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She doesn’t even get to sit down to a proper cup of tea. The moment she sets foot on the marble of Hartsbridge’s entrance hall Pimmy is at her side, a letter held out on a silver tray. She’s almost tempted to ignore it, until she makes note of the seal and then the handwriting.
Parsimonia Yaxley. Severus’ Potions Master.
What now?
She almost rips the paper in her irritated haste to get it open, then has to fight herself tooth and nail not to scrunch it into a ball and throw it as hard as she can at the nearest breakable object when she reads the words.
There, sandwiched between all the nonsense words a woman of her station is due, is the short note: Please come and retrieve your daughter-in-law. I do not appreciate the way she is screaming at my Apprentice, and he doesn’t want me involved.
It would be so easy to write back Disregard Severus, if Lily is being a bother just throw her out, her tantrums are none of my concern, but that is not the done thing amongst women of their Families. It’s always notes and manoeuvrings and carefully worded letters and conversations that mean ten things at once. For a moment she is actually jealous of Lily for the lack of shame she must feel in order to go and make such a spectacle of herself.
She has no doubt that were Lily not married to James, Parsimonia would have already hexed her out on her arse instead of writing to her to go fetch the woman, no matter what Severus might want. It is just that combination of him interjecting on Lily’s behalf, for whatever masochistic reason, and Lily being a Potter by marriage— and thus an insult to the woman could be interpreted as an insult to the Family itself, a Family with more power than the Potion Master could ever dream of— that would have stayed her wand.
It is astonishing how much she doesn’t want to have to deal with this right now.
But— Severus, poor Severus, facing the brunt of Lily’s rage. Why the blasted woman couldn’t have waited and unleashed it on James—
Which feels a rather traitorous thought to have. James is still her son—
‘Oh, Pimmy, tell the Master I’ve had to go out again. Hopefully I’ll be back before it’s time to dine, but if I’m not make sure he comes in from the gardens or puts whatever book he’s buried in down long enough to eat something proper.’
With the Elf’s acquiescence ringing in her ears she turns around and heads back out the way she came, Apparating the moment she leaves the wards.
Parsimonia Yaxley lives in a very pretty little cottage in the Wiltshire countryside. The original building was Tudor, with a small extension made sometime in the Georgian period. The woman failed to live up to whatever peculiar hopes her parents had when they gave her that name, as while she’s no spendthrift there’s a plush sort of comfort to the place. It is generally a prettier sight at midday, when the beautiful gardens surrounding the cottage are a riot of colour and scent, instead of dulled down and deadened by the blue light of the coming evening.
Scandalously the cottage is not a piece of Family property but once belonged to Muggles before Parsimonia and her— companion— bought it about thirty years ago.
The woman was a handful of years behind her at school. They have always known of each other, though rarely actually interacted in their adult lives before she took notice of Severus.
Time has passed, but in some ways it never passes for Purebloods.
Parsimonia Yaxley is undeniably one of the best Potions Masters alive in Britain, she has a daunting reputation, is considered an expert in the field, has published widely, her textbooks are required reading for almost every Potions Master’s Apprentice in the UK— though are considered too high a level for even most N.E.W.T. level students— and yet it still feels a little embarrassing to be showing up on her doorstep. As if tongues will wag. As if she would care if they do.
Time passes. People grow older. People should get over things.
Parsimonia Yaxley has moved past the age where children might reasonably be expected— Yet there is still a little discomfort in the thought of being in the company of a Pureblood witch who simply said No.
Not Yes, as long as we live separately and have separate households and separate lovers and communicate only through written correspondence and the House Elves and only do what is required for children and then only when it is required for children and only if we can’t find some less sticky way to get things done. No. When it came time for the woman— a very eligible, intelligent, reasonably pretty young Pureblood of impeccable breeding— to marry she had laughed in her parents’ face and gone off to live an independent life with her Halfblood lover.
Her lover who was a woman, as well, and obviously no more inclined to duty than Parsimonia, because there have been no children. Not even children of dubious breeding. No Halfblood children born to Muggleborn fathers and uncertain heritage, no carefully arranged breeding done with a Pureblood male of a sympathetic disposition, not even any children of strange and experimental magic that took after both women.
