a wisp of silk in a forest of wool.

to say she was surprised would be an understatement, a member of her family willingly approaching her, answering her was startlingly nice. it was too soon to say ella didn’t miss her family, her sisters especially, but she’d take any family she could tonight. and it wasn’t like she didn’t like lucretia, she simply barely knew her and that had been her own fault hadn’t it? she should have built stronger bonds at home, not that that would have made any of this easier. 

surely by now lucretia knew cedrella had been disowned, she felt she had the shame of it written all over her exposed skin tonight. but lucretia seemed interested in conversing so cedrella would enjoy it while she could, before someone reminded lucretia she shouldn’t be talking to ella. “not every party is pleasant, but this one certainly puts on the pressure with all the famous and familiar faces, doesn’t it?” she shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. 

“how is home these days?” she shouldn’t have asked but it was out of her mouth before she could help herself. she wanted to know how her family was doing in the aftermath of a near scandal, in the end of the drama she’d inadvertently caused. merlin forbid she be curious. 

‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎

Cedrella’s awkward shift isn’t lost on Lucretia, as perceptive as she’s been raised to be. The feeling is contagious and it settles over her like a fog. The decision to come over hadn’t been fuelled by any real thought, just an impulse that Lucretia had followed without much consideration for how it would turn out. For a sharp, brief moment she regrets it—but for better or worse, she’s here now. “I’m told this is reasonably par for the course for Slughorn’s parties.” She was never a member of his special little club during her time at Hogwarts, even despite the prestige of the Black family name, but rumour spread all the same of the events held in their name. 

Cedrella’s next question stings, although Lucretia suspects it bites just as bitterly for her cousin as it does for her. Home. How is it these days? She almost wants to laugh. If it were any other person asking her that, she’d have put on a false smile and bluffed her way through, but surely, given everything, Cedrella must know the answer already. Things in the House of Black never change—not in the time that’s passed since this recent scandal, nor the years since Lucretia was a child. “Need you ask?” The smile she does flash is a tight, joyless thing. “Much the same as ever.”

Lucretia is no stranger to formalwear or lavish events. Walking into the dungeons this evening, with all the extravagant spellwork and charmed decorations, it feels almost like coming home. Her mother had all but insisted on her attendance tonight. No doubt keen to keep up appearances that Lucretia is ever the dutiful daughter and not trying to escape that gilded cage, even just a little, through her dreary job at the ministry. 

where: slughorn’s christmas party

heels clicked on the cobbled stones of the hogwarts dungeons, outstretched fingers running along the grooves in the walls dug out by thousands of similar hands over the years of prestige and power the school had enjoyed. she hadn’t been back here in many years, this had been her home and hearth, this was where she began to truly grow into who she was blossoming into now. how could she not be grateful to the wood and stone and marble around her? 

reaching the door in question however had her hesitant. she shouldn’t be here, she thought. she should turn round and head home to septimus ( who was not invited and whom she had been unable to persuade to accompany her; who in fact had tried to convince her not to go. ) but she was hoping to see her sisters, her cousins, to reconnect perhaps with a part of her she was desperately clinging to. 

when she entered she was awed by the pomp and glitter of the room, slughorn hadn’t lost his touch for gatherings, perhaps a second calling for the old man. artificial snow was softly raining down, disappearing before it could coat anything, people in uniform floated around with platter after platter of decadent foods, and the smell was like being inside a fir tree. it was somehow both homey and foreign. she grasped a glass of bubbling champagne off a passing tray and looked through her lashes at the crowd as she sipped. where were her sisters? 

before she could ponder it any further someone familiar stepped beside her and it was only polite to say “hello, enjoying yourself?” wondering how many friends she had lost in earnest after being blasted off the family tree by her mother only recently. 

It hadn’t been Lucretia’s idea to attend tonight. Events like this struck too close to home, quite literally in her case. It was the kind of pomp and extravagance that her parents loved to surround themselves in, that Lucretia had grown up being paraded around. She’s had enough of the hollow celebrations and false faces of those who both throw and attend them for a lifetime, and yet there’s little she can do to escape them. It’s her duty, something expected of her, and her mother had all but forced the formalwear on Lucretia and her brother in the days leading up to tonight.

