You're Like Me. I'm Never Satisfied.

Keiran couldn't help but wonder whether or not the other texts in this room would be of interest to her if she took a moment to notice them. But he and Bridget could be a bit much when combined, and the Rosier was genuinely quite lucky that Avery had not wandered up to investigate yet. She probably would've come to an understanding, though, about why Keiran cared so much about the fact that this woman had worked for Aiden. Choice, mainly, was an effective argument for Keiran in ways that others probably wouldn't care about. In the end, when it really mattered, nobody besides family had made up their mind to choose him, so the reserved, almost bemused looks this near-stranger gave them weren't surprising after what he had said.

Not to mention the fact that he had actually made a joke, which was baffling to even the man himself after how downtrodden he had been the past few weeks. Nearly a month. Really? Merlin. It didn't feel that way.

Her response wasn't surprising, if Keiran was being honest. He knew it was a stretch to think that she would trust him to just arrive at her house. But he was also glad to know that she was intelligent enough not to ask them to open the wards or the floo for her. No, she wouldn't be at the Hayes household unless Keiran himself was there, too. At least until she gave them some way to build up trust in relation to her name, whatever it was. Perhaps a name was a good place to begin.

Keiran wondered how long he could get away with calling her anything and everything else, though. How long it would take for her to break. Surely there was a temper somewhere in there. He'd seen bits and pieces of it, but if she really truly let loose on him, how interesting that would be.

Just as she said she would send an owl and as Keiran began to nod, a high pitched cry found its way up the stairs. He knew immediately that it was Kelly, because she kept demanding that she be allowed to go upstairs, but in her broken, childish learner language that was all she had acquired over the last two years. He turned towards the door without hesitation but Bridget held up a hand.

"I'll take care of it. You figure out the plan," she told him, gesturing vaguely towards the younger woman. With a wiggle of her fingers, the cup and plate lifted up and followed her out of the room.

Keiran shook his head, impatient now to see his kids, and turned back to her. "That really might be best," he replied, only half apologetically. "Sounds like the kids are tired and it's only going to get worse from here on out. I'm in the shop almost every day, at least until the school year begins."

Footsteps. A door creaking.

"Mr. Headmaster's got a lot to do next month," a voice cut in brightly. Keiran caught the proud undertones and the distances created by Avery's desire to understand what was happening without allowing herself to ask. She'd become much more reserved, and in a good way. The only bad thing was the reason why.

He waved a hand at her dismissively, still unable to fully grasp the truth of what had been asked of him. Still, a smile tugged at his lips and he relaxed against the bookshelf again. Looking back at Rosier, he lifted his chin in a quick mirror of a nod that was intended to draw her attention back to him. "You good, then? Just.. come 'round whenever, I suppose."

[Can she even disapparate from the house? When did her internal monologue get so snarky? Who knows (not me XP)]

A child’s cry cutting into the quiet of the house was her sign to leave. Evidently she was beginning to intrude on their family time, or whatever relation the children had to the Hayes. She didn’t miss Keiran’s immediate reaction, seemingly a reflex, and watched curiously, wondering for the first time if perhaps the children were a closer relation to him than she’d assumed.

As Bridget exited, crockery in tow, it was all Phaedra could do to conceal her surprise. She stared after her briefly, a blank look on her face. Not a muggle then, evidently. But surely not a Rookwood? And yet they’d been very clear about the former. What exactly was going on with the Hayes that they’d seemingly gone to such lengths to conceal?

Though she couldn’t help wondering about it, Bridget’s apparently magical nature was the least of her concerns. She now had to get her hands on an owl, preferably in the immediate future. Fortunately, it would be less of an expenditure than the books she no longer needed to purchase. Not for the first time that day, she found herself annoyed at lacking the foresight to get hold of what she needed before she left the Medicis, even while knowing it wasn’t strictly her fault. She had everything she could ever need in England. She’d just never dreamed she would ever not have access to her home at all.

That was her second cue that it was time to go. She was surprised that the last hour or so had provided a respite from all those worries, but now that they were making themselves known again, it was time to return to facing up to her unfortunate reality.

Her eyes flickered over to the door as it opened again. She didn’t bother greeting the unfamiliar woman behind the comment, but for the first time that day her lips quirked in genuine amusement. It was barely noticeable, but the revelation of Keiran’s career- if that was indeed what it was- wasn't actually that surprising. So he was a professor. Of course he was. Given the crushing air of authority she'd had the immensely good fortune of experiencing, it was more than fitting.

“I will.”

Was there a humorous undertone to her words? It was hard to tell. It wasn’t quite a promise, not quite a jest. More an affirmation that now he'd made such a generous offer, she wouldn't falter at taking him up on it.

In one graceful move she'd settled her cloak over her shoulders and fastened the ribbon at her throat, pulling her hair out from under it. She pocketed her wand, stepped back from the desk, and with a nod at Keiran and his whatever-she-was and a sharp crack she was back on the streets of Diagon Alley, just where she'd started.




