letter of the law

♦ about ♦

age: 21 relationship status: single education: london ‘77 / hogwarts ‘80 occupation: undersecretary to the head of the wizengamot/paralegal for vanity & co.

♦ recap ♦

Emma Vanity always knew what she wanted. Her goal, ever since she was a child, was to be the youngest person to ever join the Wizengamot. Between skipping a grade in primary, and the success that followed, most assumed that she would far outpace all of her wildest dreams.

Even in her final year at Hogwarts, everything was going to plan. She won the Quidditch Cup for Slytherin, and she had managed to win the election to become Head Girl. Not only that, but her sister’s at the JWL nominated her as President. Nothing could stop her. Until it did.

What she thought might be the cruelest part of her final year at school turned out to be a cakewalk compared to everything else. Someone had broken into her room at Wimbourne House, leaving her with nothing but a threat, and a pig’s severed head.

After that, the disasters kept coming. First it was Leigh Flint, her latest recruit. And then it was even closer to come. Daphne Davenport was in a coma, and it was Emma’s best friend, Frances Bletchley, who had committed the act herself.

More than anything, Emma is ready for the year to be over. As much as she enjoys being in charge (an understatement), she has found that Hogwarts doesn’t quite hold the allure that it once did. Marred with death, blood, and the pungent smell of failure, she’s happy to leave it all behind.

♦ dating history ♦

gideon prewett: obliviate me

hayden ward: time to argue

frances bletchley: die

Daphne snorted, the unpolished sound flowing all too easily from her mouth after consuming a full glass of wine. She couldn’t imagine anyone smelling even decent after consuming that many hardboiled eggs. Blech. “She’s younger than us, too! Can you even imagine?” She briefly thought of Nomad, if he would find himself in a similarly precarious engagement—and go through with it, too. 

“It’s settled,” Daphne declared. “You must come with me.” 

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“Have I mentioned how much I adore you? How beautiful you look today? I mean, truly Daph, that color really suits your complexion.” She was laying it on thick when it didn’t even need to be laid on at all. Emma had already gotten what she wanted out of this, but really, she thought it all important to say anyway. “Do you think it’d be rude of us to try and upstage the wedding and look hotter than the bride? Mind you, I think Diana is plenty attractive, but still.”

Emma was mentally blanching at the idea of marrying Charles. What an absolutely horrible name, too. “If that sort of man even looked at me, I’d blind him.”

“I honestly didn’t think I would be invited, given my parents’ loose lips as of late.” The Davenports certainly liked to brag about their daughter’s magical abilities. “I suppose I underestimated their dedication to tradition.” Daphne finished off her first glass and immediately poured more chablis. “You know he eats a hardboiled egg with every meal? Every. Meal.” 

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“I can’t believe you actually got an invitation to Diana and Charles’ wedding. I still can’t fathom how she can actually stare looking at him, let alone having sex with him. I mean honestly. Hardboiled eggs at every meal? That man must wreak.” Except, Emma was certain she hadn’t found anything this exciting in months. Years, even. The possibilities were endless. The cattiness no longer needing to be contained. 

WHEN: Friday, 1 April, 1981; evening  WHERE: 12 Ainsleigh Court, Banchory  WHO: Daphne Davenport & Emma Vanity ( @youresovanity​ )

Daphne held up an ivory invitation, the cursive letters gleaming as if set in gold. Perhaps it was gold, actually. “Question for you, Em.” She could already feel the relaxing effect of chablis, despite a first glass not quite empty yet. “Is it in poor taste to attend a wedding if you think the match isn’t a good one?” She giggled at her own loose lips. “Even if it’s the wedding of the century?” 

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“Wedding of the century? You’re going to have to be more specific, Daph. Though, in my experience, it’s always in good taste to go to any wedding, if only to judge the quality of the food.” And there was nothing that Emma loved more than being judgy. She quite literally could never deny that part of herself. “Unless—No. Don’t tell me. You didn’t.”

Her eyes snapped to Daphne’s, losing all of her earlier mirth, and now there was simply unrestrained glee.