Returning to Hogwarts hadn’t been high on her list of desires either. It’s only been a handful of years since her school days had come to an end, but Lucretia is in no hurry to revisit them. Memories linger in these walls, soaked into the very bricks and foundations of the castle, of friendships since lost and hopes since extinguished. The last thing she wants–needs–is to be reminded of how things used to be. 

Despite her misgivings, the evening hasn’t been terrible so far. Granted, the party has barely started and Lucretia is already half-way through a glass of nettle wine, but she’ll take what she can get. She’s hovering with a group of ministry colleagues when she spots Cedrella, familiar despite the time it’s been since last they spoke. Lucretia knows she should leave well enough alone, should simply ignore her as expected of her—it’s not as if they were close before all the drama unfolded—but she finds herself crossing the room before she can think better of it. 

without pause, he sinks to the chair next to lucretia, producing the file from underneath his arm. it carries the sound of stationery gliding momentarily to the foreground of the room’s landscape. in hurried handwriting, the light revealed lines upon lines of catalogued information. still, he does not let these lines show to the guest across from them. then, his voice rises: “i’ll explain how this is going to go.” as so, like facts that are lined like birds sitting on wires, he makes to arrange their meaning as he eyes lucretia with subdued interest. “mr. selwyn, this is lucretia black. she is here to help the auror office’s efforts in record keeping by way of providing notes for today’s meeting. meaning, i lead this interview.”

like the pages in front of him, there is information to be gleaned from this: what he means to say is, don’t bother her.

“i ask the questions and you only answer.” for this, he is taught the the fundamentals ( interviewer must put question indirectly and informatively, interviewer must avoid questions and questions structure that encourage ‘yes’ or 'no’ answers, interviewer must remain detached and objective ) that to which he knows like the back of his hand, though he hasn’t considered them at all all, as unaffectedly casual as he looks now – as to what to say, how to say it, and in what order. there is nothing but the objective; a stethoscope to the chest would have betrayed nothing beyond a level heart rate. (perhaps that there is a heart rate in the room at all would surprise; no one has ever been endeared by litanies and debriefs and well meaning aurors. alas — )

“this is done so under the assurance that one, you are not being detained, and two, you will not be placed under effects of veritaserum. however, depending on your answers, mr. selwyn, this factors into whether your security level threat status is updated, you are summoned for a follow up interview, or you may or may not leave.” then, a pause follows. “are these terms agreeable to you?”

ignatius with his hands folded on the table draws in closer, trading fine print and agreements for lock and key: “do you know why you are here?”

If there’s ever been a time in her life that Lucretia is thankful for her upbringing, it’s now... in this very moment. If she’d been any other person, raised any other way, she’s certain that her turmoil would be playing out across her face for both of the other occupants of the room to see. It’s second nature at this point to keep her face carefully blank, but it doesn’t lessen the unease that tingles underneath her ribcage. Hoping to distract herself from the flutter of it in her chest, Lucretia busies herself making some preliminary notes on one of the rolls of parchment in front of her. She’s not sure what will end up being important, so better to be prepared now than scramble to catch up later. 

Especially given it hasn’t directly come out why Selwyn is here; although Lucretia gets the distinct impression that both Ignatius and Selwyn know the reason, and she’s the only one out of the loop. Whatever the reason, it can’t be anything good. Why else would the auror office be involved if it wasn’t something serious? Something bad. It’s a strange and unsettling thing to find someone she’s interacted with here, at the end of an investigative interview. Lucretia doesn’t know the man well, and she’s got her qualms about the pureblood circle she’s grown up in, but for all their faults and issues, Lucretia never would have imagined any of them to end up in a position like this. 

Tom took her arched brow as a small victory. It was a small gesture, but it was nevertheless an opening. He possessed an instinct for seams, for imperfections, for loopholes, whether in people’s facades or magical theorems; he couldn’t help himself from prodding weakness until something gave. Sometimes this led to opportunity. Sometimes it led nowhere.

