internally over the ‘good’ breeding and the ‘fine’ blood he had. Such traits would lord over his entire life, just as they would the lives of her daughters - and what could she do to stop that? Nothing - because who was she: the bastard Goyle who they took in against better judgement.

“I think...” The waitress started again. “I think we were in the same year...at Hogwarts, I mean. I recognised Albus but it took me a while to figure who you were. Athena, isn’t it?”

The dark haired woman in question darted her eyes back up to the waitress’s before slowly, she nodded. The waitress beamed and her hands reached for the tray where she’d placed the glasses and the glass bottles of water which had equally fragile stoppers to them.

“You went to Azkaban...didn’t you?” The waitress asked after a moment.

Ah, Athena thought wryly. And so the knut drops.

“Are you going to throw me out?” Athena asked stubbornly.

The waitress had the grace to blanch and fervently shook her head. “No, I just want to say that I hope things are better now. Fully grown men break into nothing in Azkaban but you ... you were a teenager, not even a woman grown and you survived it. I can’t say I envy you but I certainly envy your ability to survive.”

Athena inhaled and exhaled heavily. “Yes, well. Occasionally I wonder why I must wear the dress and the men the armour but nevertheless, it cannot be helped.”

“Did they brand you?” She asked, her final question which Athena, ironically, balked at the most. The breezy reply about Azkaban could not be found in regards to this question. The pale skin that Athena wore, a front, her own armour, seemed to blanch to almost translucence and the waitress, getting the hint, managed a smile and gestured to the tray before picking it up and hurrying out from behind the counter.

Athena’s hand drifted up to her throat and she sighed, tracing where she knew, beneath carefully applied Glamour charms, her runic-numeric number would be. Etched into her skin, the permanent branding that would book her a room in the high security wing if she ever should need it. Three runes, two numbers. Algiz. Eihwaz. Hagalaz. Nine. Two.

Then, to add insult to injury it was peppered across her right collarbone and then the replying hip bone. Algiz. Eihwaz. Hagalaz. Nine. Two. That way everyone would know. Kendall. Augustus. Raghnall. Her sons. Her daughters. Katarina. The bastard brothers of her father-in-law; unfortunately, just bastards and not illegitimate. Anyone who looked at her in the street or deigned to grow and be her lover. Perhaps neutralise the magic with kisses, the brush of lips across her skin, and there they’d be - enflamed as though it had not been a day since they’d been studded into her skin.

And then of course, lest we forget? The rife, near constant burn of a welted brand in the skin above her Dark Mark. The entwined letters of ‘D’ and ‘W’ as though the Ministry needed any further confirmation that it was Dark Witch that they were dealing with. A constant reminder for her, too. One they’d never let her forget.

“Athena?” The waitress called over her shoulder, breaking Athena’s train of thought once more. “Are you coming?”

Athena nodded, following the girl back to the table. She hung back a little, watching as the woman set the glasses and the bottles out for them. Then, when she was done, she took the tray away and smiled at Athena before hurrying by, back to the kitchens once more. As Athena took her seat, though, her head was spinning, her stomach churning, and her appetite hadn’t returned.

Were you always this weak, girl? A voice in the back of her mind whispered mutinously.

Athena’s hands moved robotically as she listened to the conversation between her babies and their newfound friend. She sat a little closer to the table and managed to get a little bit of the still piping hot mashed swede and carrot onto a small spoon. After blowing on it, she offered it to Augustus who, after giving it a cursory sniff, enveloped his mouth around the utensil, savouring the sweetness of the vegetables.

“Uncle Thaddeus said that if you’re sorry then it means you regret what you said or did and Rookwoods shouldn’t,” Cecilia replied with an air of stubbornness about her which was marked with abject hesitance.

Athena’s eyes narrowed out of reflex than true dismay and she shook her head despite herself as Augustus released the spoon, turning his head up to ask for more. Athena complied woodenly and continued to do so, contented by the rhythm of her ministrations as she listened to the children talk with Albus.

“I’d like to dance,” Aurelia ventured gently with a small smile on her lips.

“I want my own dragon!” Cecilia exclaimed, breaking in before her sister could elaborate. “So I guess I’d have to work for the Department of Fluffies? But maybe...maybe I could just I could just do what you do Thea?”

