Toujours Pur

Sunshine had baked grime onto the thin window panes that would in the winter shudder with the force of the wind that would whip up through Diagon Alley. Dark, stuff curtains hung uselessly from a brass rail, dank and moulding around the edges. The mahogany floors and ceiling beams added to the general mire of the place and the dust gave the long suffering witch that worked there the worst of all of her allergies. While no amount of gold would ever see her endeavour to clean the place aside from the areas she inhabited most, never had there been such organisation with every vial and conical flask labelled with a small brown tag and a piece of flaxen string.

In the back room, the windows had been thrown open and cleaned with aggressive, abrasive charms that had been employed with the help of a passing seventh year to be who had reached their magical maturity. Their desire to indulge the pretty Malfoy girl had not gone unrewarded. In batting her eyelashes and giving her secret smiles, passing them off to the young man like a kiss, she had gotten her way and barring the rats who persisted to her skin-crawling terror, the back room was clean, scoured and smelling near permanently of cleaning fluid. There, she lingered that morning, peering into a cauldron she’d left to froth and bubble the night before.

The summer project had been to find the new Wolfsbane potion – the newest answer to those dirty creatures that for some unfathomable reason were granted the ability to wield a wand. It was for, of course, a selfish reason she pursued this research avenue. No, she savoured the idea of the fame, of the recognition. She wanted to be lauded as the Malfoy that did good, even if it would come to be interlaced irrevocably with the bad. No, they’d never forget her name. It would be Isadora Malfoy’s Elixir. Yes, it had something of a ring to it. She was desperate for it, believing most forcefully that it would make her autonomy – and that morning, she was sure she had done it.

With shaking hands she reached for a ladle. Dipping it into the dark, inky depths of the cauldron she lifted out some of the potion, pouring it into a conical flask. Abandoning the ladle she corked the flask and held the potion up to the light that was dim and dusty but sufficed for the moment. A roguish smile lit her features, her scarlet lips pulling up away from sharp, stark white teeth. She pressed the cork in a little more and shook the potion, watching as it bubbled up inside the glass. She struck out a laugh, disbelief streaking across her features, coupled with eagerness to try it. That desire was found and played to when a THWACK sounded behind her.

The squeals of a barely alive rodent met her ears and Isadora turned abruptly, her gaze alighting upon the struggling creature whose back end had caught in the trap she had set. Grabbing tongs off of the side, she pressed forward and plucked the animal tightly between the two sides, lifting it out of the trap. The creature, as though sensing its near peril, cried louder and she ignored it, slamming it down on the counter in the shop. Taking a knife out of the wood she stabbed it down into the thick, spindly tail of the animal, pinning it to the top. Its cries continued but she shut her mind off to it, empathy repressed in the pursuit of science.

She uncorked the vial and pulled at the rat, forcing its mouth open and into it she poured drops of the potion. Setting down the flask she released her hold of the rat, registering vaguely that she’d have to scald her hand to kingdom come before it was clean again, and she watched, her eyes fizzling over the animal as it brought its lips together, tasting. The rat seemed to have pause and then it began to writhe, its screams raising to catastrophic levels. Isadora put her hands over her ears and gasped herself when one of the vials on the shelf above the counter split and sent glass flying across the table top. The rat seemed to change colour, deepening to a bloody red that she realised with a start was, in fact, blood. It began to tumble from its body, rising up out of the skin, boiling down over the side onto the floor. She stepped back, terror lacing its way her veins. But then, at once, it was over. The rat slumped, bloodless, dead.

She swallowed, blowing air into her cheeks as she looked around, trying to find a source of explanation – someone to blame. But it was just her. Her and that cauldron. She took a minute to collect her thoughts and then pressed forward, opening one of the drawers in the counter top. Using the tongs she tossed the sizzling rat into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then, abandoning them she grabbed up a rag and tried to wipe it off of the wood. She then dropped the rag onto the tiles and slammed her heel-clad foot onto it, rubbing it around aimlessly, in hope of masking somewhat what she’d done.