He obediently followed in Lucretia’s wake. His attention fixed on the music box: an ugly Victorian thing with gilt edges. He crouched to get a better look. By the time she spoke again he’d nearly forgotten her presence. “No need for earmuffs,” he said without looking up. “I’ll just–” Rather than finishing his sentence, he withdrew a handful of marble-sized ward stones from his pocket, set them in an equidistant circle around the music box, and muttered the activation spell with the added precaution of a noise-cancelling clause. It was standard practice to set a basic containment field around any artefact of unknown origins. Then he began to run diagnostics, the tip of his wand pressed to the box’s keyhole, his eyes half-shut in concentration.

At last he blinked as though returning from some great distance and rose to face his client again. “No huge surprises here,” he said. “As you’ve already discovered, it’s saddled with sleep magic; not overtly dangerous, though I suppose a victim might never wake if nobody thought to come for them. I could counteract the curse if you’d like, but the mechanism will never work again, and frankly the box itself is worth nothing without it.”

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “I suppose its suitability as a gift depends on its intended impact. Remind me not to cross your mother.” He brushed a dark curl off his forehead and back to its rightful place. “You speak of her acquisitions as though they’re a frequent occurrence.”

His employers had explicitly forbidden him from asking questions, or acting with too much familiarity, or otherwise straying beyond the bounds of professionalism. But Tom’s impertinence usually worked in his favour, and even when it did not he’d so far managed to talk himself out of trouble.

Lucretia steps away as he begins his work, eager to put as much distance between herself and the music box as she can whilst it’s being... tinkered with. She’s never been the most trustful at the best of times, but it’s a trait that’s served her well. She’s not about to take any chances with dark objects, whether there’s an expert here or not. She watches Tom work with a careful, but ultimately indifferent eye. This isn’t her project, and aside from ensuring that the thing isn’t utterly destroyed, Lucretia has very low stakes in the outcome. She takes a moment to mull over the information when he finishes, eyeing the artefact in question from her spot several paces away. 

“No, leave it,” Lucretia responds with a slight shake of her head. “I believe my mother had hoped it could be controlled in some manner, but I suspect she’d rather it remain as it is now than safe but worthless.” She can already hear her mother’s complaints that nothing could be done to temper the effects of the music box, but Lucretia knows that they’d only be worse if she returned to find the thing useless and broken. No doubt the malignant side effects of the artefact had been part of the allure for her. A huff of laughter leaves Lucretia at the comment, accompanied by a wry smile. “It was actually intended to be a wedding gift, but I suppose she’ll have to find another one now.” 

“Are you sure?” She had to be incorrect. It didn’t matter if that was what she did three, four, five, or more days a week. That number was far too low. When Lucretia spoke again, Argo saw the stars (or edges of parchment) align. “Yes! We’re speaking in terms of fresh rolls or sheets or what have you but perhaps it would be better to speak in amount handled. If you are doing filing, mailing, stamping– a lot of stamping? I don’t believe there is a dye shortage but with all the potions needed our herbologists could potentially be in a dire need of resources. Do you know anything of that?” He leaned more heavily against the wall, letting out a sigh that lifted the hair hanging over his forehead for a moment. “Transcribing sounds terrible. How do you keep your focus?”

“Yes.” There was something caught on the bottom of his shoe, causing him to bend and lean and crouch to investigate whatever nagging sharp substance had made its way through the wooden bottom. “A few injured. Some fire, I think. We’ve heard of worse, haven’t we?” His gaze caught the glass shard and in a move powered by no thought at all, Argo placed his foot back down on the floor and raised back up to match Lucretia’s pose. “That I didn’t or don’t resemble a house elf. Not that you’re exceptionally dense. Unless you are. You don’t seem to be.”