In the time that had passed since her fortuitous encounter with the Hayeses, Phaedra’s mood had steadily worsened until the faintest cracks were beginning to show in her usually impenetrable armour. Not the physical one, of course. As always, the witch had not a single hair out of place nor crease in her cloak. But looking perfect was a habit. Hunkering down like a fugitive in a substandard establishment was definitely not. And maintaining her usual composure amidst such surroundings was proving a rather gruelling feat. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how long she would be up to the task.

Her efforts to find her uncle had been intensified. She’d gone to his usual haunts that she knew of, attempted numerous times to contact him in various ways, to no avail. After that, most of her focus had been redirected to learning more about the wards he’d set up so she could find a way to bypass them. The problem was, the usual wards didn’t seem to have been enough for Eirion. Not even the more unpleasant ones her grandmother had taught her had been used by her uncle. The magic he’d threaded around the properties was darker and stronger than anything she’d encountered and it worried her. More than that- it scared her. The Rosier land and the magic protecting it was ancient and terrible, but it had never been turned against one of its own before. The thought terrified and infuriated her.

The vanishing cabinet idea had fallen through. At least, until she had sufficient funds for one, which was far more costly than she’d imagined. She’d never thought of herself as a spendthrift, but she was also discovering that she was far less economical than she’d optimistically assumed. Take the owl, for example. Of course she’d had to purchase one. But she wasn’t unaware that she could just as easily have gone to the Owl Post Office- if she wasn’t so firmly set on maintaining appearances, which one of their colour coded owls would have instantly dismantled.

But not maintaining them had never been an option. If there was anything worse than being near-destitute, it was other people knowing you were. And therein lay the problem. She couldn’t continue attempting to live her old lifestyle when she had no idea how long this state of limbo might last. Yet she had to at least appear to be doing so, or there was little chance she’d be easily accepted back into the fold once everything had been resolved. If it was resolved.

That uncertainty was the most annoying thing of all.

She needed a break. As strange as it was, the closest she’d come to relaxation since she’d arrived was… in Aiden’s library, with a potions text in front of her. The realisation startled her, not least because the spectre of Caspian’s memory still hung over that aspect of her life menacingly. Though recently all that had been pushed aside in the face of more urgent concerns. And perhaps more importantly, there were other books in that library that may just prove useful in these more pressing matters, if she played her cards right.

In any case, once she recalled that the offer stood, she wasn’t foolish (or wise) enough to ignore it. So that morning she sent the owl off with a terse note addressed to one Keiran Hayes notifying him that she’d be stopping by that afternoon. And of course- because nothing ever seemed to go quite right lately– as she flew away, the obnoxious creature decided that there was no better target for her droppings than her owner's shirt.

Even so, Phaedra apparently had some consideration left in her, for she decided to time her visit just as he’d be closing up shop for the day so as not to be too disruptive. So it was that in the late afternoon she emerged from Gringotts after a particularly heated interaction with one of the goblins, who was still stubbornly refusing her access to the family vault. Walking down the street, still fuming, she’d then almost bumped into Adonia Selwyn and Octavia Nott, having to cast a quick Confundus charm to avoid making conversation with the old biddies. It was an uncomfortably narrow escape. Finally, she found herself back infront of Flourish and Blotts, pausing at the door to take a deep, calming breath before pushing it open without ceremony.

She walked in, directing a rather stiff smile at the man she sought.

“You got my owl, I presume?”

A week had gone by without a word, without an owl or request or need for apparition to his mother's home. Keiran didn't feel quite well about it at first, but as the days passed and work called and his children required his attention, he nearly forgot.

Nearly. It poked at the back of his mind, mainly because she hadn't shown. If she had, perhaps it would've been less of a novelty when he received a letter and had to be ready for her when she arrived. In truth, he wasn't at all sure how he felt about it.

Mainly, he didn't want to go through another tiring day of confrontation and paranoia about what her purposes really were. Maybe she just... wanted to learn, and always had. Maybe he hadn't trusted anyone since his divorce in June. Including himself.

The kids were with Mai and Frank for the day, mainly because Oliver had disappeared for something regarding the Order. Keiran could not believe that, of the two men he expected to get married soon, only one had actually proposed. And, actually, it wasn't the one he had guessed it would be. Looks like he owed @Jack Dyllan ten whole galleons. Merlin. He made a mental note not to take up gambling, shaking his head and returning to the task at hand: merchandise ordering.

The quill moved as he listed out numbers. The store wasn't empty, even though he was potentially distracting readers sat at the tables towards the back. No one had complained thus far, so he wasn't about to change tactics. When the door opened, he was standing in front of the closest shelf, arms crossed as he silently counted the tomes on the top shelf.

Her voice broke his concentration. Keiran turned to look at the woman that he was, of course, expecting now. Her letter had been frustrating to say the least. It was like she was baiting him, trying to get him to ask what her name was. Mental woman that she so clearly was, she hadn't thought about the fact that he knew many more purebloods than he had ever intended to. So although her smile was fake, his most certainly was more smirk than smile.