Athena’s eyes lost their glazed look when she heard her name and she looked at Cecilia curiously, having not really, truly heard what she had said.

“You know,” Cecilia pressed. “The orphanages and the thing with the Itch because of your daddy and ...”
Cecilia trailed off, sufficing to gesture helplessly looked to Aurelia, her brows furrowing.

“I thought daddy took away the dancing room.”

He did, in actual fact. Then it was reopened and refurbished a few months later by an irritable Athena who decided to defy Augustus simply because while he was off in Venice and Kendall was Merlin only knows where, she was in charge - therefore, she could do what she liked.

“He doesn’t want you to dance.” Cecilia pressed.

Aurelia scowled, the first bit of life in her that Athena had seen all day flaring with the famous Rookwood temper.

“I’ll do whatever I very well like, Cecilia!” She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her body away from her sister.

“I’ll tell!” Cecilia threatened.

“You will do no such thing.” Athena’s voice cut through their burgeoning argument, ending the contest there with a firm, solid, decisive tone. Cecilia shrank back, sufficiently cowed by Athena and returned to eating with more fervour than before. Aurelia flashed a brief smile in Athena’s direction, one which was returned by the slight quirk of the elder woman’s lips.

“What do you do, Albus?” Athena asked, her tone lighter, softer and all together more friendly, having shifted out of the parental persona having dealt with Cecilia - protecting her interests as much as Aurelia’s.

“I don’t believe I’ve heard much at all for you. N-not that I keep a weather eye. Just...your brother James. He’s a Quidditch player, isn’t he? My, uh, terribly bored social circle find him rather dashing so, at the expense of sounding crude, I do rather have him shoved down my throat more often than now.” Athena’s lips curled into a wry smile before looking back at Albus, her voice softening even more than before. “It’s just...you seem to have fallen off of the Daily Prophet’s radar. That can’t necessarily be a bad thing though, eh?”

“Are you an actor?” Aurelia chipped in. “You look like one. Something arty, at least. Though, not like Eli. Not... arty-arty.”

“The girls are acquainted with our charming Deputy Minister,” Athena chipped in, the wry smile not having quite left her expression. “Therefore, in their pretty little minds they imagine all artists...painters, writers, actors... drink a certain kind of wine, smoke, what, menthol Marlboros and tumble around with certain kinds of pleasurable company....own homes in Paris, Milan and everywhere in between, that sort of thing. If you do, please don’t tell me. Let’s not ruin the sweet, green-sock wearing facade with bitter burgundies and a terrible choice in female company.... that said, I figure you’ve got the latter.”

She of course meant herself in that respect. The only man with enough idiocy to suffer an hour with her and it had to be him. Still, Athena had begun to warm to Albus but evidently not quite as quickly as her girls. Even so, he was kind and perfectly happy to let Archie amuse himself with the buttons on his shirt, the texture of his trousers and just anything and everything the world had to offer. Certainly, it warmed Athena’s old, frozen heart.

Playfully dramatic though she was being, she was growing that little bit more comfortable. Aurelia’s words had hurt her but the girl hadn’t meant them. She was just as cynical as Athena. Cecilia was attention-starved and that wasn’t her fault. The boys just wanted someone to stare at that would smile instead of glare and Athena... Athena just wanted someone to be there; and Albus was.

But for how long?

“Your drinks.” A second waitress swept towards their table, setting down the delicate, stemmed glasses shimmering with coloured liquid with a flourish. Ceci almost flounced up and down in her seat, bending forwards whimsically and stretching her fingers as far as they would go to wrap around the cool glass tumbler. “Careful,” escaped Albus’s lips before he could blink, but she nodded enthusiastically and scooped the glass up, draining half of its contents in one go. Aurelia followed at a much more sedate pace, almost as thankful for an excuse to desert the half-eaten food, and Albus smiled.

“Thank you Maria.” The polite words took the waitress by surprise, her eyes widened rapidly, followed by the broadening of her smile. A faded sense of satisfaction settled into his chest; he still had it. People had never spoken a word to him in his life, yet he watched and knew. And when, carelessly, lacking choice, they did come to make conversation with the quiet, mediocre Potter, they were taken by surprise. And pleasure.