“Yes, quite sure.” In the tiny little office she shares with a handful of others, bar Tiberius McClaggen’s sometimes loud antics, there’s not much else to focus on but the sheets and rolls of parchment that cross her desk. “I can’t comment on any possible dye shortages, but I could attempt to give you a figure for my full parchment consumption, if that is still your focus here?” His apparent enthusiasm for such a mundane topic is almost infectious. Lucretia won’t pretend to understand the interest or desire to find the answer to something so minor, but it’s brought enough amusement that her mood isn’t quite so sour as before. She’s not used to people being so unabashedly themselves like this around her. “Lots of practice. You get used to it when that’s the sort of work you do.”

Merlin, this conversation surely is tiring. Maeve does not claim to know what type of operation the Aurors should best choose but she knows the Aurors have plans in place for mayhems like. And what’s wrong with trusting them? With listening to the very authority Lucretia works for.

“Don’t you think they’ve got this plan thought over?” she asks her, slightly bemused, “Don’t you think they’ve split into groups? One group outside, the other inside? And the group inside finds that it’s easier to keep watch of people when they’re all in one place instead of secluded in their cute, boring, sad, little cubicles all over the place?”

Talking to Lucretia feels like talking to a patient who refuses to take their potions because they know better or they heard from their unqualified friends that these other methods work best. Utterly unproductive, and yet you still have to knock some sense into them.

She almost laughs at Lucretia’s smile, the clear annoyance behind it. “Oh, you know, I like to be helpful to the Aurors. Talk down the people who talk too much.” 

Lucretia is halfway to approaching the aurors after all, if only to grasp at a genuine excuse to escape this conversation. She can hardly just brush Maeve off without good cause, but speaking to her is rapidly fraying at Lucretia’s last nerve. This is the sort of interaction she loathes, the kind her parents and the rest of her extended family absolutely delight in. Lucretia had hoped to avoid them in her relative anonymity at the ministry, but that escape plan had never covered contingencies for days like this, being crushed together with all manner of ministry visitors and employees.

“Perhaps... perhaps not,” she replies airily, eager to move the topic along. She has little interest in debating the inner workings and tactics of magical law enforcement with anyone, but least of all with Maeve Zabini. “Regardless, it was merely my opinion. You asked, and I answered. I’m not asking you to agree with it.” 

“And what, pray tell, are you going to do to stop me?” Julian sent her his most winning, shit-eating smile across the short gap between them. Rather than truly mocking her there was again a genuine dare to it. His whims dipped between sense; he wanted a rise from her, wanted her to burn with irritation but as soon as he caused the sting he was half caught on the youthful instinct carved into his bones long ago to soothe. He hardly remembered being good at it, comfort, once upon a time. 

Julian watched it snap into place behind her eyes, that shuttered and shielded look that he had seen too often at awful functions with their family. It was different, refined with age and the purse of her mouth but the same. Always the same. Lucretia’s next words startled a dry bark of laughter out of him. “Alright, fair point, out of the cruelness of my heart then.” If he was being honest with himself, he’d expected an accusation of not possessing one at all. 

“I have my ways, Creesh. Makes no odds to me what you believe.” The part of him concerned with her opinion had died years ago. 

“What do you want me to say? That I’ll curse you for it, right here in the ministry atrium?” Lucretia scoffs, jerking her eyes away from him and back out over the crowd. It doesn’t prove as much of a distraction as she’d hoped. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.” Although she knows she already has. Lucretia has little doubt this is the reaction he’s been trying to elicit from her, but knowing that does little to stop her from being pulled along by it. Agitation coils under her skin, hot and sharp, threatening to destroy the cage she’s so carefully crafted around her heart.

“Fine then.” Her tone is clipped. Biting. If he wants her anger, she can give him that. Lucretia thought she’d bid goodbye to such emotion when their friendship ended, just as she’d done the same when her relationship with Dorian had crumbled beyond repair; but apparently she’d not banished it as well as she’d thought. “Let’s go. If you’re so confident you have a way out.”

