It's a cold word: betrayal

The skies crackled black and brooding with the oncoming electrical storm that whipped over the fields of Wiltshire. Finally, her nerves were beginning to give up prickling with the remnants of Rookwood’s cruciatus curse. She didn’t think her hands would ever settle. She had learned just by living in the manor’s walls that the Rookwoods were particularly prolific with that curse. According to one of the portraits she’d found not far from the room she was lodging in, they used it on their own children, too. Ellie had shuddered at the thought then and she did so now in remembering it as the first spots of rain began to drive against the glass.

Suffering a sigh, the witch got to her feet. She’d dressed that morning, though she couldn’t think why. She’d even straightened her hair. Her want had been repaired. It had arrived the following morning after the meeting itself, wrapped in a box that betrayed that it had been repaired at Ollivander’s. She wondered if Ollivander’s son had noticed that it was her wand, only she hadn’t been the one to enter it. It had taken her most of the day to pick it up again and it wasn’t until evening and a chill had set into the room that she sought to use it and she lit the wood in the hearth with some bluebell flames.  

She had never read so much in her life, she didn’t think. At least, not in one sitting. The House Elves brought her meals. She was refusing to remove herself from the room at anyone’s behest. With a fast paced, methodical speed she was working her way through the books that were stored on the shelf in her room. It filled the daylight hours and, furthermore, filled the nights that had passed where her sleep had been fitful and she’d seen sunrise each time. It was now getting towards the end of the first week and finally, finally, she’d gotten her first good night’s sleep.

It was also the first time she’d left her room since she’d been installed there. The House Elf, wary and annoyed with her, had come to ask again if she was going to eat dinner downstairs. Finally, she relented. She wanted to put getting dressed to good use. She brought the book she was reading – an old tome on dark curses – down with her for moral support and she followed the Elf into the dining room with a notable hesitance in her gait. She waited on the rug, hugging the book to her chest. She continued to wait until finally she broke and offered a level “hello” to the man seated at the head of the table.

Lorcan had instructed the house elves to see to their new house guest and to treat her well.  He had not pressured her into anything. He'd made sure she had a few things in her size in her closet. Things that perhaps came close to the tastes of the things she'd worn here to the manor.  

He hadn't pressured her. He had never locked her door, never treated her like anything other than a house guest--and a wounded one at that. His house elves did tend to be a bit demanding, though, and he figured that eventually, either she would feel like coming downstairs for something or the house elves would dislodge her from hiding.


Lorcan had poured a glass of white wine for Zada and had just taken a sip of a rich burgundy from his own glass when Ms. Williams arrived in the dining room.


"Oh, Ms. Williams," he smiled. "Good evening.  What a pleasant surprise. Thank you for joining us this evening." He rose, and motioned her to come up to his end of the table, motioning to the seat to his immediate left. He pulled out the chair for her.  "Please. Come and sit. You look lovely tonight. Would you like a mixed drink or a glass of wine with dinner? There is a white pinot noir open, and I'm enjoying a lovely 1999 burgundy."


The female house elf that usually was in charge of serving at table brought a silver tray with three dinner salads--spring greens with champagne poached pears, candied pecans, goat cheese and a honey-dijon vinagrette. The elf put a salad at Ellie's place first, then one at Zada's place, and lastly one at Lorcan's place.  


"My wife is momentarily detained," he said as a way of apology.  "Our son is teething, and he's a tad cranky at the moment."  Lorcan didn't intend to open the dinner conversation by telling Ms. Williams that, in all truth, Zada had no patience for wee small children. Adolescents, that was fine. Untypically, Lorcan had done most of the raising of his infant son this time because Zada was so removed from her element in trying to do it. 


The advantage for Lorcan was that already the boy was deeply attached to his father, and Lorcan was starting to learn the significance of being an appropriate father, other than simply donating seed. He found he enjoyed it. However, every so often, he forced Zada to step up so that she wasn't entirely estranged from the lad. And, much to Zada's distaste, this had been one of those moments.


He did supply Zada with a salve to place on Xavier's gums, a banana flavored salve that would numb the pain and ease the anxiety that came with pain. That would allow Zada to then simply cuddle and comfort and put the boy to bed. Surely she could handle that.