"Ah, Phaedra. There you are. I did get it," he confirmed with a nod. "I presume you're ready to go?"

He didn't even feel bad about parroting her words back to her. He was vastly too amused. And he didn't wait to see what she thought about his newfound information on her - or for her to ask what else he did or didn't know. Keiran turned towards Nessa, one of their new storekeepers. He remembered her well from her school days, and couldn't quite believe that she was willing to work for him. It probably helped that she felt Oliver had betrayed and left the Order. And they weren't about to tell her the truth. But she had proven herself worthy of a chance by avoiding the pack that had turned her, and trying her best - seemingly - to turn things around.

Until she messed up, she could stay.

"I've got to take Ms. Rosier, here, to find a particular text. Don't take this the wrong way, Nessa, but do know that I have wards on this place. I will absolutely be alerted if something goes wrong."

He gave her a firm but nearly apologetic look, and she nodded, her expression one of understanding and slight embarrassment. "I get that," she replied quietly, turning back to the book she had open on her lap as he turned to face Phaedra again.

Keiran held out an arm as he had before. "Shall we?"

Phaedra had to hold in her eye-roll at the smirk on his face and in his voice. She didn’t miss the way he used her own words to address her, nor the newfound use of her first name, and a small crease appeared between her eyebrows in a barely perceptible frown. Admittedly, she was surprised since he’d studiously avoided directly addressing her by either of her names in their first meeting. She could only assume he’d either remembered or somehow worked it out, since it could hardly have been a lucky guess. Not with that tone, dripping with confidence and a hint of smugness. And if he’d worked it out- what an awful lot of trouble for a troublesome stranger. She supposed she ought to be flattered.

In any case, to hear her regal if slightly ostentatious name- a name made to be clipped out, in grandiose voices and polished tones- spoken so smoothly in his soft brogue was- No, not nice. Strange. A little uncomfortable. Too informal for her liking.

Then he turned promptly away without even giving her a second glance, and if Phaedra wasn’t already bristling she would have at that. As it was, she watched his interaction with the employee silently, mulling over these thoughts while taking note of the warning tone to his words. Why hire someone you can’t trust? Then again, it seemed he made a habit of allowing people in whose credentials he wasn’t entirely sure of. And she wasn’t going to complain, being a beneficiary of this peculiar quirk.

She simply waited until he turned back to her, flashing him a brief, even tighter smile to keep a semblance of politeness as she took his proffered arm.

“'Ms Rosier' will do nicely.”

Yes, it certainly did better coming from his lips than ‘Phaedra’, which she was now certain was far too familiar and… strange. Unlikely. Her surname provided distance, and the sum of her parts. It kept people extended at arm’s length, acquaintances and undesirables alike, reminded them of who she was and on which thorny branches she’d blossomed. ‘Rosier’ held weight and contempt, and ‘Phaedra’ held none. And dealing with Keiran, she seemed to instinctively prefer that distance.  

As if to counteract her budding uncertainty, there was no hesitation in her taking of his arm this time, though the ghost of their last meeting’s spark lingered at the tips of her fingers and kept her tense. She supposed he was being more courteous than the last time, but it was hard to determine which way his mood swung. Somehow, she suspected the entirely too pleased tone of his greeting held little real bearing on how the rest of the afternoon would turn out. She was certainly less inclined to patience and politeness than she’d been last week, and could only hope that wouldn’t be put to the test.

It was the most amusement that Keiran had experienced and expressed in over a month, and it was only happening at the expense of someone else. Because suddenly, he had regained control. In a very unfair and Keiran sort of way, of course. He had been desperate for it, and the Headmaster thing was a definite help, but he felt clever this time, felt like he had proven - at least to himself - that he could be in charge of his own fate as he hadn't been before.

It was stupid, really, and Keiran knew it. He completely knew that. But it still set something off in the back of his mind, lifting his lips into the first genuine laugh he had let out in weeks. Almost as soon as the sound met the air, he turned on his heel and they flashed directly to his mother's foyer once more.

Bridget heard the crack of apparition and came out to greet them. "Oh!" She began, smiling despite her surprise. "Are you staying for dinner?"

Keiran didn't quite know, but he stepped away from Phaedra and moved to say hello properly. "Not sure, mum. Mai and Frank have the kids today so I'm just waiting for them to send a message saying they've got to head home. I get the feeling Mai will want to be home for dinner, but I may be able to bring them back here if you want."

He glanced over at the blonde. "Phaedra," he continued a bit pointedly, "had asked to look at dad's book again." He turned around to her. "Shall we?"

Keiran gestured towards the stairs, this time offering that she could go first, and passing his mother a smile that took her by surprise enough that her eyebrows lifted as he turned away and went up the stairs.

In the library, he didn't even wait for her to settle in before pulling the books he needed about animagi and the history of Transfiguration. He and Liv had failed to make any real progress on his area of research, and he was glad that he could at least work on it while more or less assisting someone else as well.

