Chapter Text
A train headed to London. 1954.
The windows of the train compartment rattle as Padma looks over a sheath of parchment. The cup of chai placed before her has long grown cold.
Her companion, Gulrukh, clicks her tongue in annoyance. “You should eat something.”
It takes a moment for Padma to respond, considering that particular refrain has long become worn and tired to her ears. She picks up the teacup, her thumb gently rubbing its delicate handle absentmindedly as the steam begins to slowly rise from its contents. Padma sets down the parchment, gaze drifting to the window. “His response was certainly—”
“Rude? Condescending?” her companion snidely provides. The strength of her sneer causes the heavy black veils on her face to flutter in agitation.
Padma hums, though her smirk betrays her amusement. “Certainly unconventional ,” she generously supplies, “but he has no Elder to guide him in such niceties.”
“They’ve lost touch with tradition.”
“On the contrary,” she takes a long sip, “Parvati assures me that they’re quite fastidious in that regard but the only traditions they recognize are the ones they themselves deem useful .”
“Mleccha,” Gulrukh curses. “Why did your sister ever find it necessary to stay in such a place? I’m surprised your mother never dragged her back after her schooling finished.”
Her companion’s words bring up unpleasant memories. As far as their mother was concerned, Parvati’s schooling would have never been finished. “She tells me she likes how the witches blush here.” Of course, Parvati’s words were much cruder in truth, but Padma knows Gulrukh wouldn’t care much for it.
“Your sister must be quite the character,” Gulrukh pipes up again, “I’ve heard rumors she turned down an apprenticeship to run a dress shop.”
Padma takes another long sip of chai, withholding her snort. Dead men apparently do tell long tales. “My sister’s ambitions have always been different.”
A small miracle considering their familial circumstances—in another world, they’d undoubtedly have been forced to compete against one another—her sister had ultimately chosen freedom over power. There was wisdom in Parvati’s eccentricity. Perhaps eventually their mother would understand that. It didn't matter if she never did, Padma was more than prepared to protect her younger sister's decision.
-
“Well now, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Parvati’s embrace is achingly familiar, much like her magic. Padma breathes it in, cataloging it carefully as her own magic seeps into the wooden floors of her sister’s boutique. Consciously studying the wards she had placed over a decade before as she makes mental notes. Her sister grabs Padma’s face as she murmurs, “Just like looking into a mirror.”
“You’ve cut your hair,” Padma notes. Her sister’s hair was once identical to her own but now it’s cropped just below her chin. The dark waves framing Parvati's face make her appear even younger, though she'd always feel like a child to Padma.
Parvati giggles, the sound itself waking slumbering memories. “Mum would hate it, wouldn’t she?” She asks as she flips it in a flourish.
Padma smiles at her but doesn’t answer, her eyes drifting to the fabric and mannequins scattered throughout the cluttered workroom. “Is that why you found it necessary to follow our father here?”
“You know I love our family but I find it much easier to live with at least two continents and several oceans between us.”
Padma nods, her fingers reaching out to idly rub some velvet between her fingers. She watches with some curiosity as Parvati uses her wand in an attempt to tidy the space—fabrics roll themselves up as buttons and spools of thread begin to float to their respective homes.
“Are you hungry?” Padma asks. “Mum packed a tiffin-box.”
“Thank the gods,” Parvati praises. “I was worried I was going to have to take you to the pub to eat.”
-
“So how goes your apprenticeship ?” Parvati asks meaningfully. Calling it an apprenticeship is perhaps kinder, in a sense. Pledging your life to serve a Dark Lord was rather lacking in that aspect.
Padma sips her mango lassi, thankful for the beverage considering the strange muggy heat London is currently suffering under. “As planned.” The less her sister knows, the less incriminating it would be for her.
Parvati wrinkles her nose. “Well, you visiting me is a good sign, isn’t it? I was wondering when that old bat would let you out of her sight.”
Padma hums as she idly taps her fingernails against her glass. Her eyes glance to her trunk which sits in the corner somehow now adorned with gaudy ribbons courtesy of Parvati's boutique. “I won’t be staying too long, unfortunately. No doubt I’ll have to return for Diwali. Perhaps you could come back with me?”
Parvati’s eyes flicker before she pops a puri filled with chaat into her mouth. Panipuri had always been one of Parvati’s favorites. “Maybe.”
Padma nods. It’s a more diplomatic answer than she was expecting. Perhaps Parvati had matured in her own way during their time apart. The relief Padma experiences is stunted by wariness. They’ve never talked much about the path she’d chosen to much surprise—she knows well enough that Parvati likely had her own thoughts about her sister aspiring to become a Dark Lady in her own right but she’d never voiced a word of reproach. Padma wonders how much longer Parvati will hold her tongue.