The brass bell above the door rang out at this point, causing Isadora to look up. The person who entered was, she recognised him immediately, one of James Blood’s pack who looked to have gotten a little bit beaten up if the bloody scratches in his arm were indicative of anything. She managed a strained smile for him and despite the flush to her cheeks and the strain knitting lines in her forehead, he noticed nothing amiss and grunted a demand at her for a dittany of some kind. Isadora hissed back that there was one on the side and the vial he fell to was her potion.

The woman looked up, brushing the stray locks of hair from her eyes. Then her gaze fell on her flask. The werewolf commented idly that it wasn’t all full and Isadora felt her lips twitch nervously at him. She could barely move, her feet were routed to the tiled floor and she watched with morbid curiosity and paralysing fear as the werewolf took the cork out with his teeth. He spat it onto the floor and Isadora glanced, watching it as it rolled into the little pool of rat blood she’d missed. Then she brought her eyes back to the cuts in his arm and she watched, her heart rising in her chest, as the potion was washed over the cut.

“Drink some,” the words escaped her mouth before she could stop herself and she looked at him intently. “It’ll help.”

The werewolf looked at her curiously but brought it to his lips anyway, swallowing back the last dregs at the bottom of the flask. He put it down on the countertop then and turned away from her, making to leave. Before he could, his breath caught and Isadora stood back, planting herself against the wall. The werewolf grasped at his throat, clawing at it absently as his eyes widened. He began to gasp, as though panting for a drink, air, anything and then, gradually, he began to shout, groan and then scream, sending more bottles than the rat had streaming off of the shelves. Blood began to rise in his skin and she watched, mystified, as it spilled from his skin without having had any cuts, the heat of it scalding him, causing his terror to heighten further. One pint. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. The werewolf turned to her, his eyes shot and golden, unseeing. He strangled out a strained breath and swayed before falling, tumbling against the shelves, sending them splaying out, hitting the others like dominos until all landed in a heap of broken glass, potions and ingredients and, crucially. Eleven pints of human, werewolf, blood.

Isadora’s hands found her head and she slid them over her hair, coming to a stop at the back of her neck. She exhaled. A smile inexplicably found its way to her mouth but panic soon overrode that, forcing her to surge forward, threw the blood, up over the dead wolf and the sodden shelves. She fell against the front door, pressing the lock into the doorknob, and hastily pulled down the blind over the window. Then, on wobbly legs she turned the curtains across the windows and stumbled back into the other room where her hands found parchment, a quill and managed to turn out the following letter in hasty, cramped script:

Alexander,

You need to come to Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary. Now. Please, I’ll explain everything when you get here. The back door is open.

Isadora

And with that she attached it to Minerva’s leg and sent the owl out of the back door. Isadora sagged against the frame and brought her hand to her face, rubbing her fingers over her eyes, pinching absently at her nose. Her gaze flicked briefly over to the cauldron, innocent-looking enough. What she had created hadn’t been the world’s answer to werewolf transformations. No, it was a poison. Better, it was something that had not been designed to help. Her selfish tendencies had rendered the help moot point. Her disdain for their race? It had made it a poison. It had made it an overarching poison. One which would kill indiscriminately. One the Death Eaters would love.

---

Isadora's dress, nice and appropriate for working in. Not(t).

Alexander felt all grown up. Here he was, an employee of the Being Division and a married man all at the ripe age of eighteen. Had you told the ex-Slytherin a year ago this was where he'd be then he would have probably agreed with you, although maybe not about the marriage part. Truth be told, however, the marriage part of his life hadn't been that challenging. The pair had enjoyed a delightfully pleasurable honeymoon and now we're both living in the Nott manor.

It wasn't the best situation at the moment. Anastasia was being a little annoying. When they first arrived back from France she'd pummeled them with questions for the first few days but a week later she'd calmed down. Her questions had now moved onto whether the pair would be attending the Zabini pure blood social together - and was hoping if Isadora wasn't going then she could, too, worm her way out of it. That girl needed a lesson in what it was like to be pureblood. She should be honoured to have received an invitation, honoured to be pure blood, honoured to be a born Nott. Then again, she was a Gryffindor. Oh how she was living up to being the black sheep of the family.