So he picked up a bit of string that had settled on the little table beside his armchair, transfiguring it into a lengthy piece of parchment for him to take notes on. He moved over to the desk she would undoubtedly end up using, taking a pen silently. Then he moved over to his chair.

He hesitated before sitting, making a decision after a moment. Levitating the chair, he rotated it until it faced her half of the room in part, but still faced more towards the table and the door than her desk. Perhaps it would allow him to appear less standoffish but still separate. After all, he wasn't even in a rotten mood. Phaedra could have had it much, much worse.

He laughed.

She’d made a simple amendment, and he just laughed. The sound was unexpected, and though it was swallowed by the crack, she could still hear the shock of it. But she wasn’t as annoyed as she should have been. And that annoyed her more than any taunting of his could.

Then he said it again. With emphasis, as though to ensure she didn’t miss it. She shot him a sharp look, thoroughly unimpressed. But she didn’t deign to correct him a second time, unwilling to resort to nagging to get him to heed her correction. Not even an eyebrow raise. If he wanted to so blatantly disregard a polite, reasonable request, then she supposed she’d just have to put up or shut up, as she couldn’t very well lose her composure over such a minimal disagreement.

Or, well, she hoped she wouldn’t.

Phaedra was quickly discovering that she had far more buttons to be pushed than she’d previously realised. Perhaps because stripped of anything but the merest veneer of wealth and privilege, people were less inclined to grovel and appease. Perhaps because she was alone, doing things she would otherwise have got one of the staff or a house-elf to do.

When was the last time she’d had to actually talk to a stranger to get something she wanted?

When had she ever wanted for anything at all?

He waited for her, and this time she did raise a brow at the sudden display of courtesy. She headed up the stairs, but not before pausing long enough to offer a greeting to Bridget with a smile that was a little less forced than the one she’d sent Keiran. Unlike that, she knew full well what had prompted her niceness to his mother. This was the second time she’d arrived at the woman’s house to make use of her dead husband’s possessions, and the first time she’d been overwhelmed enough to swallow her greeting. To do so again would be rude. And she wasn’t a muggle, after all. But either way, whatever she was, Phaedra might have lost everything else but she hadn’t lost her manners.

(She did, however, miss Keiran's smile- which, all things considered, was probably for the best.)

Once at the library she paused at the threshold while Keiran went straight in, taking a second to bolster her resolve. As he went to the armchair, she headed for the desk, assuming he'd left it for her to use. Her cape was removed and neatly folded over the back of the chair when a muffled thud distracted her, looking over only to find that Keiran had turned the armchair round, angled less completely away from her. She paused, eyeing him warily, noting his apparent change of mood this time and wondering what had caused it. Had she simply caught him at a bad time last week? The dark cloud that seemed to follow him had receded somewhat and she was glad for it- purely because it made her own life easier, of course.

She didn’t sit down, instead moving to peruse the shelf that held the book she’d been after to start with, hand hovering over it before pulling it smoothly out. Determination met relief when nothing happened. For a few moments she stood there, expression pensive, running her fingers absently over the gold lettering as she considered what to do. She could pick up where she’d left off last week, continue refreshing her knowledge and building up her courage to the point where she might get some answers for the questions that had plagued her for 4 years. She could let herself get lost in the shadow of a passion again. Then, go back to the Leaky and return to facing that awful feeling of confusion and dread with nothing to show for it save a slightly improved temper and a refreshed memory. Watch as gradually the rest of her options trickled away one after the other.

Or, she could redirect her efforts to more pressing matters and see how far this favour would stretch. How wide the door of the library was open to her, and how willing Keiran was to hold it. Wards, his mother had mentioned last time, and Keiran again in the shop. Evidently they had decent knowledge of them. What were the odds that knowledge would be useful?

But if he asked after her intentions, what would she tell him? Any lie had to be a good one, but the topic was possibly too touchy for her conjure something believable and deliver it convincingly enough. And when it came to anything relating to his father's library, he seemed to be on high alert- she suspected any lie she told he'd distrust, even if he didn’t immediately recognise it for what it was. Worse, if he refused her access to the library anymore, suspicious as he’d proven to be of her already. But no- the latter was unlikely, she decided. From what she’d seen of Keiran, he seemed inclined to trust against his better nature, and she doubted he’d go back on his word because of a simple question. As for the former, well, she’d cross that bridge if it actually appeared in front of her. There wasn’t much scope for being picky with her situation. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Well, don’t faff around. Are you a Rosier, or aren’t you? It was Maxine’s voice she heard, haughty, expectant- instructive.

She made up her mind. Turning around, she leaned back until the backs of her thighs rested against the table in an almost-perch, book still in hand. Her fingers drummed lightly on the cover- the only sign of nervousness she allowed herself to indulge in.

“Do you happen to have any texts on wards?”