“The Wizengamot does not worry itself with the day-to-day matters of the ministry. I do not think anyone would be happy if my colleagues and I attempted to develop and implement the policies we oversee. It is not where our skill sets lie” Of course Abraxas also didn’t think many of his colleague’s skillset lay in politics and legal interpretation. At best they were all strong networkers, himself included. “I work for the people who regulate and enforce.”

“And I hope you never will. Optimism is nearly always a gateway to naivety. I much prefer to describe myself as pragmatic.” And a world class bull-shitter. “I chose to see the opportunity, not the good, in all situations.”

He laughed out loud at her question, extremely pleased with her response. “I hope that if I were one of those bad men I would be able to see that you were much too intelligent to be won over by such crass means.”

If Lucretia is surprised by the revelation that Abraxas works in connection with the Wizengamot, it shows little on her face. She’s used to schooling her expressions, and in truth, it’s not that far out of the realm of what she should have expected. She’d thought it was something with influence, something lofty, and that certainly fits the bill. “Rather you than I,” she replies, allowing just a little bit of levity to creep into her words. “That must be a lot of responsibility.” And Merlin knows she wants as little of that in her life as she can manage. “Or a lot of parchmentwork, at least.”

Tom drew a scrap of parchment from his pocket to double-check the address; he’d expected something a little…grander from the entrance to the London estate of one of Britain’s oldest families. He stared up at the nondescript wall. If he squinted at just the right angle, what had at first appeared to be unbroken brick proved slightly offset, like a straw viewed through the surface tension of water. He touched his wandtip to this seam and spoke the words entrusted to him. The shimmer split wide, and the house bloomed from its depths, reshaping its surroundings to make room.

Tom climbed to face the double doors which had appeared. He knocked. He loved this part of the job. It allowed him access to the inner sanctums of homes which would otherwise have stood barred, from ancient manor houses to dingy one-room apartments reeking of necromancy and disrepute. The artefacts themselves fascinated him; each one was a puzzle, an exercise that married theory with hands-on magic. The people he could manage, though it grated when they treated him like an errand boy. The Blacks were as yet an unknown quantity; while of course he knew of them, he’d never dealt with them in person. It had taken Burke a tediously long time to admit that what Tom lacked in experience he made up for through the appearance of reputability.

The door opened to reveal a house elf. Before Tom had time to open his mouth, a dark-haired woman barely older than he swept into view. He noted both her momentary disorientation and her skill at keeping it from his expression. “Tom Riddle,” he said with a slight bow. “Junior Appraiser, and assistant to Mister Burke. I am entirely at your service.”

At her invitation, he stepped into the house. The moment the door shut behind him he could feel the low hum of old magic crowding the bones of the place. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch the woodwork.

He glanced at her again, taking her measure, and decided to risk impropriety. “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, in answer to her unspoken thought. The corner of his mouth lifted. “So: I understand you’ve been having some trouble with a music box?”

“... Lucretia Black,” she responds in turn, an eyebrow arched at the lofty greeting. She’s used to being addressed in such a way, but Lucretia has never much cared for it. It’s grandiosity bordering on showboating. If the comment that follows Tom’s greeting is anything to go by, he seems to hold just as little regard for such things. Her lips twitch, amused. She almost has to commend him for such irreverence, something that neither Borgin or Burke would have dared, even speaking to her in place of her mother. Instead, she lets the comment pass and turns to head back into the house. She might find humour in it, but she knows better than to let it show. She still has a role to play, an image to portray.

“Yes, so I’m told,” she answers, beginning to lead them towards one of the side rooms. She doesn’t bother to look back, trusting that he’ll follow. “It’s my mother’s latest... acquisition. I believe she means to gift it to another of my family, but every time it’s played...” She huffs out a humourless laugh. Fortunately, Lucretia has only heard of the sinister music that emanates from the artefact second hand. Their house elf had been knocked out for hours after hearing it play, something Lucretia has no desire to experience herself. “Let’s just say it doesn’t seem an appropriate gift at present when all who hear it fall dead asleep.” She crosses the room with ease when they arrive, coming to pause at the side table where she’d had Cipny move the music box earlier. “Here it is.” 