“Why are you treating me like this?”

The words were out of her mouth before she could even stop herself. She was sure she heard one of the elves squeak, as though it couldn’t believe she would speak to his master like that. She didn’t pass the creature a look. She’d gotten used to a lot of things in the magical world but the weird and wonderful creatures that were house elves were never going to be one of them. Despite herself, she was quite pleased to have their presence. Indeed, she was quite pleased to be with Lorcan, too, however much he unsettled her. She had loathed being alone in that room as much as her presence there had been suggested. The windows had been thrown open for the sake of birdsong, for voices. She couldn’t bear being alone, in truth, but she’d never, ever been more alone than she was within that manor.

She found herself turning her mind to the Leaky Cauldron and to Declan. She wondered whether he’d noticed her disappearance. She’d made plans to go to lunch with James that week, too. She wondered if he’d gone to ask after her at the pub. She highly doubted it on both counts. In fact, James Potter had gone to the Leaky Cauldron and asked for her at the bar but the barmaid there admitted to seeing neither hide nor hair of Ellie in a few days which, she added, was unlike the brunette. Yet, she doubted the sincerity of both men because she’d never, ever doubted the Order. None of them had come, though. Why would anyone else care? Why did Lorcan care? Did he? She had no clue.

“I just …” Ellie wished she could have taken the words back. She sighed. “Gin and tonic, if you have it, please.” The elf glared and made off to go and get the drink, muttering under his breath as he went.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie murmured, taking her seat. “It’s just … this is the wrong way around. Surely you’re meant to mistreat me and the Order are … well,” she sniffed a little and set her book on the seat beside her as the salad came down before her as well as her drink. “Thank you,” she offered a smile to the elf but it didn’t look much more impressed than it had been beforehand.

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I am very grateful to you and everything you’ve done. Forgive me but I’m just confused, to be honest. They should know. They should know Rookwood took me. Are you stopping them from being able to come here? Why do you want me? I don’t know much of anything, really. I’m no good as a hostage!”

When Williams asked why he was treating her like this, he almost had asked her what she meant. Instead, he let her wander through her own thoughts for the moment. 


"Gin and tonic," he repeated, as he helped her with her seat at the table. "Certainly. Try the salad. It's quite nice. We shall not wait for my wife. She somewhat has her own schedule."  


"Good questions," he acknowledged, as the elf brought her drink to her and left again. He picked up his knife and fork and cut a small slice of the champagne poached pear. It was tender enough to practically melt in his mouth. Then he spoke.


"All of them are reasonable questions. First, I have no reason to treat you badly, nor do I want to. You've done nothing to me, so why should I treat you as if you have? I'm a businessman, not a brute. And, I loath seeing a woman mistreated. I detested what Rookwood did, and I detested that he thought he was going to do it under my roof. Rookwood is an arsehat."  As soon as it came out of his mouth, he realized it was a less than dignified verbage that wasn't quite so appropriate for table. "Sorry," he self corrected quickly, not intending to offend her.

"Well, part of the problem in the Order coming for you, my dear, is that D'Eath Manor is unplottable, just as it was when Lucius Malfoy owned the place.  I can't say if they'd come for you or not if they could honestly find it, but, since they can't, that does put a damper in any rescue plans they might make. They can send owls, just as they've been able to do for generations, and I'm quite sure they know that.

"I'm certainly not stopping them from coming," he replied. "Nor am I exactly tossing my door wide open for them either. If they want you, they'll have to make some sort of effort for it. Not necessarily a civil war, but some demonstration that they intend to treat you halfways decently.


"While you're here, though, you are my honored guest, and you shall be treated as such. You have full run of the house and the grounds--since the enchantments make it quite impossible for you to leave the grounds anyway, at least without me accompanying you, that is.


"My original intent was to use you as a messenger, quite frankly. I intended to send you to them to inform them that I fully intend to deal with Ms. Swan in whatever way I deem fit. However, if you recall, you were far too injured to send as you were. How could I do that and prove that the Death Eaters hadn't done that to you for our own ends? No, that was quite impossible.