Work had been much better. There was no annoying little sister and everyone he worked with was rather helpful. Moreover It was nowhere near as taxing as people made out, in fact given the option Alexander would work overtime every night of the week. Although this may change once becoming an adult becomes a normality.

Today, however, Alexander received something new. Something he hadn't had the honour of receiving in the Being Division: Post addressed to him. Opening the letter eager eyed his face fell at the sight of Isadora's handwriting. Oh. He'd been hoping for an important letter from an important person regarding the investigation on the rouge werewolf packs Alexander was helping with. Instead some silly scribble begging him to go to Slug and Jiggers.

Deciding that if it was important as it was his wife would turn up to the ministry Alexander shoved the letter to one side and continued reading into a few articles on an upcoming werewolf policy the ministry were debating about actioning.

Three hours later, when the clock ticked five Alexander packed up his desk, looked at his wife's letter and shoved it into his bag. She would be home soon, was it really worth heading to Diagon Alley? Surely any problem big enough by now would have been resolved and if it was work related then there was Lorcan she could call on. Why him? Why did he have to go out of his way after a long day at work?

Because he was her husband. It was these thoughts that echoed as he stepped into the fireplace of the atrium and found himself in the London public toilet - the workers entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

Crack.

Alexander had planned to go straight home, apologies and make up some phony excuse about a group of goblins marching into the office and starting an argument but instead, his mind had found Diagon Alley before he apparated and there he was, standing besides a pile of bin bags and a forgotten banana peel in the back alley.

It didn't take him long to find Slug and Jiggers, which other shop would have piles of rotting jellyfish tentacles, chipped snake fangs and smashed jars in their back yard? Walking to the back door he turned the handle and, like Isadora's letter had stated, discovered the back door to be open.

'Isadora?' He called out, carefully closing the door behind him, his eyes noticing the open window and a cauldron by the dusty fireplace. 'Sorry I didn't come earlier I-'

Alexander froze as he walked through to the main room, the sight of a familiar figure strewn across the floor. His face was pale, eyes wide open and his body frozen at an odd angle. If he hadn't known better Alexander would have said a basilisk had found it's way into the apothecary.

He was an employee within the Being Divison. The area of the ministry that cooperated with werewolves, managed their policies, dealt with any lycanthropy outbreaks. The man wasn't in his transformed form but from the posters around the office Alexander knew exactly who he was: a member of James Blood's pack.

When Minerva returned, coming to sit on the windowsill of the back room, Isadora knew her husband would not be joining her any time soon. She suppressed a sigh of frustration and refocused her eyes on the small pewter cauldron before her she was rapidly dumping things into in order to brew herself a calming draught. The werewolf had done the intelligent thing and had trashed the shop with his fat, dead body. That left her without anything, short of Lorcan’s bottle of firewhisky under the counter, to console herself with. Instead she endeavoured to brew herself another draught. It was easier to be medicated than drunk, after all said and done.

It took an hour to brew the potion. By the time it was done, Isadora was thinking of all the ways she could let her poison filter into Alexander’s food. He clearly mistook her meaning – though she had been rather clear about what she’d wanted. Tersely, as Isadora ladled the greenie-blue potion into a cup, she thought through a hundred ways of making sure Alexander knew how displeased she was. It wasn’t a trifling matter – though perhaps she’d not been clear about that in her letter. No, this was a dead werewolf in the middle of her shop, one which would be missed by the man who lorded over him. Isadora swallowed the potion.

Duchess chose to rear her flat, fluffy head at that point in time, slinking in through the open back door with a lazy meow. She stilled, however, when Isadora supposed the smell of the blood hit her nose. Without lingering any further, the cat leapt out of the door, yowling to Isadora in whichever language cats spoke – she’d be back later, was the intended comment. That left Isadora with a cauldron of calming draught, which she would continue to take sips from throughout the day, and, still, a dead werewolf in her shop with only her owl – and perhaps the wall – to talk to.