Just two witches living together and defying everything Pureblood society expected of one of them.
The Yaxley Family hadn’t known what to do, so they’d dithered about it, and eventually everything sort of got swept under the rug and Pureblood society settled into a quiet discomfort about it. As there were no children of complicated heritage to complicate inheritance everyone, in a way, decided it all wasn’t that bad. Parsimonia wasn’t disowned, an allowance was eventually settled on her even though rumours say that made her laugh as well and try to reject it and point out that she didn’t need it— an astonishing act in of itself— and offers of different husbands were made at least once a year, every year, until the prospect of children dwindled to a nothingness, and eventually the scandal faded —but never really disappeared from any Pureblood’s mind.
Perhaps Pureblood society would have decided to simply ignore her, forget her, pretend she never existed— except then she went on to have such a glowing career. The— companion— too. A Halfblood, but a herbologist of international renown. One with a better reputation that even most of the notable Pureblood herbologists.
So, quiet discomfort all around. Even she, she must admit, hadn’t ever sought either woman’s acquaintance beyond a nodded greeting of respect, until along came Severus.
It was that glowing career— combined with the notion that of every Potion Master that had replied to her letters with some signs of interest in taking Severus on Parsimonia Yaxley was the one who may have the most sympathy for his past and odd position in society, and thus may treat him with some kindness for himself instead of from a desire to please her— that had made her chose the woman to Apprentice him.
She stands in the falling twilight and presses the very Muggle doorbell attached to the cottage by the front door and waits. Usually Severus opens the door, but this time when it cracks open it’s to reveal the very, very, very elderly House Elf she’s only glimpsed once before, peering up at her with rheumy eyes. The creature makes a mumble of sound, quite impossible to comprehend, before the door swings further open to reveal the companion, for once not out in the garden, who then starts fussing at the Elf. ‘There you go now, Daisy, you’ve done your duty and opened the door. Why don’t you go and sit back by your fire now?’
The ancient Elf makes another incomprehensible noise and starts to hobble back into the house.
The companion— Pamela McCrae— gives her a slightly stilted smile, ‘She’s not quite with us anymore, you know? But it makes her happy to do a little around the house, here and there, and making her happy makes Simma happy so— Raised her, mostly, when she was little. I suppose you know all about that, being as you’re one of them too.’
If one of them means Pureblood then— well, yes, but she wasn’t raised by House Elves. She had a perfectly serviceable nursemaid to start with and then a Governess. But then things aren’t so well run in some Families. ‘I see,’ she says. She supposes it’s sweet that Parsimonia has taken on and is still caring for her old House Elf— even if the poor creature looks more than due a happy retirement. Maybe this is a happy retirement, if all she has to do is very occasionally open the door, though—
‘All things considered,’ she states, carefully, ‘The way things are heating up— Do you have wards? If you don’t, you may want to commission some. You may also want to bear in mind—’ she hesitates, just a little, trying to work out the most diplomatic way to say this, ‘—That such a sweet old Elf deserves better than the possibility of opening the door to find a Death Eater on the other side.’
‘Ah, yes, all that Blood Purist nonsense,’ Pamela sighs. She’s still a very attractive woman, with long salt and pepper hair tied up in a knot at the base of her skull, and piercing eyes of a blue almost lavender in colour, though her finely featured face is sun worn and lined and she’s never done much with her looks. In her youth she was a rather renowned beauty, renowned enough that whispers of I suppose if she was going to abandon her duty to run off with a Halfblood I can see why she chose that one had gone around Pureblood circles when Parsimonia first eloped with the woman. Still, Pamela has never seemed aware of her beauty, or particularly interested in its existence.
‘Keeps coming up, doesn’t it?’ the woman says, still on the topic of Blood Purism, ‘Every decade or so— You’d think people would get over it. Hasn’t worked yet, has it? Still— We’re thinking about wards. Sev has been insisting— Not sure where to go to get good ones though, and Simmy is a little concerned that anyone her Family might recommend might not be on the side of— well, people like us.’