"So, partly for self preservation, and partly because you deserved to have your wounds tended, I wanted to be sure you were very well cared for and that Mr. Rookwood could not repeat that poor performance."


He had decided he was not going to reveal that he found her to be quite lovely, and he had no intention of seeing her harmed, as Rookwood might do--or ignored, as he figured the Order might well do. 


"Now, in the time that's lapsed, I must reconfigure that plan a tad, I've discovered. I will keep you informed though so you don't need to feel so anxious. That seems only fair to me.  So, while that plan is being retooled a bit, you're free to enjoy the liberties of the house. The elves tell me you're a bit of a bookworm. If you like, I'll show you around a bit after dinner so that if you'd like to take advantage of the library, you're more than welcome to do so.


"Oh, and that reminds me. You are painfully short on clothing. That does happen when one hasn't been given the chance to pack. 


"We've provided some the essential toiletries, but you do need some things. As a potions master, I've made some scented women's products--lotions, soaps, perfumes, that sort of thing. I can show you some of them, and if there's anything you like, I'll make sure you get a set. 


"Zada's seamstress will be here in the morning with a few things to get you through until she can outfit you with some proper clothes. And, so you know, those things will be yours. You will be free to take them with you when you go."

It must have been something of a rarity to survive Augustus Rookwood’s wrath. He was less than a man now. Driven by bloodlust, he seemed barely human. He was in sharp contrast to the demure vampire sat talking about toiletries and clothing. She almost couldn’t believe the distinction. The Irishman should have been the human and yet it seemed as though his counterpart was more of warm flesh and blood than any of the other Death Eaters, than even Ellie herself who in truth felt as though death had passed over her and was clinging to every nerve yet in absurdity she lived on.

“They can send owls,” she repeated softly, her fingers snaking around the cool glass that held her drink. She inhaled shakily and frowned at the lemon bobbing idly in the water. “Your words imply they haven’t.”

Indeed, his words implied what she probably knew to be true but was determined to deny. She wanted to think that somehow he was stopping them, that outside of the walls of the manor and outside of the nucleus that was their dinner there was some sort of war going on to get hr back. But there wasn’t. There wasn’t even so much as a letter, and Lorcan wanted to make them work for her – only, they hadn’t even lifted a finger. So they didn’t want her after all. She needed to square with that now.

She had let her lips twitch when he’d spoken about Rookwood in a way she presumed was out of turn for his usual formality. The way he went on confirmed as much. As he spoke, she snaked her fingers out and curled them around the handle of her fork. She lifted it up into the air and prodded absently at the goat’s cheese before spearing one of the pieces of pear. She brought it to her mouth and blinked as the flavour spread over her tongue. She lowered her hand back down to the table and swallowed before looking over at Lorcan.

“Thank you,” she told him, genuinely grateful for everything he was doing even though he was a Death Eater and she was, well, a Muggleborn Order member. She basically had it written on her forehead: ‘kill me’ but Lorcan hadn’t. Augustus had given it a good go. Lorcan hadn’t. The Order probably assumed she’d died. But Lorcan had kept her alive. He was treating her well. He was going to let her go, too, eventually. But where were the troops? Gone. Not even gone, gone implied they’d been there. They hadn’t even tried.

“Audriana’s my friend,” Ellie murmured steadily, lifting her eyes again from the plate where she was fiddling with her pear. “Or, well. I thought … she was.” She’d thought they were all her friends, in truth. Swallowing a mouthful of the pear she’d speared, Ellie sighed and picked up her drink, washing down the taste of champagne with the bitterness of the gin.

“What is your business?” Ellie asked softly, “or is it a ‘if I told you I’d have to kill you’ sort of thing?”

He hadn't intended his news of the Order's lack of response to wound her, but in point of fact, he could not shield her from it.  He didn't like the look of cold, hard disillusionment as it shaped her face, the pain that he saw again in her eyes.  

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, slowly, knowing he was who was keeping her here, but also more disappointed for her that those who said they gave a damn clearly didn't appear to.  "If they do, though, I will show you everything they send.  You deserve that.