Why do you do it, Albus, Rose would say, wrinkling up her nose, yet eyes shining with worry so much like her mother’s. Why do you wait? You can take so much, claim so much, you have the charisma but….no one will pay attention if you don’t think you deserve it.

“I didn’t think you would….” The waitress, Maria, with the brown eyes and the Hufflepuff tie, he remembered well, spoke thoughtlessly, then shook her head and smiled amiably. “You always were an attentive guy.”

“Its good to see you after so long.” The sentence came out effortless, practiced. The smile polite and courteous as always. “How are you?”

“Decent. I’m working here part time until my internship with Mungo’s is done and…..” Suddenly, the smile faded out and Maria’s expression clouded. “Speaking of which, you heard about Avariella? The two of you were dating in fifth year, no?”

His hand flexed abruptly, then clamped over the Coke can still standing on the table. The metallic, cold surface against the palm of his hand grounded him. His voice was normal. “Broke up in the same year. Haven’t really kept in contact after graduation. Why, what happened?”

“She’s dead.” Maria’s voice was hushed, gravitated. “Killed, actually. They say someone dropped her off at Mungo’s. Apparently her intes-“ Athena suddenly swept in, skirts swirling about her ankles as she retook her seat. Maria stopped, voice hitching for a second, “I’ll uh…tell you later.” She then flashed the other woman a rapid smile and turned away, walking towards the counter.

“I’ll drop into Mrs Hudson’s home sometime then. Thank you Maria.” The concerned words exited his lips, even as his mind masochistically completed the unfinished sentence: her intestines had been ripped open by an unidentified Dark spell.

It was easy, gloriously easy, to seal away the turning whirlwind of thoughts and guilt guilt guilt guilt that her words had triggered, and turn back to the children. They, thankfully, had heard nothing. Albus would rather prefer not to hear Cecilia Rookwood’s thoughts on the vicious murder of a Muggleborn Auror-in-training by a Dark curse. Athena though….he flicked his gaze sideways, and saw her monotonously feeding Augustus, periodically placing the spoon in his mouth and then proceeding to wipe it with the folded edge of the napkin. She seemed sealed in her own whirlwind.

“I want my own dragon!”

“Maybe I should get Uncle Charlie to talk to you then. He owns a dragon reserve in Romania.” Albus rubbed the bridge of his nose with the pad of his index finger, then almost by its own accord, his hand proceeded to pick up a spoon, scoop up a sliver of mashed potato and prod it into Archie’s mouth, which swung open like the mouth of Charybdis, swallowing the food and half of the spoon in. He tugged it out, then repeated. Again. Again. In front of him, the two sisters were arguing, and he suppressed a ridiculously strong sense of déjà vu.

Athena, with a minor lilt of hesitation to her voice, proceeded to enquire about his occupation. As she went on to talk about James, her voice grew a bit more comfortable, almost as if to say, in for a Knut, then a Galleon it is. Albus stretched back in his chair, relaxing the kinks in his throat, and smiled, with an edge of self-deprecating amusement. “Dashing. Yes, that’s James. With all his flings and heroic deeds and daredevil Quidditch stunts, its no surprise that the Prophet spares me from its society pages now and then.” And then, because she had sounded eerily empathetic while saying it, he turned his head and met her gaze for a second, and not a moment more. “Its not a bad thing at all.”

Actor? Oh yes, indeed, Albus wanted to say, pacing up and down and waving his hands exaggeratedly and dramatically. I’m very committed to my craft. Act bloody frickin’ all the time. Just a few minutes prior, you see, an utterly fine piece of acting worthy of Broadway, where I politely enquired about the murder of a woman I murdered. Actor. That’s me.

“Writer. Arty-ish, I admit, but not quite.” Albus tapped his fingers, an indistinguishable pattern on the wood work of the table. “Do not drink myself into a stupor. Do not wander from Paris to Albuquerque searching for inspiration. Am not heartbroken, depressed, or emotionally handicapped or afflicted in any manner. So there goes all the stereotypes. I’m afraid we shall have to content ourselves with the unadventurous, unromantic image of the green-sock wearing bore then.” But he inclined his head ever so slightly to the right, wry amusement quivering somewhere in the crinkles around his lips, “Am most heartily deprived, or rather under self-imposed isolation, of female company as a whole. That said, when I do mingle, I’d like to flatter myself by believing that I possess more than adequate taste.” His emerald orbs caught Athena, for a second, but the smile went straight to Cecilia. “Rookwoods are after all the pinnacle of taste, right Ceci?”