Mid-paragraph though he was, Keiran let his eyes settle on the word 'human,' his thoughts slowing. He forgot everything he had just read when he heard her question, confusion leaking in. He didn't know why such things would matter to her, when she had been so insistent on other topics. His chin lifted slowly as he turned his gaze on her instead, his expression blank.

It wasn't until he spoke, presumably, that she would register is suspicion.

"Are you trying to say that you need more frequent access, here? You could have just asked."

Still, he stood, setting his book aside and sticking a mark in between the pages to remind him of his place when he returned.

His feet carried him over to another bookshelf, trying to recall where his father might have kept books on protective charms like wards. It baffled him, really, that she would ask about wards after he had made a point about their home having wards. Yes, it had initially been a comment made in order to ward - pun intended - her away from attempting to visit his mother's home when he wasn't there. He didn't trust a stranger, particularly now that she knew what the place looked like and thus was able to apparate in if she chose to. But, of course, there were wards.

If she wanted to spend more time in his father's library, she could have written him days earlier. She could have written him multiple times, done it more often. But she hadn't. So why was this coming up now? It was terribly suspicious. Either she wanted to break in and thought he wouldn't figure it out, or she was trying to subtly make a point. She wanted more time but thought he wouldn't agree to it?

His over-protective side was flaring up, feeling respect and adoration for his mother that was so strong it blocked out rational thought. A threat against his mother was also a thread against his children, who spent so much of their time with her. And although he had no right to be protective over Melissa anymore, no one would get between him and his family. Especially not this confusing enigma of a woman across the room from him.

Finally, he found a text that was suitable. Keiran crossed the room back towards Phaedra, eyeing her warily. He didn't set the book down, didn't hold it out to her. He kept it close to his chest as he hovered, looking down at her and allowing his eyebrows to draw together.

"Is there... something you want to tell me?" He asked carefully. "Because I know that you're aware of the extensive protections on this house. If you have any designs on this family - which I'm not unwilling to believe after the questionable circumstances of our meeting - know that I have friends in high places but I certainly do not need to take care of something like this. If you try anything... Merlin. The hand of God couldn't get in my way, Phaedra. So I expect you to be honest with me right now. Why are you studying wards and poisons? It better not have anything to do with my father."

His father. Of course, it all went back to Aiden, didn’t it? Here was a man whose staggering loss was still fresh, never receiving the closure needed to properly begin healing.  And Phaedra had no problem with that. It was natural. It was even understandable. She more than knew the feeling. It was how she’d ended up here in the first place, after all.

But no one threatened her.

Initially, she’d thought to dismiss his comment- really, why on earth would she need to beguile her way into something he’d already offered?- or force some humour and laugh it off, having expected some form of suspicion from him. But then he was moving to the shelf and she didn’t see the use in any of that when he was giving her what she wanted anyway. She felt foolish, like a schoolchild asking an inappropriate question on something off the syllabus, except this time the stakes were higher than mere thwarted curiosity.

She’d straightened as he approached, placing the book she held on the table in anticipation of the text he carried. But when he’d come to stand over her again, her arms almost immediately crossed themselves, a barrier she didn’t even realise she was constructing between them. She couldn’t manage to stem the rush of blood to her cheeks at his words, her face by some miracle managing to remain impassive even as anger and mortification mingled somewhere within her to birth an ugly feeling that stole her breath for the fraction of a minute.

The suspicion was inevitable, expected. Easily ignored and brushed away. Alleviated if need be. But the implicit threat was another thing entirely.

And he’d said her name again. Really, that was just the icing on the cake.

She had a sudden urge to reach for her wand. Inches away, lying on the other side of the desk, the security it seemed to promise called to her. But if she did, he would undoubtedly notice, and who’s to say he wouldn’t draw his own? The hostility was already there. Things could get ugly if magic were brought into the mix. Phaedra had no concerns about her own abilities- she didn’t balk at putting practice into use if need be- but it would just confirm his suspicions. Worse, it would make her look scared. Or weak.

A good thing it was out of reach, then, because that thought made her even angrier.

“Your father?” The laugh was brittle, disbelieving. Drawing herself up to her full, comparatively unimpressive, height, she fixed him with a cold stare, her words spoken with a quiet, muted fury.

“I’m not sure what’s more ridiculous- that you still seem to think I had anything to do with your father beyond my apprenticeship, or that I’d be so transparent about it if I did. Perhaps in using my first name you forget who, exactly, you’re speaking to. If I did have “designs” on any of you, rest assured your so-called connections would be an ineffectual deterrent.” The incredulity of her tone and the slight head shake indicated just what she thought of that ridiculous suggestion and the warning that accompanied it. Even if the implication of her words- that she could play the game of connections just as well- was hollow now, all things considered. “As it is, I’ve no interest in disrupting your game of happy families. If you can manage to see past your rather incredible vanity, perhaps you’d understand that breaking into the home of my former potions master- for whatever fantastical reasons you’ve managed to conjure- is the very least of my concerns. Not when-“

Her mouth snapped shut, cutting off the rest of her tirade, but not quick enough to prevent those two words from escaping.