‘Allow me to make some recommendations,’ she says. She should have done so sooner, but sometimes the war is out of sight and out of mind for her. Talking to James has reminded her of it, and being reminded has also reminded her that Severus may end up a target from his refusal of the Malfoy brat and his rejection of the Dark Mark. ‘In fact, let me write around and arrange something. That way you won’t have to wait long.’
‘I’d demur,’ Pamela looks a little awkward, more than usual, at least, and she always has looked an awkward creature. Beautiful but lacking in grace and delicacy. The kind of woman who would feel no shame if she answered the door with a pig under one arm and a shovel slung over her shoulder, as caked in muck as Lily had been earlier. It’s amusing, in some ways. Except it reminds her a little of Lily— though Lily has never been awkward in her own skin, and is, arguably, at least ten times as generally aggressive as Pamela McCrae could ever manage. ‘I’d hesitate to use— your good name— instead of waiting our turn— but I do worry a bit, now. We’re getting older, and neither of us have ever been much for duelling— and we have Sev with us now. That Malfoy’s been ‘round— I dread the think what could happen if the house gets attacked. We’d probably end up dead and Sev— Well, that’s a fate worse than, isn’t it?’
‘When was he around?’ she snaps. Severus hadn’t told her Lucius Malfoy had dared visit.
‘Yesterday,’ the woman replies, then smirks, ‘Simmy saw him off. In fine form she was. Sev didn’t even have to speak to him—’ her face falls into a troubled look then, ‘You know, I’m still not used to this. My mother was a Muggle, my father— well, he was nothing more than a moment’s distraction on a cold night. Gave us some money, told us what I was, but didn’t have much to do with raising me— or do anything to allay the scandal, as you can imagine, unmarried mum— even now but back then— so I think in some ways I still think like a Muggle. I’m still not used to men like Malfoy pestering other men. Not out in public, where anyone could find out. I suppose I haven’t had much to do with them, either, men. Sev has been a welcome surprise, a delight— but if in the main they’re like that blond pillock I’m glad I’ve never had any interest in them.’
‘Well, I’m hardly going to defend men as a species—’ it’s all a little uncomfortable, because she feels the need to from her affection for quite a few of them, but at the same time James’ behaviour sticks in her craw. ‘My husband, for one, is a lovely man. Some aren’t, obviously, but— Oh, I don’t know, I rather think it’s all too complicated for a time like this. Parsimonia summoned me. Apparently you’re having some trouble with my daughter-in-law?’
‘Ah! Oh, yes!’ Pamela glances back into the house, ‘They’re in the garden— but Simmy will want to talk to you first, and she’s in the kitchen. Come in, come in,’ the woman waves her inside with large, expressive gestures.
Inside is as it ever is, well loved, well maintained, but an absolute dearth of style and taste. It’s all homely and comfortable and everything’s a little shabby and well worn in. It reminds her more of James’ terrace house than Hartsbridge, but more comfortable, less erratic spasms of— whatever was driving Lily— in evidence.
She follows Pamela to the large kitchen at the back of the house. The room is large and expansive and warm, the cabinetry stripped back to timber which has been polished to a honeyed glow, and it all smells of meat and savoury things cooking away in the AGA.
Parsimonia is sitting at the well-scrubbed and slightly battered kitchen table, drinking a glass of red wine and staring out one of the many windows into the garden. The woman looks over as they step inside, but instead of getting up she gestures to the chair across from her. ‘Do take a seat, Euphemia. Do you want a glass of red? Or perhaps a cup of tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ she replies, then, ‘From your missive it sounded like things were rather more—urgent— than they appear now?’
‘I might have been a little precipitous,’ the woman says, inclining her elegant head with its elegant silvering bob to concede the point. ‘Things were looking rather— Well, once Severus started to shout back, I was somewhat less concerned. They’re in the garden now— the ornamental one, of course, wouldn’t risk anything more useful than pretty— and it’s been a while since the shouting stopped.’