-
Padma exhales as the wardstone swallows her blood hungrily. Parvati had sent herself out on an errand—something about Firewhisky and a proper welcoming—and so Padma dove into her old handiwork in the form of the wards in her sister’s empty shop. It was truly one of the only ways she knew how to relax.
She was never one to sleep lightly especially not here where even the heat felt foreign to her. The familiar tedium of runework gives her mind enough to chew over as she contemplates the upcoming appointment since rest eluded her.
Social courtesies were never her favorite but rejecting an invitation outright was unwise, not to mention the fact that she was curious. As a whole, Britain was largely isolationist—choosing to stay closed off in a way that was unusual to the rest of the magical community—so the arrival of a new Dark Lord was largely rumored since there was little to actually substantiate the claims. At least until he had begun courting supporters abroad.
She’d met several prominent Dark witches and wizards in her travels—her teacher had impressed upon her the need to understand that the world itself was much bigger than what the magic in her fingers whispered. Magic had a way of making one complacent and blind to possible threats. Power came and went. Most of those old snakes in the grass she’d met had survived this long purely by gorging themselves on the young who had foolishly believed they’d never meet ruin in this lifetime.
She wondered what the Dark Lord here was like.
Diagon Alley. 1954.
The address left in the letter leads them to an ostentatious tea shop several blocks away from Parvati’s boutique. Dark woods dressed in creams and pinks greet them as they stand in front of a sign in gold filigree—The Rose Garden. Padma thinks it’s the exact sort of shop she’d suspect her grandmother to frequent, perhaps Parvati too (at least when courting her latest witch).
Bright white roses grow outside the walls and windows of the shop, climbing up towards the gutters and rooftop as if reaching out for the sun (which is unavailable today, thanks to the pale grey sky swathed in clouds). Padma can hear the running of water (a fountain, perhaps) and faint music coming from inside. She can’t quite put her finger on the tune, but she knows she’s heard it before. Somewhere. However brief.
The humid air does not reach the inside, nor does the bustling noise of Diagon Alley. There’s an empty courtyard at the center of the property, located behind french doors. It’s filled with archways, tables, and more white roses. A controlled overgrowth. The magic there is odd. Benign but powerful—one rooted deeply in the earth below. Easy to miss if one isn’t her and not everyone is.
The perfume of the roses is heavy, as though the flowers themselves knew about the rain about to befall them. Anticipating. The dampness in the air reminds her of the night of Gulrukh’s resurrection. She had used roses and marigolds to cover the smell of rot and magic then. Padma wonders what the flowers here are hiding.
An attendant immediately addresses them, eager and bubbling. As short as Padma. “I’m so sorry, miss, we’re actually closed today for a private event–Oh! Unless, you’re here for that?”
A little fool. She doesn’t know anything about what this meeting is about, does she? No, there’s only blissful ignorance in her bright eyes (was she ever like that?) and the shine of unpolished youth.
“--Adel.” A man’s hand comes to rest on the girl’s shoulder. “I’ll handle this; here, come, wait in the back.” She watches as Adel’s eyes flit to her face briefly before heeding his words.
The man cannot be much older than Padma, if at all. His face is friendly, in the same way that blandness is unprovoking and passive. Nothing that detracts but nothing that appeals. Perhaps considered handsome in his own circles, he has soft dishwater blond hair tied back neatly. His nose is long and straight—strong features. If there is any resemblance to the young hostess, she cannot see it. These people all look the same to her anyways.
“Pardon her,” he greets them with a bow, “...She wasn’t supposed to be here.” Protective . Perhaps related then. “You’re right on time. We’re waiting upstairs.”
Adel leaves through a door out of Padma’s line of sight, and their new guide leads them past the front counter down a corridor with open windows facing out into the quad, which upon a second inspection, is of a different size than previously observed. Curious . She can sense the hum of the wards in the stone beneath the wooden veneer and wallpaper. It’s a dull but steady noise—beauty hiding strength.
The furnishings are in various shades of cream and pink, only offset by the vibrant greenery and mahogany accents. The flowers, in overabundance, reminds her of a frilly engagement party long past—complete with floating candles lit with pink flames.
“So many flowers, the smell is nearly choking.” Gulrukh has never liked much of anything even when she was alive. Less so now.
Padma hums in agreement. “Certainly an. . .interesting choice in locale.”
“And the decorations!” She doesn’t need to peek at her companion to know her nose is wrinkled. “Not even my masi’s wedding had so many flowers.”