Not when I can’t even break into my own.

It was only then that she decided to make an attempt at calm, taking a deep breath, focusing her gaze on the book he held instead because she couldn’t account for what else she might say if she looked into his accusatory eyes again. Too far. She’d said more in response to this ridiculous accusation than she had since meeting him, had allowed her polite, restrained demeanour to lapse into something bitter and bristling. If she wasn’t already so mortified she certainly would be at that.

It was the poisons comment that had thrown her. She hadn’t realised he’d figured out what she was looking at, and truthfully she wasn’t completely sure how he’d even noticed. If he’d stopped before that, if he’d left it at his own worries… But to throw that in her face, ignorant though he was of its significance, was a low blow. It seemed every time he spoke he said something that hit too close to home and it was now past irritating- it was infuriating. But her expression closed again, matching the forced neutrality of her next words.

“I didn’t ask for your trust. I don’t make demands I can’t keep. I asked for your help. I wasn’t aware you had a generosity meter running.”

And all his previous talk about trust? It was exactly that- talk. It couldn’t be given without being received. At least she didn’t make any pretenses at misguided ideas of loyalty and sentimentality. She hadn’t asked anything of him beyond the books themselves, least of all explanations and justifications. So, she was aware her sardonic comment was presumptuous and unwarranted. But if he could make hypocritical demands, so could she.

It was an instantaneous decision, really. One brought on by nothing more than the context and the moment and the words that came with it. But Keiran hated - despised, actually, beyond all reason - Phaedra Rosier's laugh. Merlin, this woman was properly heartless, wasn't she? Why he had decided to help her was utterly beyond him, and although he had been wary before, he was absolutely starting to regret being so kind before. He hadn't had a reason to be, but perhaps he had wanted to put some good back when all he had done in the past months was tear people apart.

Merlin, he needed to stop being so soft. It got him into absurd conflicts like this one.

Keiran wasn't sure if she actually cared, noticed or felt anything when he did it, but the narrowing of his eyes and squaring of his shoulders had always been enough to make Millie back down. The black of his eyes had always managed it, regardless of the clean lines, tended jawline and everything else that looked put-together and welcoming to those he cared for. He'd once been told that he had a way of freezing people with just a glance, and although he hesitated to force that upon anyone after having been made aware of it, in this instance he didn't even have to consider it.

Millie would've been taken aback, probably. That woman absolutely knew how to get to him, and always had. Melissa had always gotten everything she wanted, up until they both became far too exhausted to keep trying. But Phaedra so clearly did not get any sort of indication of what would be best. Or, if she had, she enjoyed insulting him far more.

"Yes, my father. Or did you forget he was killed? Murdered in this very house without so much as a trace of the person who did it. So you'll forgive me," he said in a tone that was clearly more demand than idiom, "if people he knew in the past suddenly showing up - when so much is already going wrong - means that I see bright red flags."

He scoffed, absurdly loudly, at her announcement that he needed to be aware of who he was speaking with. He most certainly knew the answer to that already. He just wasn't rude enough to say it to her face. That didn't mean, however, that he wasn't beyond slowly walking around the end of her desk so that he was far, far too close to her. As he reached the point where he had to lower his chin to look down at her, Keiran realized that the book was at his side, no longer taking up the space between them. Worse? His right hand was already inching towards his wand pocket.

"I don't think," he practically growled as he moved towards her, "that you really know what you're up against. I mean..." Keiran shook his head both disbelievingly but also in a manner that showed just how little she truly knew. "You're quite dense, aren't you? I'm sure you know of my position at Hogwarts. But I doubt you realize that I'm friends with the Minister; an ally, to the Deputy Minister. I play poker with the Chief Warlock, my grandfather, my cousins, the lot of them make up the most fearsome name in the Death Eater community and although I'm certainly not one of them, I know they would step in. But I hardly need them to. You misunderstood, you see."

He sneered a little, then. Keiran was quite sure that he had never made that face at someone in his life, yet here she was, bringing it out. "I didn't mean that I had people who could help. I meant that I'm the one that those who know what I've done decide to come to. I could make it so you never come back here again. So you never step foot in my store, at my school, near my family ever again. I've done far worse than I'm sure you can imagine of me, and I wouldn't hesitate to do it again if I thought I had to.

"Don't mistake me, Ms. Rosier. I know more about you than you think. And I'm also a better man than this speech makes me out to be. But I'm half Rookwood and there's little I can do to get rid of that now. I'm not nearly as nice as my cousin, nor do I have his temperament. He wouldn't like me saying it, but I'm stronger than he is. See, Theo forgives. I'm stubborn enough to know when I shouldn't. So, I ask you - again. As you didn't answer the question the first time, do take a moment to step down from your high horse and tell me what, exactly, you think you're doing here. And you'd best hope your answer is sufficient. Who knows? You might change my mind, and I might decide to help you."