"Ms. Swan is your friend, is she?" he asked, truly wanting to hide all the bitterness he felt towards Swan, but that, he feared was unavoidable. "Interesting. Ms. Swan's movements since you've been gone, my dear, might suggest that she's perhaps,...a bit overly stressed? That she's not herself? I presume you don't know about her attempt to murder the Minister right out in the open, do you?  I can't see you taking up with a murderer. You don't seem the type. Forgive me if I am being a bit presumptuous. But, if Swan is your friend, perhaps that's another reason your rescue has been delayed. The wizarding world is a bit preoccupied with finding Ms. Swan who has, as the saying goes, taken it on the lam."


He watched to see if this was going to surprise her.  He found himself in a different position with her. Completely untypically, he strangely found himself honestly caring about how she felt, about whether she had not just something to prevent nakedness but rather clothes that made the shy violet at his table shine and blossom and glow.  He wanted her to be able to smile, to grow in confidence, to be happy.  He didn't want it to be some calculated game. Right now, he needed her to stay, but already he wanted her to stay of her own volition.


She didn't know about the long hours she was asleep on his powerful pain potions while her body mended. She didn't know how he largely had been the one that had tended her.  Zada helped him with things that would not have been honorable to see without her consent. He wasn't going to violate that. In the long hours of being with her, his hatred towards Augustus Rookwood and his trademark actions had grown fierce.  He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep a peace with him.

His business, she had asked. How deep was he into criminal actiivities. She deserved an answer. He wasn't going to hide it. The elves brought in the entree--perfectly prepared Beef Wellington with grilled asparagus spears, with a drizzle of hollandaise over the asparagus.


"I'm a potionsmaster by trade," he answered her, trading the last bits of his salad for the entree.  "I own several apothecaries."  Well, yes, he did. But some of those apothecaries were black market. He'd taken over Dent's old empire and had expanded it int continental Europe and into the States. It was making his old money wealth into a ridiculous sum.


"I'm also an entrepreneur.  I love finances--investing, business arrangements. I don't know why, but I do. Most of my money started out as old money--as every pureblood family would probably also have in their background. But I wanted to make some of my own.  I fiddled around with a band in awhile, made some significant cash in doing that. Had some fame of my own for awhile, but that's an incredibly fleeting thing.  


"So, now, I own not just Slugs and Jiggers, but also Borgin and Burkes--not that that's a place I would presume a lady like you might have ever been.  However, aside from some of the dark arts stuff, since acquiring it back, I'm finding I have a keen interest in antiques and artwork.  I've been adding some lovely pieces there, and they're going like madfire. I might have to open some sort of decent, sophisticated antique shop and art gallery. Diagon Alley could use a few upscale things.

"Now that I've answered the first half of your question, let me answer the second half. What's my position in the Death Eaters. That is what you wanted to know, isn't it? I am the leader right now, but rarely do I ever participate in any of the physical doings. I can if I have to, but I don't like it. My interest in the Death Eaters is strictly because I am defintely a political animal.


"I keep well read and educated about history and politics. It is also usually the Death Eaters and the Slytherins and the purebloods that are the ones who ultimately push for the safety of our world by knowing and keeping the sanctity of the traditions that wizards and witches have needed just to stay alive since the dawn of time. 


"Nothing personal against the Order. Not on my part, truly, there isn't. However, the problem for me is that, largely, its been orchestrated and run by Gryffindors. They are wizarding liberals, and in their rush to push for change, they often are willing to risk not only themselves but our entire world in the process. Their plans are too often not thought through, not mindful of the longterm consequences.  That frightens me, and it often puts me on a collision course with the Order.


"I'm a father. I have a large family. I do care about the kind of world I'm leaving to them. I do know the history of the exploitation and murders that have happened to witches and wizards that muggles found out about. I don't think it makes me a bad father to want to make sure that the world I leave to my children is at least as good, if not better, than how I found it. Will I use violence? Only as a very last resort and usually for self defense or to protect the ones I love."