Pressing her forehead against the rim of the cauldron, Isadora let go of a half-scream of frustration. She hit her palm against the bulbous portion of the cauldron and growled in pain – which in turn meant she then went on to brew a potion to deal with the said pain. She would never, ever lose the value of magic, she decided. Had she been able to cast spells outside of Hogwarts, the werewolf would have been buried under the cobbles of the alley way by this point in time but alas, she was dependent on her husband who was not there. So what was she supposed to do?

After taking a pain potion, too, albeit unnecessarily and just for something to do, Isadora abandoned herself in the desk chair. Minerva ruffled her feathers on the windowsill. The perverse excitement had worn off now. She wasn’t so electrified by the idea of having killed a werewolf with something she’d brewed. Now, however, the anger was setting in and the realisation that she had to do something about it herself was not far behind. In lieu of her husband finally doing as asked – which was becoming increasingly unlikely – Isadora knew she had to stage something. She had to make it look like the dog had broken in. He’d done half of it but there was no sign of forced entry so Isadora fixed that.

All was quiet in the alley way for a minute. Then, a young woman appeared outside and picked up one of the filthy bricks off of the floor with one of the cloths. The weight was a little too much for her arm but she didn’t have to hold onto it for long because a moment later she threw it through the window of the back door. The resounding crash was her forced entry and she hurried back inside, checking where the brick was before picking it up once more. Then, much to her dismay, she hurried through into the main room and stood up on the werewolf once more. She registered the irony of the situation – such a little woman stood on the chest of a massive man – but she was focused and rubbed the brick across his hand, cupping the hand around it as though he’d been the one to throw it, hopefully leaving finger marks behind.

“Okay,” she mumbled to herself, running back to replace the brick where it had landed.

That done, she had to wait. She could at least finish her day out so she started to mince around the shop, pouring away her calming draught because she knew how incriminating it looked – shoving a bottle of bleach down afterwards before running the tap, conceding that the bleach, too, would look dodgy. She then abandoned herself in another chair, though this time in the main room, and she began to sharpen the knife she’d caught the rat on the countertop with. It was easy to control her thoughts then, to calm herself down. Nervousness did not cover it. She had no idea whether this would stick or not.

She also needed to get rid of the rat, she remembered.

Slowly but surely, five o’clock rounded around the clock face and after hiding the rat under one of the floorboards, Isadora took a moment to gather her breath. It was then that she heard her husband’s voice however and her hand curled tightly around the handle of her blade. Turning, she hurled it at him, not strictly at him, but the knife’s point buried into the wood of the doorframe, splitting it in a long line up and down the grain.

“You bastard!” She shouted. “Don’t ‘sorry’ me! I said now – not three bloody hours later, Alexander Nott!”

She tore the knife back out of the door frame and threw it into the counter top, delighting in the sound of the sagging wood as it dug in. Then, she grabbed at the front of his robes and pulled him to her, slamming her lips against his. Breaking away again she shook at the front of his robes angrily before pushing at his chest.

“You are an absolute arse!” She exclaimed. “Next time I fucking tell you to do something you bloody do it, are we clear?”

One might accuse Isadora of forgetting her place. But she was unable to help herself. Caught up in the whirlwind of feelings again, the earlier self-satisfaction of having tricked the dog returning with full force, she lunged herself back at Alexander, grasping his robes and pulling his lips back to hers. She hopped up, curling her legs around his middle, and tugged at him furiously, letting her anger fall through her kiss. Perhaps she hadn’t entirely forgotten her place then.

One minute there was a knife thrown his way. A second later the knife clanged against the counter top by the till. Isadora's lips were pressed against his. A moment later and she was shouting him down before coiling her legs around his mid and engaging him in a kiss. It had all happened rather fast, much like the death of the werewolf.