“Maybe after the ground stops trembling,” Mary laughed in reply. “I’ve almost set my flat on fire with candles too many times to count, I know the dangers of an open flame when it gets knocked.” With renewed excitement, she continued the search. “Ah-ha! Here it is. Gosh, I haven’t seen this movie in years.” She’d loved it then, and expected that would hold true now. “I’ll save you a seat in the back of the ballroom?” she offered. It made her feel a little better to know that even if they were not friends they could be partners on this strange and terrifying day. It made the uncertain hours to come feel less daunting and lonely. 

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She nodded her consent, knowing that while they were in a life or death situation, some things in life didn’t change. Mainly Emma’s own need to keep a tight grip, to control what she could, and apparently delegate what she couldn’t. Mary Dearborn was a stranger, but she had met far worse, and expected few could exactly offer the kind of quiet reassurance that she did.

“I’ll be the one measuring out cups of water.”

Holding up the cover, Mary’s expression matched her companion’s. “The extended version, no less.” She was quick to hide the film. “I’m not spending what might be the last hours of my life with that.” 

“Don’t just hide it, burn it. That can be our last act of good will in this world.” Though, at this rate, that might have been Emma’s very first act of good will. “What about, uh. Romantic comedy? Harmless. Lacking in any and all depth, but amusing all the same. There should be 27 Robes in there somewhere.”

Mary’s laugh was more of a snort. It wasn’t her point of view, but she could appreciate it, certainly. “Do they? I don’t think I do. Then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one to say…” She continued to paw through the options. “Maybe instead of picking something most people can probably like, we pick something that everyone will agree is terrible.” 

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“Oh no.” Emma’s smile was now more grimace than anything remotely bright and shiny. “Please don’t tell me you have Stag Party in there. That might be the worst film I have ever seen in my entire life, and that’s saying something. Nothing is more disgusting than watching people vomit on screen. Especially that much.”

“She’s so elegant,” Mary agreed. “I’m partial to action myself. The Quick and Quarrelsome franchise has me by the metaphorical bollocks. Something about fast brooms and found family.” Mary pretended to wipe a tear from her eye.

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“Those movies? Merlin, they’ve made about fifty of them and they never get any better.” No, Emma certainly hated action films, especially ones that pretended at having any actual depth. “What about a comic book film, everyone loves those.” She didn’t like those either, but she supposed that this was the sort of thing that they were hoping for everyone to enjoy.

In answer Mary slung the bag from her shoulder. Though it was tiny, what she pulled from it was not. Reels and reels and reels of film. Almost comically she eventually dumped the bag over and simply let them continue to fall out as she gave the bag a satisfying shake. “One or two.” She smiled. “As we used to tease at my last job, something for everyone.”

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She was certain whether she wanted to ascertain what her latest acquaintances previous job was, though given the clues, there were plenty of options to choose from. “And here I was, expecting you to pull out a VHS.” She leaned forward, inspecting the options with a level of care and focus that was most definitely unnecessary. “The first one that has Audrey Hepburn has my vote.”

Thirty minutes later Mary bounced back into Emma’s sphere, leaning in the doorway casually like it wasn’t just because everyone knew doorways were the best places to stand during an earthquake. Or… was that for tornadoes? Mary wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t hurt. “We have sixty-four people. One missing, two pregnant, three injured.” Her fingers ticked up one by one. “The only muggle is also one of the pregnant woman and she’s with her husband, so I think she’s covered.” They were all convening in the ballroom now. 

And with that out of the way “They’re taking volunteers for a small search party. I think we should project a film for the people who stay behind.” She wasn’t exactly looking at Emma for approval, but it was more of a question than her punctuation let on. “We have all the supplies we’re going to find in here, and everyone’s starting to get restless, I think.” You could see it in Mary by the tap tap tap of her foot. 

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Emma paused her cataloguing, knowing that everything could change in an instant, and the work she had done would be pointless. Laughable, even. But she was an expert at one thing truly: preparation. And if that was rendered useless in an hour’s time, then so be it. For now she could rest assured that her skills had been used to the best of her abilities, while Mary had done the work of cataloging people.