There was dangerous doubt in the mind of the dark haired witch at the dinner table that there would be anything for Lorcan to show her from the Order. She twiddled the fork in her grasp, wondering to herself when exactly she’d arrived here. She didn’t mean it literally. Rookwood would forever be burned onto her mind. No, metaphorically, though eventually literally. The Leaky Cauldron. That was her home. Her former home was inhabited by a new family, whimsically and contentedly middle class with everything they’d ever wanted plus two dogs and a slightly passive-aggressive cat. She had nothing. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She had the pub. She had her books. All relatively meaningless things that could be picked up anywhere. She could get a new pub. She could replace the books. Where were her roots, her ties? The Order. She’d had the Order. Now she didn’t even have that. Though, she did have her wits.

“I wouldn’t know,” Ellie retorted in irritation, raising an eyebrow at Lorcan as though to silently point out that she had been there, in his manor, and not especially at liberty to follow what it was that Audriana was getting up to. She wouldn’t have been able to do much even if she had. Moreover, she doubted that Audriana would have listened to her even if she had done something or found or even maybe stopped her before the assassination attempt – the mention of this did little to move Ellie, by the way. She blinked instead and suffered a sigh before bringing the glass to her lips. The Order. The damned, damned Order.

“We should really cut it with the lexical field of rescue, y’know, and maybes, too. Delayed rescue,” Ellie sniffed affectedly and shook her head. “I don’t think it’s going to happen, do you?” She stretched a little in her seat, bringing one hand up to tug absent-mindedly at her hair by her temple, and dropped her arm again when she was done, bringing the glass to her lips as she did so.

When he told her what his true interest in the Death Eaters was, Ellie wanted to snort. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and queried, “Why didn’t you go into the Ministry then?” When he continued, she did actually snort and dismay contorted her features. “Do you actually believe that?” She asked, setting down her glass again. She twisted in her chair to face him properly. “Genuinely, do you believe that? Do you not think that they’re just a bunch of misfit bloodhounds trying to cleave to a world that doesn’t even exist anymore? The things they do to people who are innocent in defence of wizarding traditions … why on earth is that allowed? We’re run by a Hufflepuff currently, just saying, but at least we don’t torture and hate and attack like your … your …” She couldn’t even find the words.

“You’re ever so slightly different, you’re going to tell me?” She looked at him pointedly as she picked up a fork. “Is this not,” she continued, gesturing around herself and then to herself, “evidence that the Death Eaters are not all bad? I’m not an idiot, Mr D’Eath. You might be the politician but Rookwood was your follower. He’s the man we see – and I’m not talking about the Order now. I’m talking about Muggleborns. We fear that kind of man. This is not a group that believes in any kind of wizarding values. Okay? That’s not a thing. Muggleborns do not harm this society. We have only ever wanted to be a part of it. Instead, we are hunted. Where’s the justice in that and, I’m sorry, but how on earth does that leave your children in a better world than you are in now? The Order will always be there to defend those that your group scorns. As long as you fight, they’ll fight. So what’s the point? Surely you’ve achieved nothing?”

Ah, he thought, she does have a bit of herself back. It caused him to smile a little. He had tried to control it, but it had emerged anyway. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't sardonic in the least. It was genuine. He was glad to see it. Well, at least he did beat you brainless, he wanted to say to her.  He resisted.

She was angry, bitter, and entitled to be so. She appeared to be more angry at the betrayal of her friends than at him. Truth be told, he understood that in a way. Wives. Lord, how fickle they were. They'd mostly married him for money. They'd given him children mostly by lust and accident, and then had dashed off.  None of them were capable of sincerity. 


None, so far, but Zada, but then again, neither of them had delusions of love. It was convenience to keep each other from being saddled with someone worse by the damned law. His marriage to Zada had been cut by a contract. Strictly business. Neither expected love. She expected to be kept in the state of luxury he was so very capable of giving her. She expected to escape childbearing.  She expected the role of his consort and all the powers and perks that went with it. He expected protection from marrying a woman with an IQ score in negative numbers. He expected a woman who wouldn't become catty and overly dramatic when he found his recreational pleasures in some other woman's bed. He expected to retain his money and power. He expected no sabotage. He expected a proper consort that understood the job, that knew enough to not consider a fingerbowl to be an additional beverage. And, he expected a minimum amount of consentual sex, love not required.


