The Pantheon

Martin Rathe has this unruly habit of walking home whenever his mind felt weighed down by the events of the day–a habit that he’s exercising today. But his walk isn’t bouncy or chipper. It’s heavy and burdened. Unfortunately, walking tends to make him late for dinner–burdened walking even more so. As he comes to the large oak door, he smoothes his robes, inhales a deep breath, and forces the warmest smile he can muster. No reason to worry any of the family unnecessarily. However, no matter how warm this smile, his eyes are still encircled by dark shadows that not even the strongest sleep draught can cure. He opens the door and calls, “I’m home!” He pads into the hall and glances around for the little ones.

No sound is made in reply to Martin’s announcement for a good fifteen seconds, save for a stifled giggle coming from the room adjacent to the hallway. Suddenly, a young boy’s voice shouts, “Attack!” and three blurs of flailing limbs leap out and make for Martin. The charge, led by Austin barrels toward the man without restrain. Hope’s giggles are getting the better of her as Angelina Rathe, waiflike as she hasn’t been since early childhood, steps into the hallway with a strained smirk, a now-shrieking Harper in her arms.

Chuckling light, Martin Rathe ‘is tackled’ (more like voluntarily collapses) to the floor. “Wow! You three are getting so strong! One day I bet you’ll conquer more than your dear old dad. In fact, I bet you’ll eventually be keeping the streets of Diagon Alley safe,” he comments with a smile. He tickles the girls before standing to his feet and tousling his son’s hair. A wince is given to Angelina as she’s holding Harper, “I’m sorry, sweetheart… did wake her?”

I keep the streets of Diagon safe already, dad! While you’re at work!” Austin announces, glancing to his mother as he realizes he’s forgotten his indoor voice for the hundredth time today. His glance travels to Harper, and he wrinkles his nose. “Let’s get out of here!” he says with a feigned sense of urgency in his voice. “Death Harpy will deafen us!!” With that, Austin, Hope and Tessa flee the room, running from the excited yelps of their young sister. Meanwhile, Angelina steps closer to Martin, wincing only slightly, and sets Harper on her feet. The little girl doesn’t stop yelling, but totters off in the general direction of the other three. “You didn’t wake her,” Angelina assures as she throws her arms around Martin’s middle and sighs heavily. “Austin does a fairly good job of that, though,” she remarks, voice muffled by Martin’s shoulder until she pulls away.

They’re getting big, aren’t they?” Martin comments as they all totter off. He accepts the easy embrace and plants a soft kiss on his wife’s forehead. “We should probably consider getting them a tutor soon. Well–not Harper–but the other three would benefit, I think.” His bites his lower lip as he examines his wife carefully. He doesn’t mention how frail she looks, although he’s concerned. Instead of addressing the subject head-on he side-steps it, “How was your day?”

Angelina hasn’t been sleeping well, but she can’t decide whether it’s because of Harper’s crying or Hope’s intermittent nightmares, or if it’s due to Martin acting rather tense as of late. Worrying unduly is one of Angelina’s strong suits, and sensing that Martin is refraining from telling her things that have him stressed almost causes her to worry more. Presently, she nods and answers his question. “It was fine,” she comments. “Tessa found a beetle and named it Theodore and asked if I could make a leash for it. And Hope has a loose tooth. Austin will probably tell you to try to punch it out later,” she says, smiling despite herself. She always promised herself that after children she’d be able to discuss things other than the antics of her offspring, but that’s proven harder than she thought. These days, she lived for the four small people on whom the sun rose and set. “A tutor would be a good idea, especially for the older two,” agrees Angelina. “Hope only has five years u
ntil she starts school,” she says, almost to herself, recoiling inside. Five years only? “Would Astra know of some good tutors?”

Yes, I actually went and spent some time at the school this week. Astra actually suggested that we move the manor–” Martin walks towards a chair in the living room and takes a seat. “–and while I love living just the six of us on our own, I’m starting to think it might be worth it.” He bites his lip again, as he thinks on his feet for a reason why. “Well, first off, I know Harper’s been such a pain lately, and at the manor there’s more adults that would be willing to pitch in–and even with just the nanny I don’t think it’s as effective as people who are actually invested in the children–” He takes a breath. “And I think you and I could get more peace if we moved, and that it might be good for the children. And the manor is very. . . safe. It’d be like being at school almost.” And then adds quickly for good measure, “Not that safety’s the reason to move somewhere, but when considering the other things it’s a factor. Of course.”

The manor?” echoes Angelina, surprised at the suggestion. As Martin takes a seat, she stays where she is for some time, trying to decide what this means. “Harper’s just loud,” she says first, trying to defend the child somehow, although she knows that this isn’t what the conversation is /really/ about. Considering it, she has a hard time visualizing what it would be like to live at the Rathe manor. “Couldn’t we just… hire some tutors who would come here?” Angelina finally makes her way to the living room and sits down across from Martin, looking to his eyes for clues to what he’s really trying to make happen. “Apart from some additional support with the children, I don’t really see an advantage…” she trails off, absently rubbing her right eyebrow nervously.

