There was a time and a place for Pureblood politics and it wasn’t in the din of the Hog’s Head that such conversing was appropriate. Uncharacteristically, the scarlet cupid’s bow beneath the dark, icy gaze and thin, ever so slightly freckled nose remained pressed in a thin line as the dull, testy glare took in the bloated, weary appearance of a man that looked so stark in resemblance to the youth of the woman opposite him. The pair looked to be father and daughter, the resemblance between them enough to suggest that before anything else. There were little teases of something else though, or rather, someone else. The curve of her body, the length of her fingers, the way she inclined her head and displayed the bluish hue of veins that ran from the sides of her lips and down over the pallor of her neck, only disappearing from sight underneath the emerald blouse that clung to her torso; they were all traits of another person, the second that made the third, her mother. Yet, along with her own disapproval, the woman whose death marked her entrance into the family she was a part of only by chance was far from her mind.
The meeting was abrupt on his part and strenuous for the pair as once again the patience of the young woman was tested as she was informed her ‘precious time’ was of essence and that there were several offers from Wizards in America and even as far east of Britain as Denmark and Sweden. There were people vying for her attention it seemed but the young Witch seemed about as interested as Muggles in watching paint dry. She had an edge to her, one that would have made, at this point, hell even freeze over, and in the forgiving light of the candles that flickered in the pre-winter breeze, an even chillier side of the girl seemed to manifest itself as she twisted her wand in her left hand.
There, flickering against her skin was something other than the warmth of the jittering candlelight. It was malice obvious but never really shown, sadism was evident with every joint twisting jerk of her wrist, and the way her wand circled the air in perfect rounds, the jet of green teasing at the very tip though anyone looking on could never be sure whether what they were seeing as true or just a figment of their imagination. The words were tripping on the tip of her tongue, her mind a million miles away from the dingy pub, the rickety table, the long cold glass of Butterbeer, the empty wine glass and the bloat of a man she once idolised. She was something else; truly much more than just the Goyle bastard. There was an aura about the girl, one that was far from the innocent light of a child. It was a swirling mist of black, like a veil almost, that cut her off from her father and, most certainly, the world around her. In her own maddened state, she saw what she wished. However, in her father she saw a broken and desperate man in need of something much more of just an heir; forgiveness. The repentance was clear. It was a dear shame his last representation of his lover saw no cause or reason to grant the forgiveness he so sought. But that was what he created in her and in his women he created a spectrum - Cassandra at one end and Athena at the other.
“Christmas, Athena,” were his parting words. Time was, as ever it seemed, imperative and there seemed to be a schedule she had little choice but to keep to.
They parted in the street, one sinking into his large coat that did very little to cover the protrusion of fat around his middle, and the other into the thick woollen scarf that had been a gift to her one birthday or Christmas, though which she could not quite recall. The slow walk up to the castle was one slowed by weighted thought. When she reached the safety of the Slytherin Common Room, she did not linger to find suitable company to last her until her retirement for the evening. No, instead she strode to the staircase, ignoring quite blatantly the calls of her acquaintances. She sought quiet however upon opening the door to the girl’s dormitory; she resigned herself to the fact that she would not be given such a rarity that evening. She could not find such silence if she was in the company of a weeping blonde, one that could only ever be shedding tears over one man: Elijah Krum. Truthfully, Athena had little patience for Mira at times and certainly, tonight was one of those times; however, she felt as if she needed to be some sort of friend to the girl -- at least for a moment.
Shrugging off her coat and unwinding her scarf from her neck, Athena crossed the room. She pressed the articles of clothing down onto the emerald sheets of her bed and reached down to slide her shoes off of her feet. Then hesitantly, she turned and made her way back across the room to the bed on which Mira lay. With her hands pressed on the bed, Athena lowered herself down carefully into a squat so she was eye to eye with her friend. With a wealth of exasperation in her voice yet tenderness in her touches to Mira’s hair, Athena spoke.
“What did he do this time?”
by Mira Anderson Thu Sep 22, 2011 10:26 pm