“Are there any films that you’ve found that we could put on?” This did pique Emma’s interest. She loved nothing more than a good movie. She just hoped it wasn’t one of those ridiculously sappy romantic comedies that, for some ungodly reason, always made her weepy.

“I definitely saw one pregnant woman and her husband in the lobby,” Mary recalled. They’d entered the revolving doors just before Mary had. Of all the people she passed in a day, she couldn’t say why she remembered that. “Why don’t you start to inventory the supplies,” Mary thought that sounded more like Emma’s kind of task, “and I’ll inventory the people. Plan A, we meet in the lobby in twenty. Plan B… Maybe you should just take my number.” Mary handed over her iFlown. “Then, Merlin forbid we’re stuck here for a few days we at least know exactly what we’re working with.” Provided they didn’t all die crushed in rubble, she thought darkly. She begged there might be a metal-charmer among them, or at the very least that the one’s who had made the building originally had done a good job of it. 

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Emma nodded her consent to the plan, finding it well-reasoned, fitting for both of their seeming strengths. Mary, just through one brief conversation, already proved to be more of a people-person than Emma could’ve ever pretended at. Better her deal with everyone and leave the sorting to her. As a result, she didn’t even hesitate when putting in her contact information, more than happy to help things go as smoothly as possible.

“Should we come across someone who doesn’t have a wand, and can’t do magic, we might want to pair them up with someone who can. Better that than leaving them to their own devices.” At least with a wand, things were easier to lift.

Mary thought that sounded like a bit of a harsh attitude to have towards men in the general, who were people and not tools or weapons, but again decided it wasn’t really the time. If science had discovered years ago that cataclysmic weather events were the cure to her gabbiness, the world might have been like this more often. 

“I’m Mary,” she said instead. She wasn’t one to offer a hand, so it was a smile over the shoulder (she was half into the closet, searching for spare sheets and blankets). Something faltered in her smile for just a moment. It quivered like the ground beneath them. “Dearborn. Mary Dearborn.” She decided if she was going to die, she was going to die alongside Doc somehow, with some piece of him attached to her. Just in case. 

“I never went to university, so you probably wouldn’t recognize me from there. Well,” she thought to add, “I was at the wizarding academy for dramatic arts a semester and I suppose that counts. I shouldn’t sell myself short, this might be my last chance to appreciate my life.” She didn’t think about any of the bad things; as it turned out they counted for very little when it came to scaling the sum of your life. The good was much heavier.

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Definitely not a familiar name, then, Emma decided. That almost made things better. There was an ease with strangers, especially if this happened to be where she died. No pressure. No expectations that could be dashed. Here, Mary Dearborn was unaware, and likely didn’t care, about what Emma had or hadn’t accomplished.

“Emma Vanity. And that does count.” Mostly because Emma, while she was many things, had never been a creative. She wasn’t a writer. Not a painter. And most certainly not a dancer beyond the moves that one had to do if they should ever go out clubbing. She just observed. Watching films, or theater, enjoying the atmosphere, but being more than happy to let someone else share that skill.

She sank back on her heels, another tremor running up the building. “I think we’ve got enough for now. We’ll just have to try our best to ration out the water. Food is less important. Although—” Now that she thought about it. “We should probably ask about people’s medical history, and if anyone is pregnant. That way they can get the fluids they need before someone else who’s healthier.”

“Oh-kaaay,” she sung the word in some approximation of dejection and re-planning, for once letting the chance to debate an opposing stance slide by her. It wasn’t exactly the time, was it? What she believed could work, what this other personality believed would work… they we’re both still at the harrowing mercy of the elements. And architecture. “You may be underestimating the alcohol tolerance of the average adult human, but I see your point.” Mary shut the fridge, but not before tucking several waters into a makeshift bag.