Yes, Rathe manor is very . . . s–” Martin rephrases mid-word “–atisfying.” He winces at his own word choice, and then shakes his head. “We could hire a tutor and have them come here, but there’s added benefits about the manor. Like being around some of their family. I once heard it takes a village–although in my case, that wouldn’t really be true.” He frowns slightly and then rubs his temple. “I just want them to grow up knowing their family–” he cuts himself off again. “That actually reminds me of a conversation I had with Niklos a few weeks back. He thinks, and I agree, that it might be best if the children and you don’t see him for awhile.” Martin stares at his feet like they’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. “He’s heading back to Cyprus, and just thinks it would be difficult if they became. . . to attached.”

Looking to Martin with a skeptical glance, so calculating only a former Ravenclaw could possibly possess it, Angelina sighs and nods, looking away slightly. “Family is important,” she admits. She could hardly deny that, and it was clear that her own family wasn’t stepping into that role for her children. Her father hardly left the house anymore, and seemed brooding and uninterested when they visited. And she hadn’t even seen Arianne for months; the young woman had yet to lose her lust for travel. The last owl they received placed her somewhere in North America. Nodding, Angelina continues with, “I suppose an extended stay at the manor would be rather exciting for the children… and… it would be nice to have other adults around during the day. Maybe…” she says, slowly warming up to the idea, “maybe we could go out some evenings? Just you and I?” Angelina looks back to Martin at this, with a hopeful expression.

Absolutely, I think that it would be good for us to have time away from them and pursue life outside of them. And if we’re at the manor we don’t have to worry about a second rate nanny watching them,” Martin nods almost too emphatically. “I’m glad you’re considering this. I just think it would be good for both of us. /And/ them.” He clams up after realizing that he might be selling this idea too much. He sighs, relieved that this may fly, especially given everything going on. He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, leans back, and closes his eyes.

Still not entirely convinced that Martin is disclosing all the facts, Angelina simply nods at what he’s said. He certainly looks calmer, suddenly. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Niklos, does it? Moving to the manor? I mean, of course we should respect his wishes if he wants to put some distance between he and the kids…” she ponders, admittedly more than a little confused. “But nothing’s… he’s not mixed in something bad, is he?”

Of course not,” Martin scoffs unconvincingly. Clearing his throat and opening his eyes he gazes at Angelina, “If that were the case, I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore either, would I?” He clamps his eyes shut again. “Niklos is just a wanderer. A very charming . . . wanderer.” He continues drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. And then, for good measure, Martin opens his eyes again and furrows his eyebrows, “Please keep them away from the Pantheon Grill and any of my supposed Vasili relatives.” He closes his eyes and adds as a sort of after thought. “Just as an aside I’ve cancelled our subscription to the Daily Prophet. We don’t need to expose the children to such tripe.” He raises a hand fleetingly.

Angelina’s expression travels clearly from mild confusion to a mask of open perplexity as Martin speaks. Keeping the children away from the restaurant was more or less an acceptable request, given Niklos’ odd concept of what’s best for their children. But the newspaper? “You did /what/? Martin, no!” Angelina protests, not aggressive but surely shocked. “The Prophet is my only window to the outside world these days. I need it!” After a moment of silence, she confesses, “I know it’s tripe… but it generally has some grounding in the truth. Please, Martin,” Angelina says, eyebrows furrowed.

Tightening his jaw, Martin sighs. “Do you read the /whole/ thing? Maybe I could get it sent to the office and bring it home? That way the children won’t get to it–I just don’t want them to be unnecessarily frightened, or you to be. They publish articles that come from no identifiable source. It’s . . . it’s. . . it’s. . . bad business practice! That’s what it is.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “How about switching to Witch Weekly? They seem to be better at keeping track of stories and the like? I just don’t want anyone being unnecessarily concerned. When there’s something to be concerned about, I’ll bear that burden–”

/Martin/,” Angelina says, a bit affronted, shaking her head. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m not stupid, you know that… I know you do. I can’t be left blissfully unaware like some women could be.” Her flash of anger turns to a pained feeling of empathy for her husband as she looks at him, fretful and desperate. “You bear these worrisome burdens, love… but you can’t hide them from me completely. I know there are things you can’t tell me. Secret things about which disclosure would compromise security. I know there are dangerous people out there.” Standing up and walking towards Martin, she puts one hand on his cheek and stoops down to kneel beside him. “I worry, too. It can’t be helped. You don’t have to try to shelter me all the time.”