Alexander could feel Isadora's lips against his, feel her tongue penetrate into his mouth to dance a samba with his own. Not that his led the dance, instead it slowly swayed from side to side completely overtaken by the poor of Isadora. This wasn't the wife that he knew. It wasn't the wife who'd been worried about having sex for the first time on their honeymoon.

He released himself from the kiss, pushing the Ravenclaw from his body and stepping back. His face was pale, his eyes blank and flickering around the room at the scene he'd walked into moments ago. The memory of work that day had escaped him, every thought in his mind boiled down to this, this cold blooded murder of a werewolf. Who was responsible? Alexander didn't have to ask that question.

Steadying himself the death eater reached out for the counter whilst his eyes focused entirely on the body that covered the shop floor. Had the werewolf attacked her? Threatened to take Isadora? Or had she done that? There were scratches along his arms, a brick in his hand. Whatever had happened Alexander was wishing that he'd gotten here sooner. How easy it would have been to feign sickness and leave, but instead he'd continued his role of a model employee and stayed until the end of the day.

Finally finding it in him to take his eyes from the body they scanned across to Isadora's. She didn't seem herself, whatever had happened had clearly shaken her up. Was she cursed? Had the werewolf hit her with a spell to make her mentally unstable? Deranged, by the look in her eyes.

'What happened?' He asked, his voice still shaking a little. In all his years of been a dark follower Alexander had never found himself in such a situation. In all honesty the dark followers did very little. Most of the time they practiced dark magic together, found themselves in a scuffle with Potters Army members but never was there a situation of a dead werewolf. Never.

Even now having joined the death eaters, the dark mark jet black on his left arm beneath his Ministry robes, Alexander hadn't gotten himself into such a problem. His wife was a murderer, whether it was self defense or not she was a murderer. Nott knew of murderers, it wouldn't surprise him if his own Mother was one, but his wife? The woman he was to care for, pleasure, produce heirs with. His own wife?

Broken from her husband, Isadora regained her footing, the heels she wore getting a little bit stuck in the floorboards. She braced herself against the wall, reaching up to wipe at her lips, and she looked at Alexander with hooded eyes as he observed the scene. She’d made the brake in look convincing at least. What was out of place was herself. She didn’t make for the believable assault victim. The day had made clear she could look after herself.

“I made a potion,” she replied breathlessly, curling a lock of hair behind her ear. “Tested it on a rat,” she managed to catch hold of her breath. “That’s in the drawer,” she added belatedly.

Isadora pushed herself away from the wall, glass crunching underfoot. She took in a breath again and bit her lip briefly before gesturing to the werewolf. She couldn’t quite remember his name. She supposed he was on the ministry radar being as he worked so closely with James Blood. He was off now, she wanted to say, permanently.

“He came in looking for a dittany,” she explained. “He picked up the vial I used on the rat. He put it on the cut,” her eyes shined with satisfaction. “And then he drank it.”

The scene before Alexander could explain what happened after. Isadora crossed her arms over her chest and turned her head away from the werewolf, fixing her silver gaze on her husband, instead.

“You need to get rid of the body, Alexander,” she told him firmly. “I would have but I can’t move him without magic and my other option was to burn a hole through the floor with the acid potion I would have had to have used. That wasn’t something I’d be able to explain to Lorcan. You need to get rid of the body, then fix these shelves and the back door. Okay?”

“If you weren’t going to come,” she went on, “I was making it look like a break in gone wrong. The potion was meant to be the new answer to Wolfsbane. I made a poison instead, by accident. As it is, it’s quite a decent one, too. It drains the blood from a person, without even so much as a cut. I need to tweak it, get rid of the boiling agent, they make far too much noise.”

Here was the scientist, the potioneer, the sadist. The Black blood in her was coursing strongly through her veins without fear or sign of preamble. When it came to her art, she’d sacrifice anything for it – especially the dogs that were nothing but a menace.

“Alright?” She probed. “Can you do it?”