‘Then why did you not send a second missive?’ she asks, brow arched, as she slides into the seat across from Parsimonia. The woman was never as beautiful as her paramour, but pretty, with the tall and slender figure and grace of a Russian prima ballerina. She’s retained that elegance, that poise and way of carrying herself, a heightened version of that comportment that is not always identical, but almost always noteworthy in any Pureblood girl of proper training.
‘Because I thought you ought to know,’ the woman replies. Her voice is a little nasal, but has a pleasant sort of burr. ‘She’s not very discrete is she, your daughter-in-law? I mean— we don’t have any direct neighbours for at least a mile on every side, but— I cannot promise no ears heard what she was— bellowing.’
Oh— ‘Was it about James?’ she asks, momentarily regretting asking for tea instead of wine— But Pamela is getting the tea things ready and the kettle is on the hob, so it would be rather rude. Perhaps they have something less horrendous than Sirius’ rotgut to doctor it with.
‘Largely,’ is the reply. ‘I never thought— Well, I suppose even the most put together of us can have trouble with wayward children. Another reason to be glad I never had any.’
Wonderful— the way things are going James’ actions are going to make a spectacle of the Family, with no thanks to the blasted Muggleborn he married. Feeling rather put out she falls to the temptation to put the knife in to at least one other needful target. ‘I cannot absolve myself of blame— though I am attempting to rectify things. It is hard, though, when one sends a boy to school where it turns out he has learnt all sorts of the wrong lessons under the supervision of a headmaster that seems to have felt no obligation, whatsoever, to inform the Family of the son’s poor conduct in time to easily remedy it.’
‘Yes, well we’ve all heard things about Albus Dumbledore,’ Parsimonia mutters. ‘Perhaps one day he will come to terms with the fact his war is over, his beloved is defeated, and there’s nothing to be gained from the fight. His regrets will still be there, no matter what distractions he concocts for himself. The past cannot— or at least should not, when it comes to such things— be undone.’
‘Is that what you think the problem is?’ she asks, curious.
‘Perhaps,’ the woman shrugs, ‘Or perhaps he just enjoys the power and influence that only being seen as very, very necessary by a wizarding Britain on the brink of war— thus a divided wizarding Britain— will give him. I don’t know. Can’t stand the man, personally— too much whimsy— so I’ve only ever observed from a distance.’
‘I agree there,’ Pamela pipes up. ‘I’ve always thought he was a right pain in the arse.’
It’s all rather sobering. The question remains— If Dumbledore— knowingly or not— is actually helping press for conflict— Is now, a time when war is definitely breaking out, a safe time to remove him from his post? If yes— then who will replace him? Someone will have to. The war won’t just go away, even if its instigator does.
That’s ignoring the sad truth that everything may in fact fall apart without him. He has made himself the lynchpin of the Light. He has made himself indispensable— and she still cannot say for sure whether it was all deliberate, whether it’s incidental, or whether it is some wretched compulsion eating at the heart of the man.
All conjecture, though. She has no proof of anything other than his mismanagement at Hogwarts, and a few rather unpleasant suspicions regarding Severus.
Perhaps she will have to pop around to Hogwarts one of these days and take tea with him, assess him in person, get a better grasp of exactly what is going on. Perhaps.
She sits stewing while Pamela makes the tea, her delicate Royal Doulton Apple Blossom cup deposited in front of her along with the matching milk jug and sugar bowl. The pattern’s a bit— twee and far too Muggle for her liking, but it fits in rather well in this pretty little homely cottage.
She adds milk and a discrete two spoons of sugar to her cup, then glances at Parsimonia, ‘Brandy?’
‘We have some rather good cognac?’ the woman offers.
‘Sounds delightful.’
Pamela goes and fetches that, too, in a rather lovely cut crystal decanter. She adds a slog to her cup, and then Pamela pours herself some in an appropriate snifter, though Parsimonia demurs with a gesture of her wine glass.
They drink their drinks in silence. Her tea is— perfection. A true delight after every dubious beverage she has been faced with this day.