He shrugged almost imperceptibly, realizing for a moment that, actually, he might accept it and cool off if she decided to speak up. That thought irked him, though, so he pushed it down and told his decent half to wait. He would probably just end up disappointed anyway.

Rosiers never gave into intimidation. This much Phaedra knew was true. But they did, apparently, give into something else- something she rather optimistically deemed discomfort. The more he stalked towards her the more she felt like she needed to step away and she couldn’t for the life of her explain why. There was a danger she sensed in being too close to him and it wasn’t from fear. She wasn’t scared. But she couldn’t tell what she was.

In any case, as he got close enough to tilt her head back, she stepped back, only enough to put a respectable amount of distance between them because she absolutely couldn’t stand in such close proximity to him any longer. One small step. But the desk was still behind her, and short of sitting on it, there wasn’t anything she could do. So she stood up straighter, refusing the slouch that could be mistaken for a cower. She had to draw the line somewhere.

She knew she should offer a meaningless apology or a bland platitude to cool the air between them and return them to the uneasy, frosty politeness they’d somewhat reluctantly settled into. She knew she should stop pushing, just let it be and hope he didn’t decide to throw her out and rescind his offer. But his domineering, sanctimonious manner infuriated her and she couldn’t stop. For the first time in a long while, the words left of their own volition, against all her better impulses.

“Spoken like a true Rookwood. I’m sure your father would be proud. A couple of Unforgiveables here, a harsh word there- impressive, no doubt.” It came out sharper than she’d actually intended. A low blow, yes, but between the two of them it seemed nothing was too far below the belt. Though she didn’t doubt both had much worse to give, if pushed even further. His dark, harsh gaze bore into her. She was no longer flushed, but felt like the blood had drained out of her. She was sure any colour she’d gained from her Mediterranean stay was now blanched. Even her lips, red though they appeared, felt numb. A horrible cold feeling had settled over her and infused her tone with sharp, brittle ice. Every part of her was stiff- only her heart was racing. Was that fear?

“Clearly, you know far less than you’d like to imagine, Hayes Jr.” A cruel sort of smirk curled her lips- completely lacking any amusement, startlingly unbecoming on such fine features. If he was asking about wards and poisons then evidently his knowledge stopped short of the last 4 years, much like everyone else’s. And the time before that no longer belonged to her but to her younger, happier self, the one she’d long since stopped trying to recover. Really, he knew no more about the woman who stood before him than she still knew about herself.

But, since they were on the topic of Death Eaters, she could tell him about her great-grandfather, one of the first. Her grand-father, who’d been raised and died by their creed. Her uncles, who’d aligned themselves with the cause and yet escaped the humiliation of Azkaban- something that couldn’t be said for the Rookwoods. Her second cousin, who’d been Voldemort’s favourite general- and something more, if rumours were to be believed. Even her grandmother, whose love for poisons extended beyond the intellectual into the extremely practical.

Or better yet, the Medicis, who’d achieved infamy among the non-magical as well as the magical, feared and respected in equal measure over the centuries. Whose views and behaviour even she couldn’t stomach so easily. But Phaedra wasn’t actually interested in that, at all. She had no desire to partake in a pissing contest with a Hayes, of all people. She had nothing to prove.

“You think because you managed to figure out my name that tells you anything about me?”

Or maybe she did. Her scoff was far quieter than his, might even have been called a snort if she actually did such a thing. Derisive, yes, but lacking the force of her earlier words. Because really, though she’d never in a million years admit it, the only thing Phaedra wanted to do at that moment was sink into the chair and put her head in her hands. How on earth had she managed to get herself into this position? She was almost glad that Keiran was close enough to block any opportunity to run, because if there was one thing she couldn’t do after all he’d said it was to appear in any way shaken or anything less than entirely self-possessed. Cold, haughty, and unaffected. A challenge, once she’d decided on giving him the explanation he so badly wanted and voicing some of the words she’d held close to her chest for years, still reeling from the shock behind them. It was hard to force them out. She closed her eyes for the barest moment, pressing her lips firmly together and inhaling deeply. When they opened, they held none of their earlier fire. Just that awful empty chill.

“My father died 4 years ago. He was one of the first to be infected with the Green Itch. We thought it was Dragon Pox, at first, we never could have…He had the best care. We didn’t see it coming. Not quite a murder, but wholly unexpected. It took my mother 2 years to recover and my b-…” A pause. Another breath. “No father, no heir- the Rookwoods can tell you what that means. We left. In the middle of the night, under cover of darkness. Like thieves. Four years in self-imposed exile, because what else can wives and daughters do? ” A heavy, heavy bitterness laced those last sentences, burying her disbelief at speaking any of this aloud in the first place. "My mother didn't come back. There is nothing here for her to return to.”

She said the last bit as an afterthought, feeling that it would add to the explanation. But she wasn’t sure if she was talking about Elisavetta or herself. It came out quieter, a little harder, even as she tried to keep her tone carefully modulated.

