Remy was quite obviously out of place standing in front of the large, imposing mansion known as Malfoy Manor. Obvious to herself, at least. Remy had not grown up in wealth, nor had she ever really attained any of her own. The galleons it cost to upkeep the yard was likely more than she had earned in her lifetime - earned honestly, at least - and Remy was aware of it.
But that didn't mean anyone else had to be. Remy knew how people at this level of society - and the people at all levels, if truth be known - felt about appearances; mainly, that they were all that mattered. If you kept up your appearances, no one cared to ask questions about what was happening behind the curtain or closed doors. Remy employed this to her own benefit in her everyday life, even so far as to use it to become a Death Eater.
It wasn’t so hard, pretending to be something you are not. People did it all the time, but they just didn’t admit it to themselves. Sure, there are plenty of adages and bits of advice from suffocating old biddies: “Just be yourself”, “It is better to be disliked for who you are than liked for someone you aren’t”, the list went on. But it was all rubbish. Remy had come to realize that people liked the people who could give them what they wanted. Not everyone wanted the same thing, mind you, but everyone had wants. Praise, favors, company, sex. Everyone needed something, and if they thought they could get it from Remy, she was likely to get what she wanted out of it before the other party realized there would be no return on their investment.
Becoming a Death Eater had been an action of convenience. She didn’t particularly believe in the cause, nor did she share the hatred of so many of the hood-wearing, blood-crazed society types, but she knew power when she saw it. The Death Eaters were a group of powerful, influential, and – on the whole – rich individuals; exactly the type of people Remy liked to surround herself with. They offered her the protection and means to get by, an environment where her ‘shortcomings’ would not be noticed, and what amounted to a human fishing hole for Remy to find her patrons. Remy had needs of her own, and by employing her talents of seduction and convincing she could usually see that they were met, if not by her fellow Death Eaters then by some other poor soul who failed to see through her façade.
But for now she had waited long enough on the stoop. Pulling her shoulders back, Remy coiled her bony, calloused fingers around the serpentine handle of the door and pushed her way into the house. It was dark and quiet, but she knew her way. She had been here before and wasted no time in finding the conference room Lucius preferred for these types of meetings, pulling her hood away only after stepping into the room.
“Good evening, Lucius,” Remy intoned, shaking out her dark tresses which had been slightly frizzed by the material of her cloak. Remy knew to be careful how she stepped around Lucius. He was a man who held enough power to entice her with ease, but controlled her fate to the point where she knew she must tread carefully if she was to ever control him without it costing her dearly.
She moved further into the room, the long black cloak swinging around her ankles, and came to stand behind a chair that was far enough down the table that it might appropriately belong to her. Remy had not pushed her luck in moving up the ranks of the Death Eaters, mainting her role as an informant and secret keeper. If she were promoted through the ranks, it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed her magical… inadequacies.
“I don’t suppose it is for good news that you’ve called us here tonight,” Remy asked, her green eyes connecting with his grey, holding his gaze with just enough tension that he would notice, but not enough that he could call her out on it.