He straightened, bending forwards again to take in another morsel, the creamy texture of the white sauce contrasting sharply with the spicy meat against his tastebuds. He hesitated for a split-second, then shook down his wand imperceptibly from his wand holster for it to slide smoothly into his right hand, concealed by his sleeve. “And to spice up the boring life a bit, sometimes I make up a tiny, harmless spell or two.” A small flourish, a glaze of sparks, a mentally whispered Celtic phrase. For a second, nothing happened; but Aurelia’s eyes had widened and she leaned forwards to peer into the flame of the ornamental candle that had been set into the tiny depression on the centre of the table-top. Moments later, her sudden attention became obvious; the candle flickered and the flame started glowing, brighter and brighter, sparkling as tiny pin-pricks of star-like lights arose to being around its rim. The white, minuscule sparks rose like a stream of water, high enough to reach her eye-level, then fell again sharply, making a musical, whistling sound. They began swirling, faster and faster, gathering up into a shape: curved petals, soft bud, delicately shimmering stamens. A bunch of gladiolus hovering in the air, luminiscently white, glistening, made of stars. He stretched outwards and brushed it, the sparks dispersed when his finger came into contact with them, but on removal reformed the same shape again.

The sense of satisfaction pulsed gently, a small cradle of warmth in his chest. Gladiolus though…..his mind skimmed over the historical symbolism of the flower……strength of character. That had been completely unintended. And yet….appropriate.

“For you, Miss Rookwood.”

The idea that Cecilia had was commendable, brave even, but not something Athena could in good conscience support if her little girl was going to put herself in league with reptiles that would, without a second thought about it, rather set her alight than show her any sort of compassion. Athena would’ve rather given the girl a clerk’s job at Gringott’s if it meant she wouldn’t suffer some sort of horrific death. Her spirit might be quenched by the dry bores that Goblins were but Athena wasn’t going to let that get in the way if it meant that come Sundays she’d have all four of her children with her for a roast dinner and some wine for an evening to catch up with them when they were fully-fledged adults.

“Only if Charlie Weasley puts her in a bubble that is flame retardant.” Athena interjected with a half-smile, keeping her tone light and masking what Albus would probably see as complete seriousness. Cecilia pouted in response and Athena smirked, provoking a pretty smile from the girl that replaced the pout almost immediately. Hopefully within time the need for daredevil ridiculousness would abate and Cecilia would want to do something with a lower risk factor. That said, Athena had always wanted to do something exciting like Curse Breaking for Gringott’s or Archaeology. She’d had some friends, Hufflepuffs she remembered, that had gone into it. If their letters were accurate, they were currently on a dig in Peru.

Jealousy wasn’t even a word close enough to the resentment Athena felt. Still, she did something important. Her cousin Aceso had been rather cutting about the whole thing and had speculated why exactly a Pureblood woman would give a damn about louse-ridden, dirty, stinking orphans. She’d not truly understood but that hadn’t been borne out of distaste - merely ignorance and she’d nodded thoughtfully when Athena stubbornly explained that it was because of that and her efforts were to make sure they grew up louse-free, clean, sweet smelling orphans with good prospects, a desire to do well and fond memories of their childhoods. It wasn’t for any reason other than that and the fact that it was something to do, something to care about and something that mattered to her as a mother.

“I love Quidditch!” Cecilia enthused, ever the evaporator of a tense atmosphere whether it was palpable to those involved or internal and unseen.

Athena smiled, reaching for a napkin to dab at Gus’s lips which were smeared with his meal and turned upwards in a toothless smile that was beginning to hint at the idea of cutting one or two through his gums.

“Perhaps I’ll let you be a Beater then.” Athena commented dryly. “At least you control the Bludgers.”

Cecilia grinned, certainly expecting, if only for a moment, that reality to come to fruition. She nodded brightly before turning her attention back to her food, finding that there wasn’t much left and, like all good things, it was quickly coming to an end but promising another, better thing: ice cream.

