bletchley

andromeda liked to refer to her upbringing as sheltered; it had been, but the correct word to use would’ve been spoiled. she had been surrounded by the best possible tutors and finest things a little girl could wish for. she liked to think she was above acting like she was entitled to things in life, but she couldn’t help herself as she laughed airily at the woman’s words. “i think not,” andromeda mused, “what it will be is exchanged for a nice, proper cup of tea because i’m sure you value your job in these times and if i need to ensure that no one of respectable name places a foot in this establishment again due to mistreatment of a member of one of our society’s most noble houses i will.” she said, concluding her thinly veiled threat with a smile on her lips even though she couldn’t help but cringe inwardly at how much she had just sounded like her mother.

     There was only a half-second of silence in between the final words of the witch and the level and cool toned response Gretchen gave. “I’d rather be out the six sicles and have you booted from the bar than give you another cup of tea because you assume I’m a Legilimens.” At her next statement, she couldn’t help but let a quick scoff of a laugh escape her. Less Purebloods would have been a relief; growing up among them had taught her how much she despised them. “Given that I come from a line of respectable names myself, I know how unrespectable these people are.” Her lips flickered with the hint of a smirk, “Tell them. We’ll have less people like you coming in and disrupting service.” She straightened, rolling her shoulders back with stony disposition, and looked down on the woman.

“Do you do all of your wooing in the laundromat?” he pronounced the word with special care and perhaps more importance than it deserved, as if he was especially proud of himself for having mastered it and nearby Rick perked up, as if the emphasis on the word laundromat might be a breadcrumb on a trail only he was following. Like most things so painfully Muggle, Corban treated the entire thing with all the fascination of a condescending tourist.

And speaking of breadcrumbs.

“Personally I thought my adaptation of La Bête du Gévaudan was inspired,” he replied with a sniff, a vaguely fond expression on his face filtering across his face at the memory before he shook it off in favour of committing to a new story. Turning to lean against the washing machine next to the one she’d perched upon, the rhythmic thunk of her machine bumping into his and the occasional screech of metal providing a gloomy score to the story to come. “La mémé used to tell me stories when I was very young, about a great sorceress who lived all alone out in the wilderness,” he shifted to settle his weight upon his elbows, settling in for the story as a loud screech of metal on metal made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, “This witch despised people, so she set up walls and barricades and all kinds of defences to keep them away, but still they came looking for her. Travellers and lost children seeking shelter, salesman and adventurers seeking their fortune, and each and every one who set eyes on her was never seen again. Some said that she had turned them into stone and still uses them as garden furniture when the weather’s nice, others said she kept them in her cellar for when her winter stores got a little low and she wanted some extra protein in her diet, but the truth - the truth was the most sinister of them all. The truth was that she simply left them — waiting — for over twenty minutes in a laundromat with Janice and Rick.”

Corban’s eyes turned pointedly to Rick who dropped immediately back behind an open washing machine lid and his nose wrinkled as he lowered his voice to barely a hiss, “Janice asked me if I’d fancy a bit of cod or a squid ring. I don’t know what that means.”

     She eyed him reproachfully, face full of mock offense, “I've only ever wooed you in the laundromat,” the word was thrown back at him with imitated emphasis, “I’m no hussy, Yaxley, and I’m hurt you would imply it.” Her bottom lip jutted gently out in a pout, though the feigned expression grew difficult to maintain as the washer began wobbling a bit more aggressively and raucously. White-knuckled hands readjusted their grip on the edge of the machine.

     Of course he’d just modified a story he’d already heard; Gretchen had yet to hear a story original to Corban himself (and she’d the misfortune of hearing many tall tales from him). Her head remained level as she continued to listen closely, though her lips might have been a hair tighter than before he’d begun the story of the hag. 

     She’d truly left him to his own devices much too long this time.

     “You must have had our meeting time wrong,” she responded flippantly. Leaning over to the washer Corban was resting upon (and steadying herself on the coin slot ledge of her own, so as to keep from being violently jostled off), Gretchen ripped open the lid next to him, revealing a barrel full of various articles of brightly colored, wet clothing. “Over here, Rick,” she called tediously over to the skulking man, and dropped her feet to the floor. Rick lost hold of the lid of the washer he was at in his surprise at being addressed, and as he walked past her, she whispered loudly, “I think my friend was trying to take your clothes.”

     “If I had to choose someone to live with, it would be Brian. He keeps to himself, and frankly, I think he’s too scared of me to bother me without permission.”

   John cocked one of his very-much-still-present eyebrows sarcastically. “You’re worried I’m too good looking and some other girl’ll come along and steal me away from you.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m touched, but it’ll happen whether I’ve got eyebrows or not - we’ve got hair growth potion in the shop anyways. It’s popular with the older wizards.”

   The knife, apparently, was inconsequential. Still, Gretchen with a sharp object was never completely hazardless. John’s grin returned as he laughed. “Of course. What is it with rich men and buying unnecessary animals?” It was the status, of course - just to say he had them, could afford them in their special color.