When she is done she turns her attention back to the other Pureblood, ‘I am going to go and see if Severus is well and if he needs me to remove my daughter-in-law. Provided he is, and he doesn’t, I will be back soon. When I am— I would appreciate if you could detail for me everything my daughter-in-law was screeching about that I may not like unfriendly ears to hear— though, if I am forced to make a speedy retreat while dragging Lily by one of her shell-like ears, I will be back in the morning, instead.’
‘Of course,’ Parsimonia replies. ‘I would do you the courtesy anyway, as you’ve always treated me with respect, but since you’ve brought dear Severus into our lives— anything we can do to help, we will.’
She nods, relieved. She is very glad Severus has found himself a good placement here. She is very glad she has been able to provide him more than just a good education— both Parsimonia and Pamela seem very taken with him, and he seems increasingly comfortable around them every time she visits.
Of course, they’re all profoundly practical people with little care for vanity, far more function over form all of them, so perhaps that’s part of it. A good fit personality wise.
Parsimonia gets up to show her the way to the ornamental garden while Pamela fusses with their dinner, basting rosemary laden juices over a deliciously fragrant leg of lamb. An offer is made for her to stay and dine with them, if she’d like, but she really does need to get back home— In truth wants to get back home. She wants the home comforts of serenity, style, and Fleamont’s company.
Outside the way is lit by tiny little charmed lights shaped like mushrooms on either side of a well maintained cobbled path. The kitchen garden is directly out the back of the house, with Parsimonia’s Potions Garden to the right and the ornamental garden to the left, each hidden a little behind a low stone wall.
The other Pureblood leaves her at the gate and heads back inside to her companion and her bottle of red. She pushes the gate open and steps into the ornamental garden. It is at that, ornamental, but like the front of the cottage better seen in the day. There are more little charmed lights here, providing enough of a warm, golden glow to just illuminate the two forms sitting huddled together on one of the garden benches, clutching at each other in desperation, as if in dread someone will come and try and pull them apart.
Both heads jerk up at once, two sets of eyes immediately focussing on her. For a moment she’s reminded of a pair of baby owls, puffed up and wide-eyed, huddling together as they face off against a threat.
Even in the weak light she can see how red their eyes are, swollen, damp tracks still smeared on their cheeks, noses still dripping a little with snot. They’ve been crying, both of them. They both look a mess, rumpled and soggy, hair flying about all over the place. Each of them has a hand clenched in the other’s clothes, stretching and distorting fabric as the clutch at each other. Their free hands— Lily has a cigarette in hers, but she can See Sev’s hand paused in mid-air, reaching for it.
The stink of tobacco smoke hangs heavy over both of them.
They do not look friendly.
They do not look approachable.
They look— All of a sudden she realises she’s an outsider, James is an outsider, everyone else is an outsider, looking on at something deep and profound, a bond between the two in front of her she suspects no one else will ever be able to touch.
It’s like glimpsing some forbidden knowledge, an awareness— tenuous and strange— that whatever this is has been underlying everything about the both of them for the entire time she has known either of them.
It has sat, a monster in the cellars of James’ marriage. Its disintegration has been a cancer eating away at Severus’ state of mind.
They haven’t been kissing, or at least she doesn’t think they have. This isn’t her coming across the boy she was trying to reserve for James having a torrid affair with her son’s wife— but at the same time she doesn’t really know what it is. She’s not sure what she’s seeing is romantic, but she doesn’t know what else it could be. It seems far too intense for simple friendship. She— she finds herself lost for words when she tries to reduce it into something easily comprehensible.
As she stares at them Severus starts to shrink back, away from her gaze, at the same time that Lily starts to puff up and move in front of him, as if to protect him. ‘Everything is well, then?’ she says, wincing a little at the false cheer in her voice. ‘Very good. I will be inside, speaking with our gracious hosts, if either of you need me.’
With that she spins on her heel and begins to march determinedly back inside, knowing as she does that she is retreating. She thinks right now, at this moment, she may finally be beaten, even if she can’t quite bring into focus exactly what has conquered her.