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“I never underestimate men. I’d just prefer, that should this place fall on top of us, their minds are clear enough to pull me out.” She was tense when she spoke, which, yes, the alcohol could’ve at least done something for. But she had always been wary of the substance and what it did to people. They’d just have to buck up and get by without it. Maybe when they were free and safe she’d order everyone a round or two. Until then, Emma was playing calculated moves. Ones that were unlikely to make anyone particularly pleased.

“What’s your name? You look about my age but I definitely don’t remember you from school.” Was she a muggle? Emma could hardly presume.

“So you’re saying we should be handing out the little bottles form the mini fridges.” She was bent over one now, looking at its contents, and had to admit a drink sounded nice if they were about to die. “If we’re trying to avoid a panic.”

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“Getting a bunch of people drunk sounds like the absolute worst thing we could possibly get ourselves into. Not only will people become dehydrated more quickly, but they’ll start acting like reckless morons, instead of just scared morons.” Emma sighed, knowing that no one had appointed her as any sort of leader. Nor should she even want to become one. Her track record was abysmal to say the least. 

The other woman was right of course, Mary just wished she weren’t. It had been more fun to blame someone; now she had to sit with the fact that, assuming they survived this, there were more questions than answers that awaited them on the other side. 

“London,” she shook her head, “you’ve got to stop trying to be L.A. it’s not working for you.” Mary braced a hand against the nearest wall when the ground convulsed beneath them once again. “Look out!” Instinctively she grabbed Emma and yanked as the ugliest piece of art Mary had seen in all her life came loose from the wall. “It does feel a bit cursed,” she added regretfully. 

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“Fuck,” Emma stated, breathing out the words in one flush. Grateful to the stranger, though it always seemed silly to consider people as strangers when they were going through potentially life altering events together. “Maybe I should’ve just told everyone to take things off the wall before we began gathering anything. The entire place is trying to kill us.”

She extracted herself from Mary’s grasps, already making moves to clear all walls and shelves of anything that seemed potentially hazardous. “The biggest problem is going to be keeping everyone calm. The more people panic, the worst decisions get made.”

Between deft fingers Mary plucked a chunk of drywall from her hair and brushed the settling dust from her shoulders. She’d looked better, but frankly she’d felt worse. Only barely, when just around a year ago she’d found herself in another anxious crowd, another situation in which she could be crushed. Mary tried to push that concert and concern from her mind; it wouldn’t help her now to remember the fear of that too, on top of this one. 

Beneath their feet, another tremor seemed to threaten them. “There really isn’t a bomb shelter beneath this old building?” Mary found it made her feel better to complain as she stripped the rooms of their useful items. For the record, she had no practical knowledge on hand about whether a bomb shelter would make a terrible or a great safe haven from the earthquakes. “Where on earth is the foresight of wizardkind?” Just because they had magic didn’t make them immune. 

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“A bomb shelter could easily be turned into a tomb given the right circumstances.” Emma wasn’t ready to give up the freedom that sunlight provided, even with the stability of the building in question at every shake. They merely had to hope that the structure held. That at no point would they call come tumbling down like some sick and twisted Humpty Dumpty narrative. “Arrogance is an easy thing for anyone with too much power. But, it also doesn’t help that earthquakes aren’t exactly known for being of this magnitude in the middle of London.”

That was what disturbed Emma the most. The true cause of the earthquakes was a mystery, one she knew wouldn’t be solved today, but she couldn’t help but fear it was a repercussion of sorts. A religious person might call this Revelations.

Emma Vanity didn’t mind heights. In fact, she was rather fond of them most of the time, due to her time spent as Quidditch Captain, and other instances where gravity seemed the least of her concerns. Being stuck in a high rise hotel during strange earthquakes, however, created a fear where there had been nothing. Logic won out, as it usually did with her. But that just meant she was bossier than usual, trying to decide if it was best to be on the ground floor where they could easily be crushed, or the top floor, where they could tip straight over.

“We need to raid as many of these rooms on this floor as we can for supplies. Anything that might seem of use, grab it.” Who knew what would happen? Who knew what might become of them, or when they might be saved?