“Perhaps he’s fond of them. Roses are calming,” Padma replies flatly.
“Perhaps he lacks a nose if he manages to find this at all relaxing.”
Padma snorts. “Oh what a pair you both make, then. ”
Gulrukh didn’t care for that very much considering the way she yanks on their bond. “ All this frivolity sends the message that he’s trying to court you. ”
“ Courting a witch after a single letter? Seems rather quick on the draw. ”
The wizard leading them does not comment about their conversation in another language. He simply takes them up a flight of steps hurriedly, like they were already an hour late and he was already struggling to come up with excuses to the dark lord waiting for them. A funny little henchman.
Upstairs, the roses are scarlet. A much bolder color than the flowers that greeted them below. Perhaps Gulrukh was onto something about the possible overtures.
Padma knows who Marvolo is on sight, even without ever seeing him before. His stance holds the type of arrogance typically featured in men with power, and if that isn’t enough, his face is… off . Something unnoticed if barely glanced at, but glaringly obvious if one settles and observes carefully. Almost as though his beauty could only be safely seen through a veil of eyelashes as one squinted through narrowed eyes.
Even now, as Padma peers directly at him, the experience is like she’s only seeing him out of her periphery. It was unsurprising he had been touched by dark magic. What is surprising is that Padma is even remotely interested in what exactly it was. It’s magic she’s never felt before.
“ Evan. ” He speaks, and she notes that even his voice is distorted. As though she were remembering his words from a dream rather than hearing them from her ears.
Evan appears to understand (almost as though this had been purposely rehearsed) and clears his throat. “May I present my lord, Marvolo.” The dark wizard nods in acknowledgement. Evan continues, “I am Sigur Evan Phillipe Rosier, third of my name.” He bows, perfect to the letter.
Such odd titles. Or lack of them, really. There were many rumors as to where Lord Marvolo had come from but nothing that rang true, at least not yet.
“And…” Evan turns his head to the left side of the room.“...Our mediator.”
Sitting apart from the other two, it feels like the mediator who Marvolo chose is more preoccupied with fiddling with something in her gloved hands; paper or parchment. Something crinkling and crackling and popping. The sound is oddly familiar to Padma’s ears, as familiar as the sight of the antique rings adorning her gloved hands.
The memory reaches her before eye contact is made. That veil between the waking and slumber—her soul and spirit wandering the Aether as her body stayed behind. The astral plane had so much more sensation than Padma had been expecting. The taste of salt from a sea breeze. A feather brushing against her cheek. Countless lost souls howling in the background as they fled from psychopomps. You know how it is.
“I know you.” The mediator’s voice rings first.
“Ah. Yes, the Aether.” Padma confirms. “Ximena?”
“Padma.” Something like a smile on the not-stranger’s face. Relaxed and perhaps calculated. “I was wondering when we’d meet again.”
“Ehem. ” Marvolo’s tone is pointed, affronted at being ignored.
But Ximena ignores him again (Padma chuffs in amusement), standing up from the chaise to extend her hand towards her. When Padma returns the handshake, cool magic grazes against hers: chilling and steady as the surface of water. And underneath: something tingling. A spark. Interesting . It’s much duller and far weaker than it had been in the Aether. Is she holding back out of politeness? Or is it the gloves? She doesn’t have her sister’s eyes for fabric so Padma could only make her guesses.
The mediator’s dark eyes flicker to Gulrukh, in a type of curiosity that Padma recognises. Her mouth hooks into a smirk. Gulrukh was extremely shy about her appearance—human vanity was difficult to completely discard—but she was working diligently on improving Gulrukh’s form to both of their specifications.
Padma rests a hand on her breast, her fingers slipping to touch the chain around her neck. Finally, she returns her attention to Marvolo and Evan. “Padma.” A first name for a first name is enough. She gestures to her side. “My companion is Gulrukh.”
Evan is pleasant enough, properly greeting both of them. His manners are well practiced—he’s likely had experience in this, Padma thinks. Marvolo, on the other hand, has an unease about him when he casts his attention to her companion. She can discern his magic as it moves tentatively. As though he knows there is something off about Gulrukh. Ridiculous , Padma admonishes, but the possibility still exists. However, judging by his caution, he doesn’t seem fully certain as to what Gulrukh is. Perhaps he even mistook Gulrukh to be more dangerous. A foolhardy error, Padma had long learned to never trust anything hiding in plain sight. Danger never announced itself.
“Please,” Marvolo’s smile is thin, as he opens his hand, gesturing to the finely upholstered chairs, “sit.”