Alexander listened, still not fully taking any of what had just happened in. He'd heard the confirmation, his assumptions that he'd hoped had been incorrect. Isadora Malfoy was indeed a murderer, a murderer who hadn't blinked twice about killing a man. He'd came in for help, wanting to heal his wounds and instead Isadora had poisoned him. His wife was cruel. This wasn't the Isadora his parents had sold. What on earth had he gotten himself into?

'Isadora.' He spoke again, trying to speak clear and calm. 'We need to take him to the ministry, we have people looking for him.'

It was a terrible situation to have been drawn into but if he could turn it into a positive, use Isadora's murderous act to his own advantage why wouldn't he? It was simple. Alexander would hurry into work and tell the ministry that one of the Blood pack had been caught. They could amend Isadora's story, make it out like he was already poisoned and was coming in to the apothecary for a potion that would heal him because he was scared to go to St Mungo's. When Alexander went to the Ministry Isadora would have him tied up so he couldn't escape but by the time Alexander returned with Ministry Officials he'd have died.

The Ministry wouldn't be too disgruntled by this, of course they'd be upset the werewolf hadn't been questions - Alexander could have Isadora be in the process of brewing a healing remedy for when he returned. But still, it would have been him, Alexander Nott, who had noticed who the werewolf was and gone about a plan to hand him over to the ministry. Maybe he'd be promoted.

Tomorrow his Mother could publish an article in the daily prophet on how marvelous a job he'd done, make up an 'annonymous' quote from a 'ministry official' that Alexander was out performing everyone in the department after only a month of working there. It was certainly get his name in the public, have him recognised as a model citizen and possible future candidate for Minister Of Magic.

Yes. It would work.

'I'll fetch some one, we'll say he was already poisoned and came in looking for help. You were just closing the shop and usually would have sent him to St Mungo's but I'd come to pick you up after work and recognised him. I bound him in chains, ordered you to make a remedy for him as we'd need him alive to answer question on Blood's whereabouts but by the time I return he's already dead, you failed to brew the potion quick enough.'

(OOC: Sorry the reply took so long. The football was on. )

Isadora’s eyes bugged out of her head and she stared at Alexander, wondering whether he’d heard her at all. She let her arms drop to her sides and stepped forward, dismay clouding her features as she remembered where her wand was, tucked up in her purse. She’d have enough thrumming magic around in Diagon Alley to mask anything she dared to cast. But would she, she wondered? Would she brasher than she already had been? No, she doubted it.

“No, you listen to me,” she spoke, her voice low and dangerous. “You find yourself another werewolf. I have a catalogue of customers if you want to take them all to task but this one,” she pointed at the man still slumped into the shelves where he’d been all afternoon. “You get rid of. Or you let me do it if you haven’t the bottle.”

She inhaled a testy breath through her nose and looked at her husband pointedly. She curled her arms back around herself and stepped forward, daring him with her steady, burning gaze, to defy her. His answer to the problem she’d presented would be perfect for him and his career. However she was unwilling to be the part of the simpering little potioneer, overwhelmed by a big, bad werewolf.

“Any idiot in that department can see he was hurt but it wasn’t poison. Short of pouring the potion down the drain, it’s going to be clear he got it here. Chains does not explain the mess. It doesn’t explain the blood. Get. Rid. Of. The Body. We’ll take it home if we bloody have to and I will deal with it. But we are not pandering to the Ministry. They will be suspicious and I am twice damned if you think I’m going to sit and convince them that we just happened to cross a werewolf’s path. They are in here all the time. The Ministry will investigate. Then it’ll come back to me. Doesn’t matter. So repair the shelves, shrink the body and pocket it. They can’t know about this.”

“And besides,” she added frustratedly, bringing her hand up to the forehead. “The shop has been closed all day since I owled you. It’ll only take one rogue statement to undo it all. You need to repair the shop. I can feign I was refurbishing. The Ministry can’t know. I’ll give you another dog to get a commendation with, alright? Just not this one.”

Alexander was starting to get a tad irritated with his wife now. The plan had been perfect, it was a way of disposing the man whilst also propelling his career. In his eyes Isadora didn't have any right to decide who was to be done or not, she'd already done enough damage and requested his help in the first place. What right did she have to order him around like a 1930's wife.