“But you are proud of what you have written, no?” Athena replied, folding a piece of thinly sliced beef on her board in half in order to properly, easily pick up. “My father used to say that if a person is a writer he’ll take a second drink and you can tell one from a glance if they are passionate about their books years after they’ve been written and are loathe to let anyone get away with misquoting their labour of love.” Athena ate the meat slowly, savouring the salty, peppered taste of the meat before swallowing it with a mouthful of water.

“Exactly!” Cecilia chirped up after, herself, taking a drink.

Silence abated thereafter and Athena allowed herself a moment or two to enjoy the food that she was suddenly getting more of an appetite for. Gus wasn’t at all interested in the meat or the cheese and while Athena was secretly quite glad, she wished they could’ve shared so she didn’t have to keep switching with what she was doing. In time, however, he’d probably come to eat all of what she’d ordered for herself with Athena only so much as having a few bits of each. She knew she shouldn’t wish away his life - she’d rue the day she ever did if she continued to because all too soon, he’d be patting her on the head or introducing his girlfriend to her; and no woman would ever be good enough for her son.

Athena’s eyes widened as she caught from the corner of her eye the magic unfolding in the middle of the table before the girls. Then, just like that it erupted, twisted, turned and formed a beautiful bouquet of flowers that he presented to the delighted Aurelia. She was much more the delicate flower of the two sisters, a young woman-to-be who was most deserving of such touches no matter who they were from. Flowers had often been communicated to Athena as presented when the man tried to sweeten his wife. When her father had done something wrong, a huge bouquet would find its way onto the hall table and her step-mother would be testy yet tolerant of her husband for the next week or so, thereby filling the house with heavy, fragrant blooms.

This was simple, however. Simple and it had a point, certainly. Yet, it wasn’t underhand or, pityingly, an attempt at winning back favour. No, it was just to make a little girl smile and, by God, was it achieved.

“Thank you, Mr Albus,” Aurelia murmured, smoothing the blooms out in her hands. “They’re so pretty!”

“Can we keep you?” Cecilia asked excitedly as she leaned over to look at the flowers.

Athena laughed but couldn’t quite ignore the twinge in her chest. They’d been there too long. They’d reached the point of no return, where bonds had been forged and affection had been found. It wasn’t something that could be deserted now but Albus was someone she’d have to peel from the minds of her girls in order to prevent them from feeling that rejection and loss when the time came for them to part ways and, naturally, never see each other again. It was a one off and already he’d gotten too close. He’d jumped the bailey wall and he was inside the keep, kissing the princesses and winning the fair maiden’s heart in a grand tourney. He’d battled through ice and steel and stone and iron. He’d delved to the bottom of them and caught their hearts in a jar. How could Athena take that back from him? She couldn’t. It was too late.

“How about we get that ice cream soon, huh?” Athena cut in breathily. “We had better be going soon, girls. We’ve got things to do before the day is out.”

((OOC: Three words to describe a Kiera. Addicted. To. PA.
So sorry for the late reply!!!))

“I love Quidditch!”

Love. Strong word. Very strong word.

In a family where friendships were made, broken, rivalries reinforced, enmities reawakened and bonds formed through a sport; Quidditch was a big thing to love. You either adored it to death, or abhorred it beyond all senses. Albus couldn’t think about loving Quidditch without thinking of death-defying stunts and upside-down barrel-rolls executed by a show-off James, whose broom-flying skills were, as acknowledged by half the Wizarding World and (still, still) a half-resentful younger brother, as unparalleled. Couldn’t think of it without thinking of the time Rose almost leapt off her broom to save a goal by the tips of her gloves; half-cracking her neck joint in the process, such was the madness. Couldn’t remember it without thinking of innumerable Slytherin team Quidditch tryouts, failed again and again because of his stubbornness to play Chaser, in spite of his clear talent for Seeker.

He had made it though, in seventh year and Slytherin had gone to the finals. They didn’t win the Cup though, Jack Dyllan’s Bludgers were a little too fast for him. He still remembered her winking cheekily after knocking him off his broom, and felt a belated sense of wonder that that memory was so untainted by anything….else. So normal.