There’s an assortment of small trays with foodstuffs fit for a high society tea party. Teeny finger sandwiches, scones, biscuits, clotted cream, margarine, and jams made from strange fruit. The tea is floral with herbal undertones, and when Ximena pours it out into the bone-white china cups, the scent blooms up into the room. It’s a pretty, pale salmon color.
She serves Padma and Gulrukh first. Marvolo and Evan second. Herself last. As she sits down to start the meeting, it begins to lightly rain outside. The rose bushes in the patio bob up and down gently, as if to the rhythm of the music playing downstairs in the parlor.
Ximena drinks first: a show that the hospitality offered was not poisoned nor tainted. Padma drinks next, and the tea is (surprisingly) not rosehip as she suspected. It offers a deeply spiced floral taste that reminds her of petals dipped in nutmeg. Not altogether unpleasant, but she prefers the masala chai brewed by her own hands. Regardless, it all comes off as a bit much for the gathering.
Marvolo and Evan follow. Gulrukh does not drink.
Evan doesn’t exactly seem pained, but he certainly doesn’t seem very pleased with any of this. He doesn’t make true eye contact with her, preferring to direct his gaze at the space between her eyes. Nervous. Not just of her and Gulrukh, but also of Marvolo. Of Ximena. For different reasons she can’t quite pin down yet. His magic creates a staccato rhythm—discordant and rather grating to the ears. It almost makes Padma want to smother it with her hand and forcibly calm it. She ignores the urge with a steady exhale.
“I hope the accommodations are to your liking.” Marvolo drops an ungodly amount of sugar cubes into his tea, stirring with an ornate teaspoon.
“It is certainly the most formal meeting I’ve had when entering a country.” To say the least. This is stupid.
Evan nods. “Of course. We merely wish to be as transparent as possible. On both ends.”
Padma blinks and tilts her head a few degrees to the right. “Clear about what sort of things?” This meeting could have easily been a memo.
“It’s simple. What do you wish to accomplish in Britain during your stay here?”
All of that is thoroughly explained in her letter, but by now Padma has realized that these wizards are all about formalities. Eugh.
She smiles—something distant and shallow. “As I expounded in my letter, I’m merely here to visit my kin—rekindle the bonds of blood. My teacher was kind enough to allow me the time to do so.”
“Ah yes, your teacher .” Even with the way the magic distorts his voice, she is unable to miss the condescension. While she’s ultimately uncertain how old Marvolo is, from what she understands he has only come into his power recently. She doubts him to be much older than herself if at all. “I trust they are well?”
Her smile holds, blandly contemptuous. Perhaps this was the true reason why he’d insisted on drawing out this strange spectacle. Information on her teacher. “Well enough.” She has no real desire to engage him in pleasantries.
“How long do you plan on staying, then?” The questions feel pointed—more demands rather than polite probes.
“Not long,” she reassures. Padma is already feeling worn by his welcome and they’d scarcely been on this soil for half a day’s time.
“How long must we listen to this drivel?” Gulrukh’s words are sharp with impatience even if she mutters it under her breath.
“ If we wish to avoid unnecessary conflict, it’s imperative to soothe whatever apprehensions he has of us. Regardless how irritating. ”
The two wizards look curious enough at their foreign side conversation, and Marvolo appears as if he expected it. He’s calm, for the most part, just waiting for her and Gulrukh to return to the group conversation. But…
Ximena’s gaze is different from the cautious bemusement on the white wizards’ faces. It’s knowing. Amused . So this is why Marvolo chose her, then?
“ You didn’t tell me you could speak Hindi.” T here's a mild accusation in Padma’s words, smoothed over by the hint of a smile that adorns her mouth.
“ Neither did you. ”
Despite herself, Padma allows the corner of her lip to twitch. “ Spying for the little white boy? ”
A shrug, genuine and nonchalant. “Something like that.”
Funny . Personalities usually differ once outside the Astral Plane. The subconscious rules there. The soul. In real life, fear rules people.
She can see the mild frustration coming from Marvolo out of the corner of her eye. He hides it well, but she notes it in the way his hands grip his cup. The tense smile. He doesn’t like being left out. Poor thing.
She decides to make it worse, crossing her leg over her knee, “ So tell me, what’s wrong with him? ”
Ximena laughs, the action confusing the two wizards in the room. Padma likes the sound of it. “Nothing too unusual, he’s just like that. ” A gesture to the richly decorated space around them. “ Everything has importance to him… Do you understand? ”
Somewhat, but it still doesn’t explain why it looks like he’s planning on asking her hand in marriage. “His taste is tacky. ” Something she imagines her Dadi to favor rather than an outright Dark Lord.