   He finished the last swallow of gin in his cup, and considered Gretchen with open curiosity. “How long do you think it’d take him to realize if they ‘got out’?” He used his fingers to add quotation marks around the phrase, clearly implying he didn’t think they’d be getting out all on their own.

   They wouldn’t be happy here, in the Bletchley house. They would be overlooked and probably underfed - plus their cage was probably too small to start. “I’ve always wanted a newt. It didn’t have to be double ended, but who would I be to look a gift horse in the mouth?” He set his glass down on the counter. “Where are they?”

     She only looked over him coolly in response to his jibe, clear distaste written upon her face. Eyebrows or not, Gretchen would not lay a finger on him. She was aware, however, that he’d a certain charm with other women who had not grown up with him, and was curious to know to what extent that charm went. “5 galleons for you - without eyebrows - to sucker some poor girl into a drink during my next shift. 10 if you get her to agree to dinner.” Her wager was made with the same callous composition she often wore, though her eyes bore into him expectantly. 

     Setting the knife down beside his empty glass (surely the family’s house elf would come looking for the two of them eventually and would be mildly alarmed to find just a knife and a lingering aroma of gin in the last place the two were supposed to have been), Gretchen straightened. “He’ll realize after we’ve taken them and I’ve come running down the stairs back to them, breathless, telling the shocking and unexpected story of how eager I was to show the newts off to you but upon entering his study, we discovered the cage empty and the newts no where to be seen.”

“Sorry, what was that?” A dark brow raised as his gaze bore into the other apprentice. It seemed as if standards really were slipping if this was the kind of person Slughorn’s tutelage in the classroom produced. Surely it would only be a matter of time before the old man gave up, and Severus could only hope that his replacement was entirely more competent. “Yes, yes. Great, thanks..” the former hufflepuff replied, obviously wishing they were anywhere but the Three Broomsticks in that moment.

Once the apprentice had scuttled out of the pub, he turned back to the woman. “It is. I would ask if you were also at Hogwarts but it’s rather redundant when everyone went there.  You were above me, weren’t you?” Severus could place everyone in his year and most of those in the years immediately preceding and following his, but the rest were little more than an educated guess. 

---

     As the door shut behind the exiting apprentice, a draft of wind blew the putrid aroma of Severus’s drink at her. Her nose crinkled and she quickly retracted in distaste, head canting slightly to the side. “You don’t actually like that, do you?” she inquired, looking down at his cup with a disdained expression. The old men drinking it, she understood; as a matter of fact, she’d be surprised if they had taste buds left, as ancient as they were. But him? 

“Gifts now, Bletchley?” He eyed the machine with inherent suspicion as she successfully slammed the tongue of the machine into place and was rewarded with a rush of water, drumming merrily down on what was no doubt some Great-Great-Great Bletchley’s pride and joy. It satisfied a deeply destructive urge in Corban that he knew better than to acknowledge out loud. “And supper with the Bletchleys? I suspect you’re trying to woo me.”

The loud clang of the lid of the machine slamming shut seemed designed to disagree, but Corban merely tipped his head as if seriously considering the non-offer before coming to the conclusion: “Consider me wooed. I’ve never been afraid of a statement piece.” 

An ominous screech of metal upon metal groaned from the machine she’d perched upon, like a desperate plea for help, but Corban paid it about as much mind as the pervasive smell of vinegar and Janice’s dark-eyed stare from the row of plastic seats nearby. “You should be giving me a discount for all the hard work I’ve put into growing the Bletchley legend,” he dropped his chin and lowered his voice as if to impart a secret, “Do you want to hear the story or not? I spent the last twenty minutes working on it.”

     “Just for you,” she answered bemusedly, fingers inching down to the edge of the washer to grip on while it started picking up speed. The weight of the chainmail began to tilt the machine from side to side and softly thump against its neighbors. Her lips were poised in protest to his suggestion of her “wooing” him, but she wavered. The notion drew a small, impish grin. What better way to make Mr. and Mrs. Bletchley balk in aghast horror than to blithely inform them that she was involved with the black sheep of the Yaxley family? 

     It was just a thought.

     “Yes,” she answered decidedly, “I am wooing you.”

     Rick seemed to be nearing them as nonchalantly as possible as Corban spoke softer, acting as though he’d forgotten which washer held his clothing. After lifting a lid, he’d peer around it with squinted eyes, trying to discern what they could possibly be whispering about. Gretchen made a point of pretending she didn’t notice him. 

     “No one. I’m having no one’s children. Ever.”

     She hadn’t noticed her prior to now, now that she had properly encountered the fiery girl at work. In retrospect, Gretchen didn’t know how she had been able to avoid meeting Marlene until then. It was true that most voices in the Order were loud and often drowned out by even louder voices (this was the issue with having too many Gryffindors in one room), and this was the reason Gretchen sat back quietly and watched the chaos ensue instead of entering the fray; but imagine her surprise when she saw Marlene sitting at the same table she’d been attending (when the time allowed) for a few months. Was it possible that she’d been quiet enough to go unnoticed? Or had they continued to miss each other over time, attending all different meetings?

