The Place You Need to Reach

Almost a month back in England (for the second, hopefully last time this year) and Phaedra thought she’d finally figured out the secret to Diagon Alley. Its winding streets had become hated to her in the weeks she'd spent beneath its roofs, going door to door in search of an elusive uncle and an even more elusive inheritance. But now, removed from entitled leisure and armed with newfound determination, a shrewder eye and deeper pockets, she saw the ancient establishment in a new light.

It was all about purpose.

When you could afford the luxury of window shopping and aimless strolls, free to fritter away time and galleons as you pleased, there were few places more diverting. To the moneyed witch or wizard the Alley was an oyster, waiting to be pried open and guzzled down. More of a luxury than a sustenance, they skimmed the surfaces of the commercial hub, browsing and buying as they pleased.

It was the responsibility of its less prosperous patrons to seek their own fortunes, carefully planning the occasional dive in the hope of emerging with a rare pearl for their efforts.

Or delivering the pearl on a platter, armed with a list of its virtues and a tempting proposal for the discerning shop-owner.

Like most things in life, navigating these cobbled streets was exactly what you made of it. And it was about time, she supposed, that she made something useful not only of the Alley, but of herself.

Purpose.

Pausing at the plum shopfront, she drew in a galvanizing breath and pushed open the door, closing it on the cool May wind. Her journey to the back was marked by the muted clicking of her heels, the careful timing of her visit ensuring an empty shop as the lunch hour neared.

She leaned a slim coat-clad arm on the walnut counter, manicured nails tapping out a rapid staccato at odds with the relaxed ease of the rest of her demeanor. Sharp green eyes scanned the vicinity for her unsuspecting target, cataloging the dusty shelves and haphazard racks.This shop had once been her playground. Its jars and bottles as familiar to her as her own well-stocked cabinets. She found herself itemizing their contents as she waited, trained eye flitting over each ingredient without pause.

Knotgrass, moonstone, eel eyes, peppermint, ground root of asphodel...

When he finally emerged from whatever back room he’d been occupying, her dancing fingers stilled, palm flattening purposefully on the polished surface.

She didn’t waste time with cursory greetings, fixing her gaze on him and leaning forward just enough to indicate the importance of what she was about to say without compromising her impeccable posture.

“The illustrious Mr. D’Eath, I presume?” She tilted her head but pushed on without waiting for confirmation, flashing a smile that was all confidence, weighted with promise.

“I have a proposition for you.”

One of Lorcan's very human clerks appeared, today, to have make a mistaken presumption that half vampires were morning people. Lorcan's house elf had awakened him at 8:56 to hand him an owl from the clerk saying he would not be there at 9:00. That was more than a little frustrating. His less-than-human relatives would have had little mercy for him, but from beside him, Zada mumbled something equally annoying to try to remind him that he needed to be human about it. Bah.

So here he was, at the crack of noon, still painstakingly collecting spider legs for a custom order dark arts potion, when he heard the shop door bell jingle. He wasn't immediately disappointed in taking a break.

He laid the scalpel aside and rose from his workbench, met with a bright cheery beam of sunlight from one of the back windows in his face. He flicked his finger at the window blind to snap it shut.

He went out to the store front,saw a young woman at the counter, and went there to assist her. He didn't see any wares on the counter, so he wondered if perhaps she could not find what she was looking for. That wasn't necessarily unusual either. He gave her a well polished smile and asked her if he could help her. He was not expecting a directly worded offer of a proposition.

A proposition? That was unexpected. He was not entirely unaccustomed to young people who were looking for an entry into the Death Eaters, but, frankly, he had handkerchiefs older than she was. Still, the offer interested him.

"I am," he replied at her inquiry as to who he was. "I'm always willing to listen to a proposition. Who are you, and what do you think might interest me?"

The challenge wasn’t one she was unaccustomed to, being an unimposing (next to a death eater and a half-vampire, certainly), genteel young lady who looked more suited to a gala than the messes and fumes of a potions lab. But there was a wisdom to her presentation- ever-immaculate, perfectly composed, the air of breeding and old money marking her out as an asset if in appearance alone.

But that was just the surface.

She knew, of course, who Lorcan D’Eath was and what he led. Was more than familiar with his general identity through the ever-efficient pureblood grapevine, the members of her own family who still had close ties to the organisation. So she felt rather less wary than any other young lady might have been, but no less determined.

“Phaedra Rosier. Myself- or rather, my talents in potion-making. Which are considerable, I assure you.”

She suspected, if Lorcan were anything like the men of his age and allegiance that she knew, that he might value confidence in those entrusted with his business. At any rate, she wasn’t one to make false claims, and it was no exaggeration.