“ Yes, isn’t it ugly? I think it’s charming. ”
A chuckle. The other’s delight for all things dark and ugly always serves to amuse. She wonders what Ximena would think of Gulrukh if she took off that veil.
The Dark Lord of Britain cuts into their secret conversation with a low hiss, which Padma initially interprets to be a strange form of showing anger. But when Ximena hisses back, Padma tunes her ears and listens. There are high and low notes, patterns in which the two manipulate air through their teeth and lips. They’re speaking Parsel—Padma can distinctly identify how the magic in the air vibrates in waves both harsh and gentle. Gulrukh’s robes rustle and Padma hears the sudden sneer of her companion through their bond. They hadn’t been aware the Dark Lord could speak Parseltongue. Padma is patient, however, her finger tracing the lip of the teacup almost thoughtfully. A surprise but not one wholly unwelcome.
“ Is he jealous? ” Her finger continues to round the rim, watching for a reaction as though she hadn’t taken notice of their exchange in Parseltongue.
“ A little. ” Ximena admits, “ But that’s normal. ”
How fun . Her eyes move to Marvolo. “How long have you spoken the snake’s tongue?”
His chin tilts up. “I am a natural speaker.”
Finally , something worth being impressed over. “Ximena?”
“Learning since I was young.” And then in a whisper, “One of the reasons I got expelled.”
One of the reasons, Padma remembers the main one. “I had no idea that the language is forbidden here.” Such strict rules—fitting that she was likely going to ignore them anyway. Backwards , as Gulrukh mentioned earlier.
“Was. ” Marvolo corrects, pleased as punch. “Ridiculous standards in place, surely you agree.” He mimics Padma’s movements around the rim of his cup. “Condemning an entire language, a culture. ”
“I find it neither my place nor it worth my time to comment on the customs of a place I am unfamiliar with.” Diplomatic but honest—everyone and their mum knew this country was rotting from the inside out. Pruning a dying tree would only do so much to slow its death. “Languages fade to the annals of history. Parseltongue would not be the first nor the last.” Still, she supposes she does mourn the lost knowledge for what it was.
Oddly enough, Marvolo is not insulted or irritated with her statement. Rather, he shows deep mirth and gives a different kind of smile than the one shown before. “You think so?”
Padma is unsure what to make of that smile. It reminds her of a shadow of a knife—sharp but the danger is not entirely visible, at least not yet. “It’s not something I take pleasure in, certainly. But yes, languages—even entire cultures—can be lost.” Just look at what had happened to the wizards at Mohenjo-Daro in Sindh.
Marvolo is contemplative. Distant. A strange effect when combined with how other-worldly he is even sitting just across from her. He seems more like an impression of a person than living, breathing being—as though she were looking at an old ink sketch of someone rather than their actual countenance.
The eye contact seizes her. Grips her gaze as tightly as a fist could grip cloth. Weren’t his eyes blue before? In any case they aren’t now, how could she think that? They’re…dark. Reflective. A glossy mirror that hides what lies behind it. Even his skin is too smooth, too perfect as though it were wax. A mannequin in a store window. A sculpture in a studio. Every last bit of his sickly, handsome face was personally scanned for flaws. The imperfections are supposed to make him seem more human—almost reassuring in a sense—but she finds herself deeply perturbed by what she’s seeing nonetheless. Her mouth stiffens as her fingers curl in her lap.
Evan suddenly jumps in his seat, startled by something. Padma glances under the table, seeing Ximena’s foot creeping up the blond’s leg. Ah, Ximena .
Marvolo clears his throat, and Padma notices the tenseness he holds in his words, “ I believe that’s all for our meeting today…Evan, you should go. ”
Evan avoids eye contact with Ximena at all costs, moving as far away and as quickly away from Marvolo as he can. “Padma.” A respectful bow, and then, even deeper: “My Lord. ”
Padma watches Ximena’s eyes follow him out the room. Marvolo clears his throat, and when Padma returns her attention to him, he is holding his hand out to her. Inviting. Challenging . Padma shakes it firmly and is only mildly alarmed at the strange magicks gleaming within him. Black like night. Black like pitch. Like ash. Death but not quite. Alright, not so boring after all.
“It’s good to see a witch with her affairs in order.” This smile is a mix of the others. Thin and pleased. She doesn’t trust it just like the others. “Enjoy your time here in Britain.”
“ See you soon .” Ximena’s voice sounds like an omen, her words ringing in Padma’s ears long after she’s left the café.