“Pride is a relative term, Miss Athena.” He handled the light, dainty fork between his calloused fingers, the prongs pivoting and spinning against the ceramic plate. Balanced on his lap, a bubble of saliva emerged on Archie's lower lip, who was watching the apparition with large, unblinking eyes, vociferously bent on maintaining it for as long as possible.

Sorry bud. Albus dropped the fork, which landed with a clatter on his plate and lifted a napkin, folding the edge and wiping off the drool efficiently. “Most writers I know have a curious love-hate relationship with their creations. On one hand they deride them quite viciously inside their heads, finding nothing but flaws and looming plotholes. On the other, it would quite break their hearts to hear others do the same. As for me,” Unbidden, the words of Verba Non Facta wafted before his mind: painstakingly constructed epigrams, witty lines, irony, flushes of ire against the pitiable state of affairs in the Wizarding World. Albus smiled self-deprecatingly, “I’ve done better.”

Of course it had been a relief like no other, to finally let the indigo ink flow, to sharpen the quill, to give voice to the scathing commentary that had been inhabiting the back of his head for years. Something satisfactory in the surprise on people's faces, the open befuddlement and even hostility once they saw those neat, printed initials on the bottom of the  Prophet article. It had been a struggle for a man who had a ridiculously low opinion of the mudslinging, metaphorical clawing and opportunistic spying that the profession of journalism entailed; to print those initials. Still, it was admittedly the best way to get his point across, and in a way the most therapeutic.

He could have done better.



Gladiolus blooms in hand, Aurelia’s smile could have lit up a dark room. Ceci’s eager, yet innocent, “Can we keep you?” coaxed the amusement out of his chest, rising brightly through his throat and emerging out as a warm chuckle that Albus didn’t remember hearing from his own voice, often. He turned his head and met Athena’s gaze, knowing without knowing that he was mirroring her thoughts. Two adults, yet still too young, looking at one another across the table, resigned and aware in the way that the children, in their naivety, couldn’t be. Aware of the world and its names and its lines of separation. Aware of their names and their lines, vast enough to be a chasm.

He looked at them, once. Ceci and Aurelia and..... Athena. Not Madam Rookwood, like she had been not an hour ago. An hour ago, he couldn't have known that this young girl with old eyes, bouncing her young one in her lap, ever alert for any sign of harm to the kids that clutched her fingers, was anything but Madam Rookwood.  He looked at their dark hair and brighter eyes, and the small world that they were nestled in that seemed to exist only for them, and wondered how he, a man who hadn't felt at home with his own family could have connected with their world so fast.

“Your mother’s right.” He said, and it was with a strangely heavy tongue. The ice-cream, in their gleaming silver bowls on a levitating tray, floated over from the counter and settled down on their table, with a clank that seemed imposing in its finality. “My tiramisu will have to be ‘to go’, I’m afraid. Scheduled for a meeting with the publishers.” Almost as if hearing his words, a silver screen locked over the bowl nearest to him, with another clank. He turned towards Athena, lifting Archie by his arm-pits and lifting him off his lap, leaving behind a small sense of warmth on his numbed knees. “Yours."

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, their time had run out, the last grains of sand having slid into the bottom of the hourglass and snuffed out the light at the end of their candle; the wax having not even begun to grow runny and slide down to congeal on the plate or surface it had been set on. Already, though, the candle had begun to sag and bow in the middle, creating a pool of scarlet water that was not quite ready to skirt away with their secrets, their hopes and their dreams. That was still cradled there, safe for the moment. It would be safe as long as Albus didn’t come back and tear down the brittle pieces of candle containing the molten wax. When he left, Athena would be able to, piece by piece, fix up the bailey walls once more and return the Princesses to their castle to brood and sew.

Athena, sensing Albus’s need to rise, lifted Augustus back into the waiting pram that had cooled throughout their meal. She gratefully took the suddenly forlorn looking Archibald back into her arms and cradled him close to her chest before, herself, getting up out of her seat. She set both boys down into the pram and took her wand, applying heating charms to their blankets in order to warm them back up again and coax the babies into a slumber that would allow Athena to get them home unhindered by screams and, in turn, the protests of the girls whose foreheads had split into headaches at the shrill sounds the babies made.