     Regardless, as the meeting drew to an end, Gretchen promptly slipped out of her chair and through the door before anyone else had the chance to. The air outside was brisk, the atmosphere dreary with the cool weather. She leaned against the wall next to the entrance, paying no mind to the exiting members until Marlene came through. “McKinnon,” was the only brusque greeting she offered, “Did you get lost? I’ve never seen you at one of these meetings.”

—

She relaxed before she even realized she’d been tense, glad to know that the woman was able to deal with asshole customers as she saw fit with her manager’s support rather than having to put up with it all. Rosmerta, like Stan, seemed to be one of the few managers who actually gave a shit about their employees and trusted their judgement. Mags would always respect those people.

“Glad to hear it,” she said, swirling the liquid in her glass and watching it near the rim of the glass a few times. Never a spill, but still interesting to watch. “I’ve come across far too many people whose managers don’t give a rat’s ass about how they’re treated – good to hear this place isn’t the same.” She took a drink from her glass and smirked. “Mm, those are good ones. I kind of like the talkative ones, depending on the day. It keeps me entertained if nothing else to hear their nonsense.”

---

     Gretchen hrmmph-ed in neither agreement or disagreement, simply acknowledging the response. She turned her focus towards the door where a stumbling couple was taking their leave, cheeks flushed a joyous rouge, smiles eager and genuine. These were the easier patrons - couples left her alone, too absorbed in one another to even consider her presence, let alone talk to her past ordering their drinks or food. 

     “Of course I’d punch John.”

Let nobody ever say that Bletchley didn’t know how to make an entrance.

The wintery chill that she carried with her through the laundromat’s doors blustered past to a surge of renewed muttering from Rick in the corner and stirred Corban from his sleepy disinterest. Her mood suited the weather. He watched for a moment as she stomped and thumped around, a rumbling storm punctuated by the heavy clanking of metal, and his lips ticked up at the corner. 

Rick’s eyes followed him over the pages of his magazine as Corban lazily rolled to his feet, wandering over to peer down at the handful of mystery coins gathered in her palm. To date, Corban had never once successfully made one of the contraptions work - it was fateful, he supposed, that Janice (who smelt of vinegar and worked at something called a chippy) always seemed to be at the laundromat and that she always brought the fabric softener he liked.

“Planning on laying siege to the citadel later?” he asked cheerfully, peering down at the mass of chainmail that was weighing down the drum of the machine. “Or is this a day look?”

Confidently he seized one of the coins from her hand, silver and misshapen,  and attempted to mash it with force into the machine as Janice had done before him, brow furrowing as it stuck haphazardly into the coin slot and refused to budge any further.  “I heard the most interesting rumour about you the other day.”

     She watched him rise leisurely, as if she had never once admonished his casual, Yaxley-pace; her expression was that of purely unamusement. Her body turned as she faced him dead on, lips twisting when the coin he’d inserted jammed and the slot slowly slid back out. Were there no picture guides? More frustration arose as she replaced the large coin with a smaller one and pushed the machine’s -- tongue? in, only to find the slots coinless when it reemerged again.      This machine was eating her coins. 

     “I brought it for you, actually,” she answered reproachfully, still stonily examining the coins and cautiously testing which ones fit best, “I was hoping you’d show up unannounced to supper with my parents and I tonight, wearing that and some tight leather trousers. Chafing encoura- aha.” Gretchen proudly displayed the coin which fit perfectly into a slot and filled the whole row with identical ones (though the instructions they’d both ignored read that she need only put three in for the machine to work). Water came pouring down boisterously atop the metal - a triumphant noise, if you asked her.

catching the foul smell andromeda’s smile died on her lips, the expression morphing into a tight grimace quickly concealed in a haughty upturn of her nose. andromeda hummed softly, looking up at the barmaid with a look that would’ve made both her mother and aunt proud, “i think i should recommend you go to st mungo’s after your shift ends,” andromeda mused coolly, “considering the only reason i can think of for you to serve anyone whatever that is would be sudden insanity.”

           yet another sleep   -   drunk fight fight with his vices   ,  lazy stomach punch   &.  a phantom black eye. painful to read the fate but the hurt isnt real yet   ,   there is no way to numb what is seen. never the right place   ,  the right way.      ❝   give me like an hour   &.   if i havent flirted my way into getting some poor sucker to pay my tab    ,   you can kick me out  ❞     another ghost call at midnight   ,  withered by daylight. the fates dont really care. this life yields eternal decay.     ❝  come on   ,   please.   ❞   there are some things that cannot be contained. another year gone  ,  static stone song. oh how he dreams to hear another voice. echo bruises   ,  burning bright. 

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