There were two battles going on in the death eaters head. Fulfill his wife's wishes or defy her. The latter was most appealing, but for now, it seemed that Alexander would have to abide by the first option.

'I'm giving you two choices.' Alexander stated, advancing upon his with with narrowing eyes as his eyebrows formed a dark line above his face. 'We clean up this shop and follow my plan or-' He raised a hand to silence her before she interrupted.

-Or we follow your plan on one condition. You get me another werewolf in this store and poisoned for me to turn into the ministry. Tomorrow.'

Both plans, in the end, came back to him providing the Ministry with a werewolf. The thought of his wife committing another murder had escaped his mind completely as he was starting to embrace the darkness within her and warming to the idea of this poison she'd created.

'Which will it be?'

There was nothing more interesting to see than a Malfoy who knew that she was going to get her way. A slow, satisfied smirk broke over Isadora’s mouth and she arched an eyebrow as her lips came together in a small, teasing purse. She stepped forward and lifted her hand up, patting her husband mock-fondly on the cheek.

“Do you want him dead or paralysed, Mr Nott?” She inquired solemnly, her eyes sparkling with vague amusement.

She’d get him a werewolf if that was what he wanted. She’d get the one that wandered in just after nine o’clock in the mornings and would ask for a pepper up and a sobering potion. He had a tendency to slip his tongue and let things loose to her ears that he shouldn’t. He was foolish enough to think her a little Malfoy something and nothing – he thought he was safe.

She did want to intercede, to assert that she wasn’t under any circumstances going to explain the events of the day to the Ministry. No, she knew that she’d have to make nice with Alexander to get him to let this one go. She’d get him his werewolf. She’d even burst into tears for the sake of the Ministry and cry that she had been assaulted or something. A quick bruise causing lotion would sort that one. If it was a gold medal he wanted, she’d get him one.

“Do me a favour would you, sweet?” She asked airily, smirking – yes, she wanted another favour. “Freshen the shelves up a little bit would you when you repair them. At least then I might get away with the refurbishment line.”

Isadora grabbed the brush she’d set against the wall earlier on and started to sweep after some of the glass nearer her, bringing it into something of a pile along with the top layer of dirt and dust that covered the floorboards. She then put her hands on the top of the handle of the broom and leaned her head on it with a half smirk.

“I think a stabilising agent might need to go in it though,” she added dryly. “In the poison, I mean. Maybe some newt eyes – or even a bit of ice, perhaps. If it’s ever going to be used subtly, you can’t really have the person screaming bloody murder because their blood is boiling.” Isadora hummed thoughtfully. “I could slip a draught of living death into your werewolf in the morning if you like. It’s a bit easier than having to detox the poison out of him, surely?”

A smile curled from Alexander's lips. 'Dead.' He told her. That is how the plan was supposed to be, if the werewolf were paralysed and the ministry reversed this effect their entire cover could be blown. Not that the ministry would probably object too much, especially if it were Rivah Trenton who dealt with the case being the head of the department and a death eater to boot.

Walking towards one of the nearby shelves Alexander withdrew his wand, waved it clockwise and thought reparo. In an instant nails, chips and splinters of wood soon began to arrange themselves to form the structure they once were. Ingredients and shards of glass still lay on the floor beneath but that didn't matter.

Evanesco. And a precise strike of the wand the remnants of what once lived on the shelf had vanished, gone into non-being. Alexander made a note not to vanish the glass though - Isadora needed something to clean up too.

Alexander made his way around to the other shelves, thinking as he did. Isadora had brewed a poison, a poison that left one without their blood. How she'd done it he wasn't entirely sure but one thing he was sure of was that her talent was being wasted. His wife could become a vital tool for the death eaters, with her potioneer skills and a hidden dark streak. Yes. She would be useful.

'Have you thought about joining the dark followers, Isadora?' He asked conversationally, minding his step as he scooted around the werewolf strewn across the floor and headed to the other side of the room.