And she was prepared to prove it.

The hand that rested on the counter was retrieved, moved instead to delve into her robe pocket and emerge holding a small, tightly-stoppered jar with a distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen. She set it on the counter between them, watching him as she did so.

Amortentia. Not the most difficult potion she’d brewed or her particular area of interest, but Phaedra knew how to play to her strengths. With Laverne de Montmorency as her ancestor, love potions were what you might call… a family specialty. A family recipe with a few personal tweaks to give it an extra potency. One of the potions she’d won the Potions Championship with eight years ago- and if he didn’t recognize her name from that, the small sample before him would tell him enough.

She wasn’t naïve enough to think he wouldn’t want to know what she stood to gain from working for him. But she waited first for his reaction, not laying out what she was asking in return. Not yet.

He watched her dig into her pocket and set the little bottle on the counter. Amortentia, or at least it was attempting to impersonate it with the telltale pearl sheen. What was she trying to impress him for? He picked up the bottle, removed the stopper, and lightly waved the bottle across his nose to avoid being affected by it.

It made his nose twitch. It usually did, and he presumed it was because of the heady blend of wood and exotic Asian spices it typically conjured for him. Personally, he avoided consuming Amortentia because it usually resulted, ultimately, in another monthly child support payment deduction. Besides that, he did not use it on women either--he didn't have to. He was confident of that. He replaced the stopper in the bottle and put the bottle back on the counter.

If she could brew a potion or two, then, most likely, she either wanted some exceptionally difficult or rare brew--or she was looking for employment. Might have been as easy for her to just ask, but he was going to wait to hear her out. She was working awfully hard for some reason, and this was not the end of her story.

As it was, the clerk who had stood him up and decided five minutes to the start of shift that he did not want to come to work was most definitely on borrowed time. Before he took anyone on, he wanted to hear if she were willing to truly do all the job entailed, including the menial things, and that didn't always mean concocting some sort of bottle of brilliance.

"Continue," he gestured. "Tell me the rest of your story and why you've come to see me."

[OOC: Apologies for the delay! Not sure about this reply, so let me know if it doesn't quite work.]

Lorcan D’Eath was a hard nut to crack, she could tell. All the better to lead a group of England’s darkest wizards, but in an employer? She suspected that as long as one remained on the right side of her prospective boss, it would be more a source of reassurance and less cause for frustration.

Her story? Phaedra hated relaying any part of the sorry sequence of events that had become her life. It made her sound vulnerable- and frankly, more than a little pathetic. But she wanted this, and she wasn’t in the habit of not getting what she wanted, so…

“I’m seeking employment. I’ve been out of the country for 4 years not by choice. The potions master I apprenticed with before leaving is dead and I need a place to hone my skills. A challenge.”

The last part was more a subtle flattery than anything else. A distraction, if you will, from the abrupt and un-embellished summary of only the facts she judged pertinent enough to share. But the reliance on a cheap trick tasted of desperation, and this realization was just as bitter. Oh it was subtle enough, just the barest nudge, and no doubt necessary in these sorts of situations, but she'd once judged herself above meaningless flatteries. Doubt was mostly foreign to her... but she could now feel it setting in.

Well, in for a knut, in for a galleon, as her grandmother would say. She cleared her throat and continued, in the same professional tone that brooked not a flicker of anxiety or uncertainty.

“There’s also the small matter of accommodation. I couldn’t help but notice the flat above this shop. Perhaps we could come to some sort of temporary arrangement- say, my services in exchange for the space. In return... well. You'd have no reason to worry about tidiness or organisation or intruders or anything of the sort. My charmswork is exemplary." She paused, just long enough to banish hesitation. "If it proves satisfactory, we might be able to renegotiate the terms in future."

Ah, there was the customary confidence. Its return prompted her to go a little further, to uncover one more of the metaphorical cards and carefully lay it out on the counter between them. Like any entitled pureblood worth their salt, she didn't waver.

"And, of course, I bring my own business with me. The profits transferred to the shop." It was a lie, but only a tiny one. She had no doubt once she was settled and managed to get the word out, she'd have a tidy register of names willing to pay good prices for quality goods. She just needed the chance. If nothing else, her determination spoke for itself. She wanted to not only secure the position, but to excel at it, and they said the good businessman knew an opportunity when he saw it. ...Not that she'd know, and not that she'd describe herself as an "opportunity", exactly. No, Miss Rosier here was no less than an asset. But even she knew enough to pull the brakes before the whole thing veered into overconfidence. That was just unseemly, unemployed and desperate or not.