november, 1945      ╱ ministry of magic, interview room no. 4                  @dearlucretia

the hourglass turns.

how he had failed to notice time had gone after the attack, he is not certain: in those brief days, many calls were made, letters written, ignatius with some needle-tight precision had selected names and arranged these in a list to be checked against; all of which could bring trouble or bear advantages. in a way, he is bracing for both.

an owl cuts through the early morning chaos, pinwheeling past the door frame of the auror offices where it settles amid the folds of paperwork on his desk. ignatius pads over the post for a second, savoring the mystery of the author he hopes for; for an evening to be drawn taut as a bowstring, poised for a new direction, a new revelation. so it is was when impatience conquered uncertainty that the back revealed a singular letter pressed in black candle wax — S for selwyn.

not long thereafter, he is unusually early at the foot of the door to the interrogation room with a file tucked haphazardly under his elbow. however, it as if the the wind is pinched out of him when he finds who else has settled in the room. “ oh, hello. ” a sound denoting surprise, racing through the room in equal parts curiosity and appraisal. “miss black, i was not aware you’d be helping with this assignment.” at that, a smile loosens itself from him the same way a tree may bristle its leaves in the company of wind. it would remain unsaid that he was glad to see her. “i don’t expect to take much of your time. you know how it is, these formalities —” he gestured to the the little room with its single pendant light and its three metal chairs, the concrete beneath their feet so grey and cold they may as well be taking cover under lamp post in the midst of snowfall. at this, ignatius remained standing behind the table through a need to move than anything else, listening for every heel-fall ringing in the mute, empty space.

at last, when a rap fell on the door and the hinges turned, selwyn drew their full height inside the room and pushed aside their escort, another colleague at the auror headquarters. they can’t quite decide where to settle before drawing forward a chair and landing opposite lucretia and ignatius. it registers plainly that the other hovers between wry and inconvenienced, leaning back and folding their hands, the steel creaking beneath the full give of their weight.

he eyes lucretia, and then selwyn, the overhead lighting hanging heavy over his brow before as he offered a simple: “thank you for coming.”

There’s never been any danger of Lucretia’s work at the ministry pulling her into serious matters. She files papers, sends letters, occasionally takes minutes at a meeting. It’s something that’s suited her perfectly fine, a kind of mundane existence that allows her to forget about the gilded cage she exists in, if only for a few hours. Today has shattered that equilibrium and knocked her quiet existence here off kilter. 

A blunder in staffing had seen Lucretia called up to take the place of another, tasked with penning notes during an interview for an ongoing auror investigation. She’d been gifted little in the way of details. The memo that had arrived at her desk, ferried in by a harried looking tawny owl, had been scarce to the point of pointless; all it had contained was a brief summary of her role and the time and place she was required. It’s the last thing she wants to be part of, getting tangled up with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but she has little choice than to do as instructed—as always. 

Her shoes click against the cool floors as she heads to the interview room. Given how little notice she’d been given, Lucretia had expected to be the last to arrive, but she’s surprised to find that no one else is here. No matter, it leaves her with time to settle in. She’s finished setting out all that she’ll need when the door opens to herald a new arrival—one that Lucretia recognises, to her slight surprise. His family is one well-known to her, but she’s seen Ignatius only in passing here at the ministry, exchanging only a handful of words at a time. Until today, she hadn’t even been certain what it was he did, but clearly now it’s something in connection with the aurors.

“I’m just here to take notes,” she responds instead of returning his greeting. “The usual minute taker was misinformed of the day and can’t be here.”

No matter how much she pushes back against the tide, Lucretia cannot escape the whims of her parents. She’s as beholden to their demands now as she was when she was a child. It’s for that reason she finds herself stuck in the estate today, waiting on the arrival of some supposed artefacts and antiques expert from Borgin and Burke’s to come and value one of her mother’s latest acquisitions; an enchanted music box that’s put almost all of their guests to sleep. She’s no doubt off flittering about one of her associate’s houses, and her father and brother are Merlin only knows where, leaving Lucretia to remain in the dark and gilded hallways of her childhood home until the job is done. 