“Thank you,” Athena murmured absently as she offered Augustus his bear, Archibald having already snuggled down with his. The elder of the two boys was hesitant but complied eventually, settling down next to his brother, his eyes drooping as he began to warm from the top of his head to the ends of his little toes. Athena’s fingers drifted over her boys’ heads before looking over at Albus, sobering herself and lighting a bright smile onto her face. It was like a lamp clicking on, practised and fool proof every time - a force of habit.

“It was lovely to have lunch with you, Albus.” She stated formally, inclining her head gratefully before glancing over at Aurelia and Cecilia who sat up a little straighter in their chairs.

“Thank you, Mr Albus!” They chimed together, both with lively, toothy and toothless smiles on their faces.

“Can we have lunch again?” Cecilia added quickly, determined to ensure something of longevity of friendship with her newfound favourite. “Next week, maybe?”

Athena felt as brittle as the wax, as breakable and as injury-prone as glass. She managed a tense, terse smile and licked her lips absent-mindedly before looking over at the little girl, a brief, kinder look flitting onto her face.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” She said softly, knowing that even that would breed hope - the last thing she wanted. The last thing they could afford.

Good morning, people said, when they greeted someone. Irrespective of whether they meant it. How do you do, I hope you're doing well, it's so good to see you after so long...... silly, meaningless trivialities that came as naturally to them as breathing. Albus was excellent at small talk, excellent at making conversation with strangers, entirely smooth at formal occasions, at the formalities his Weasley cousins were so uncomfortable with. He remembered clinking of glasses, soft murmurs of voices, polite laughter, a hand ruffling his hair affectionately. Such a polite boy. Such a nice, well behaved boy.

It didn't take a genius to guess that he had grown to despise the entire charade.

But he didn't give it up. Of course he didn't. Not the one thing he was better than the others at, even if they had called him a ' stuck-up prig ' and a 'suckup'  for it.

"It was lovely to have lunch with you, Albus.”

"The pleasure 's all mine. "

It was a small, common thing to say. Expected, even. But what took him offguard was the lack of effort. The split second reflex. The fact that he completely meant what he said. How could he not? The girls' smiles drew his gaze to them like moths to a candle, iron to a magnet. He felt..... honoured. Honoured to be given entrance to their charmed world, like a fairy disclosing her magical haunts to him, and he stood there, undeserving and wonder - struck. And it was lunch. Only lunch.

"Can we have lunch again?"

"O-" -f course, was what he had been about to say. But Athena spoke too fast. Significantly more wisely, perhaps. More practical, aware of the shackles of time, fleeting like a fast flowing brook, till you were unaware when it passed you by and you hadn't met each other for decades. But still, she spoke too fast.

Albus sat there, watching the young mother tuck her young into their flightful world of dreams; and then it hit him hard like a speeding truck, flattening his mind with vertigo.

Stupid. How had he not realised it before?

He wanted that. All of it. Desperately.

Someone to take care of. Someone who would care in return. Someone who would pull him out of the sopping rain, dry his cloak, scold him irritatedly, offer him Firewhisky and listen to his stupid confessions. Someone who would spot him with Dark witches, get needlessly worried and bang on his door at the crack of dawn, demanding explanations. Someone who would eat his food, tease him goodnaturedly, listen to his off tune guitar and plan rebellions with him. Someone who was achingly vulnerable, and breathtakingly strong enough to expose that without the fear of getting hurt. Someone with a pale face, a lazily brusque voice, Quidditch hands and red hair.

And maybe, it was finally time to ask.

Albus rose, an unforgotten part of his mind inexplicably relieved at his decision. He was simply projecting his desires on the first family he had seen. He hadn't grown attached to the.... Rookwoods, of all people, at the first meeting. No, it was just psychological.

"I'll be taking your leave. " He said, voice infinitely more courteous and polite in comparison to before. Which was strange, and twisted, and couldn't possibly bode well for his psyche. He straightened the cuffs of his shirt, stretched his fingers, packed the tiny bowl of tiramisu with a brisk flick of his wand and turned, pivoting on his heels.

He took two steps. Paused. Turned around, and looked, for a fraction of a second. Then shook his head lightly, and strode out of the door.

And if there was a faint smile flickering somewhere in the quirk of his lips, he didn't think anyone could blame him.