Talking about her mother was easier than talking about herself. Elisavetta’s choice was clear, she felt none of the pull her daughter felt to their old home. No demons haunted her on the Amalfi coast. But then, she wasn’t a Rosier. She’d taken the name in law, but she was a Medici. She always had been. In this hardship, that had become clear to Phaedra. Her mother’s time in England was over, but the Rosier land was her birthright. But how could she even begin to explain that to the man in front of her, a stranger- Rookwood though he apparently was- to her world and to her life? How to even start on the situation with her uncle, which she still didn't understand? Where would she begin?

“My family suffered more than most. We lost everything. And the only way to have the barest hope of regaining it all is by cracking some wards- our own, not yours. So, I hate to destroy the image you’d rather maintain of me as a murderess or whatever hare-brained accusation you’d like to throw at me next, but I’m well-acquainted with loss. I didn't cause your own. Is that sufficient enough for you?”

Every word was stiff, clipped, the question icy. She neglected to mention Caspian, unable to brush against the wound that was the rawest of them all. And tempted as she was to focus her attention on his chin, or his chest, or a spot on the wall behind him, she kept her eyes trained on his, hard and unrelenting, pain buried beneath the traces of silent wrath. Because despite the show of strength, she’d found herself strangely reluctant to meet Keiran’s gaze as she revealed her own loss. She’d hardly been gracious about his- and she certainly didn’t expect his sympathy- but there was something uncomfortable about being flippant in the face of others’ grief then revealing it to be a shared experience.

But she wasn’t giving him the information in hopes of getting into his good graces. She couldn’t give a flying fig what he thought of her, now or before. And after his words she no longer even wanted either book anymore, no longer wanted to ever set foot in that library again. It felt too much like charity, now. In a strange way, she felt like she had something to prove. While- short of veritaserum- she couldn’t see how he planned to ascertain if she was telling the truth, she also couldn’t see any tangible benefit in lying. And there was something undignified about an unconvincing lie. Something that made you look more desperate than you already were.

“I was hesitant to share it with you because you’d never understand, for all your immense genius and influence. I’ll take your word that you’re generally a good man. Dangerous, even. Grieving, evidently. But I hardly think you’re qualified to comment on anything other than the happy image of domesticity. Forgive my assumptions,” -no more a real request than the one she echoed- “but what could you possibly understand about me? What on earth would you know about a life collapsing in on itself?”

No, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he evidently had kids he cared for, and a whole litany of female names, one of whom was undoubtedly a significant other of some sort. Men like Keiran Hayes had happy families and rather placid lives, reveling in the daily drudgery of domestic existence. There was a sort of bliss to be found in such an existence. It was one she’d taken for granted lay in her future, would have been living right now had the Green Itch not taken all that away from her. It wasn’t that Phaedra had a strong preference either way- marriage and babies was what was expected of her, and she was happy to go along- but to have your plans go so completely awry and then be lectured so self-righteously by someone whose life was evidently going swimmingly overall was too much to bear.

Aiden came to mind but she dismissed the thought, refusing to have any qualms about what she’d already said. Losing a father did not constitute the world as you knew it collapsing around you, no matter how tragic the circumstances. No, she was referring to the sickening helplessness of being so totally, completely mired in loss that even turning back was no longer an option. The awful realisation that your life had been irrevocably exchanged for something you’d never wanted through no fault of your own. Another person taking everything you valued and placing it so far out of reach that it seemed sure you’d never be happy again.

She'd deflated with her explanation, tiredness and frustration taking their toll, leaning back into the desk unconsciously. But now she stepped forward again, not noticing or perhaps ignoring the way it felt less like she was attempting defiance and more like she was drawn towards the possibility of being proved wrong. Even then, she lifted her chin obstinately, refusing to concede any weakness that she could control, ignoring the charged air between them, the intensity that was strangely draining, now.

“So go ahead and do your worst,” her gaze flickered meaningfully to the hand that rested on his wand, loaded with scorn. She made no attempt to reach for her own. She trusted- ironically enough- that he wouldn't actually draw his wand on her. The words came quietly, tone low, free of the earlier venom though heavy with the same bitterness. “But save your judgements. I can make my own.”

For all his talk about underestimation, she was sure that nothing he’d done could come close to what she feared she’d managed. Because that’s what it all came down to. He was half Rookwood, sure. But her blood carried the full toxicity of two formidable bloodlines. There was no part of her that hadn’t been steeped in darkness. Even when she’d tried to escape it and do something good for once, to step into the light if only temporarily, she’d ended up being lethal anyway. Was that what he’d recognised in her?

In that moment she knew. For all her bluster and offence, her contempt at his insistence on dredging up the past, on shoving her demons into her face, the defensiveness he triggered in her, his own professed willingness to demonstrate just how far he was willing to go, the strange intensity between them– she wasn’t afraid of Keiran Hayes.

She could never be as afraid of him as she was of herself.