It’s nearing noon when a knock finally sounds at the door, and the patter of feet soon sounds on the ornate floors as their house elf ventures to answer it. With a hefty sigh, her mood dimmed by having to deal with an errand like this, Lucretia follows after the elf to meet their visitor for herself. Rounding the corner into the entryway, the wizard that waits outside isn’t who she’d thought she’d find. Crossing the distance to the door with quick, long steps, she waves the house elf out of the way. “Go Cipny, back to your tasks.” 

Then, she allows her attention to fall to the guest at the door. “You’re here for Burke?”

Broken glass still littered the streets as Walburga walked down the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. The streets were quieter than usual, she supposed people were still shaken up over what had happened. It was rather ridiculous. What did they think was going to happen? That the Acolytes would come back mere days after their first attack? They wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. While Walburga privately thought that Grindelwald had some good ideas, she realized that it was less than prudent to admit that in the current atmosphere. Now that the man was finished, she thought that his so called Acolytes needed to find a new cause to rally behind. And destroying London wasn’t going to do anything other than push people even further than their cause.

Stopping in front of what used to be her favorite shop for dress robes, Walburga sighed. The door was wide open and she could see that the building had been burned out, the remains of the inventory among the wreckage. 

“Pity,” Walburga said lazily when she sensed someone stepping up beside her. “I always liked this shop. Oh well, I suppose it’s time to find a new shop.” 

—

Diagon Alley is a mess. 

It’s the first that Lucretia has seen it since the attack the day before, and she’s a little shaken to take in exactly how much damage had been caused. Locked in at the ministry, it had seemed more of a bothersome event, something that kept her stuck in the atrium with colleagues and visitors alike, but seeing it now first-hand she can begin to understand why they were shut in. Fortunately, this should only be a fleeting visit. A quick stop the owl post office which she’s heard managed to escape unscathed and then she can retreat back to the manse and try to shift the images of burnt down shops and shattered windows from her mind.

It’s halfway to her destination that Lucretia spots an all too familiar face—a familial one at that. She would never profess to have much love for Walburga, or even particularly like her, but she knows it’s more trouble than it’s worth to be caught ignoring her intentionally. Steeling herself for the interaction to come, Lucretia steps a little closer. With any luck, this won’t take long and she can be on her way again.

“Is that it?” He was terribly off with his assumptions. Argo had ventured ten to fifteen for the average Ministry worker. What was it that Lucretia Black even did in this building? Secretary or clerk or something utterly adminstrative that some people found a talent and passion for. “Do you not do a lot of work? For work?” It was puzzling, the concept of working without any sense of urgency. Similar confuddling was the crowd of employees and barristers and all other Ministry types of wixen gaggling about as if gossip was the goal of this sit-in. 

“Are they being over cautious? It was just some glass. Written words.” Blood covered cobblestone to vanish away. Injured or worse off to get to care. “Nothing truthfully difficult to sort.” Eyes widening, Argo’s smile appeared before he was pulling out his journal and a muggle pen, the need to not carry around an inkpot still a delight as it had been a few months before when he stumbled upon pens for the first time. Uncapping it with his teeth, he held out the writing instrument and bound parchment. “Could you put that in writing? All of it. They’d never believe me if I recounted this to them.” He was blind to the shift in mood, the change in demeanor towards him, staring eagerly and giving his things a shake. 

"Yes, that’s really it.” It’s not often that Lucretia is struck with the urge to laugh, but Argo’s reaction almost pulls one from her. Almost. “I...” She hesitates for only a moment, tentative about divulging the particulars of her job. It’s not out of a care for secrecy, she’s not working with any sensitive information, but there’s always a thick miasma of embarrassment to fight through when she reveals what she does. Lucretia doesn’t expect Argo to acknowledge the details, not like the heavy judgement her family passed when they found out, but old habits die hard. “I mostly handle other people’s documents. Filing, mailing, stamping... tasks like that. I don’t tend to use much fresh parchment unless I need to transcribe something.”