"Ms. Williams," he said, swirling a bite of asparagus momentarily in a little puddle of hollandaise before eating it, "as ingenuous as this surely will sound to you right now, I am sorry they have not responded. Betrayal from one's friends and sworn allies is indeed a deep and painful thing.  Its why I don't make promises I don't see a more than even money's chance of keeping.  Not that it makes me a notch better. I prefer to be candid, though, and I tend not to lie simply because its an idiotic practice.  Digs one into a bottomless pit with oneself and their own power of recall. Truth--or one's perspective of it-- is infinitely easier.

He ate the desired piece of asparagus, listening to her. When she asked why he'd not gone into the ministry, he smiled.  "I had considered public office at one time," he responded. "But, honestly, when I was in music, I did manage one hit song that was on the charts for months--spent almost 5 months at number one. I had fans following me every place I went, and I do mean every place. They all pledged to marry me, love me forever, and gave me a line of horsecrap based on solely delusion. I became completely put off by being mobbed by crowds, being in the public eye, and needing to live up to someone else's fantastical characterization of me. Its a life I loathe. Besides, rarely have we ever had a minister with enough gonads of their own to feel comfortable sharpening their own quill without passing through the court of public opinion."  


He sighed, realizing he'd been perhaps a bit harsh. "I loved the music," he explained. "I truly did. Young as I was, I thought I wanted all that fame. Then, when I got it, I realized that it was all illusion and that I hated it. So, I quit. Perhaps, its why I prefer honesty now, as much as I can offer it, whether or not it meets someone else's expectations or definition of it.

"But, do I believe what I said about the Death Eaters? Yes. I do. As a muggleborn, you've experienced a society's race for what it considers to be better, but at the same time, your own scientists continue to warn about how that same race for improvement also pushes you unendingly closer to your own extinction. Do I believe change is always a wonderful thing? No. 


"If you haven't figured it out, I'm a vampire. Half vampire actually.  Longevity and survival for my kind doesn't happen by all sorts of stellar, new technology. It comes by adhering to the old ways. Look around you. Even the very wizarding folk heroes--some of them Order members of days gone by--believed enough in the sanctity of protecting the secrecy of our world to see the merit in, largely, not embracing muggle self destructive 'advances.'


"And just so we're clear, I am not now, nor was I ever, a great fan of Tom Riddle.  Nor Gellert Grindelwald, and certainly not the recent Mr. Pierce. Not related to any of them. Nor have I always embraced the ideas of my predecessors. I don't urge the group to attack without sufficient reason, but I don't babysit them either. Sometimes someone will act on their own, despite my disapproval.


"Mr. Rookwood's performance should have been evidence enough of that for you. I loathe what he did to you. I loathe that it even crossed his mind, much less that he had the wherewithall to follow through with it.  I don't have any members on a leash. They have lives of their own.  However, would I go out and hunt him and attack him? Not necessarily. However, what I can promise you is that if he ever even attempted to harm you again, I would certainly prevent it--by whatever means were necessary. His actions were deplorable--by muggle or wizard standards, and had I condoned them, I'd have let him keep after you."


Merlin, were his emotions showing more than he wanted? Damn. He took a sip of his red wine savoring it.


"My wealth was not based on Death Eater activity, just so you know," he said, perhaps a bit colder. "Jealousy because that's not what your life experiences included does not become you. So you know, I don't have any prejudice specific to muggles or muggleborns, but you may not have as much insight about what nonmagical folk--even our own 'squibs'--start to see as the potential benefits of exploiting someone with such abilities. The sanctity of the wizarding world is not about keeping muggles out. It's about providing some level of sanctuary for magical beings to allow us to stay alive."


He had no intention of rubbing it into her face that while she could continue waving the proverbial Order flag, the ones she was swearing unwavering allegiance to were the ones that were letting her sit here, away from home, away from them, abandoned. And the organization she claimed to dislike had been who had saved her life from despicable vermin like Augustus Rookwood. That, in itself, seemed to prove his point louder and with a more powerful impact than anything he might have said.