A small smile involuntarily pulls Martin’s lips upwards at the feel of Angelina’s touch. “I love you,” he says simply. He takes a deep breath and sighs, the smile fading from his face, “You are my partner, and while there’s no reason to tell you everything right now, as it could amount to nothing. . .” he trails off momentarily, but then continues “. . . I fear there’s a storm coming. And I think there’s little I can do to stop it.” He grasps the hand on his cheek and plants a light kiss on it. “But I will do what I can to protect /our/ family.”

Angelina only has time to smile genially at Martin before, from upstairs, there comes a series of possibly delighted high-pitched squeals and a loud laughter, clearly from Austin. Even from where Martin and Angelina are, the exclamation of, “MY TOOTH!” is clearly audible, as is the thunderous sound of eight feet stampeding down the stairs. Glancing to Martin, Angelina merely says, “Let’s deal with this storm first,” and grins as she goes to attend to daughter, now with one less tooth, and her hysteric siblings.

The late spring has finally settled into the castle and where a few weeks ago the chill of winter hadn’t been quite displaced it has now fled to be replaced by the promise of warmer months ahead. While the tower office is as cut off from the rest of the castle life as it normally is, quiet and serene, there are a few scattered windows that allow the room to be well lit during the day without aid from magical assistance. There is a low table off to one side where there is a stack of paper and beside it a large basket filled with rolled, but not yet sealed, parchment. A magical quill is busy at work on the thin stack of paper, writing something out. When it has finished its task it dips back into the inkpot and the top sheet rolls itself up and deposits itself in the basket. Then the process starts over. As for the main desk it sits empty for Astra is on the balcony above searching through some of the books there.

The familiarity of Hogwarts reassures Martin’s nerves as he trudges down the many hallways to the headmistress’s office. Despite the sleeping draught he’s been taking, dark circles still encase his tired eyes. The rest of his appearance, however, is relatively normal–his robes are smooth and wrinkle free. Biting his bottom lip he comes to the large oak doors of the office. He raises his hand and raps gently on one of them.

Turning her head toward the doors where the soft rapping comes from, Astra smirks. Whoever is on the other side is not faculty or staff else they would have allowed themselves in and this gives the woman some pause for consideration. The hesitation doesn’t last long on her part and she gestures to the entrance, taking out her wand as she does so to release the charms that keep it from opening to just anyone. “Come in. Come in.” Her voice isn’t irritable as much as mildly amused. Not quite tucking her wand away yet she stands up fully and leans over the railing to see who is coming for such a visit. “Martin!” The younger man isn’t hard to recognize even from her distance for she knows him well. Splitting a grin she puts her wand away, drops a book onto a nearby table and then takes the stairs two at a time as she literally hops down them. “My boy, come to pay a call! It’s about time! Come in!” Gesturing to a chair by the main desk, “Do close the door behind you” and then she
proceeds to brush down the front of her waistcoat. “Come to bring news? You don’t look so well you know. Tired about the eyes.” True to form her emotions flash from joy back to aloof as she observes the man more carefully.

A smile is flashed to the headmistress as he’s recognized, “It’s good be here! Been far too long since I’ve been to the school. Although, it’s always nice to see that it doesn’t change. . . much, anyways.” He smirks as he enters the room. “I’m not interupting anything important I hope,” he observes as he notices the quill writing on the parchment in the corner. He half-smiles at the comment about his tired eyes and manages a slight nod, “I’m afraid I’m not sleeping well. . . too much thinking. Perhaps I need to invest in a pensieve.” His smile broadens as he strolls further into the large room.

“You can use mine if it’ll help. I’ve not much use for it these days without an apprentice to abuse, err, that is to teach.” Astra heads around to her desk and dragging out the chair takes a seat without much formality. It isn’t a piece of furniture that is easily conducive to rocking back and propping one’s feet up on the desk and she looks a bit lost when she doesn’t manage to do it this time around. Making a face, she grumps to herself and then curls her hands into her lap. “Oh! I know you’re probably here more for business than gossip, but I /must/ tell you. I’ve got a potential match set up for Seker! The Marqueen family. Very good name, very good family, and they’re willing to add one-hundred and ten acres to the estate. It’d be such a good match. I do hope Seker’s game for it. The girl is young, but she’ll grow up soon enough and if we’re lucky we’ll have more Rathe running around.” Tilting her head, “Angelina and you are planning on having more, yes?” “You’re a good f
amily sort. Not like me. You should have more kids.”

“Actually I would appreciate that,” Martin arches an eyebrow at the notion of Astra abusing an apprentice and he bites his lip to prevent chuckling at her struggle with the chair. “A match for Seker? I don’t think I’m familiar with the Marqueens–what kind of business are they in? And when you say young–how young?” He arches his eyebrow again and then asks, “Does Seker know you’re peddling him off for lands?” And then he chuckles at the notion of having more children, “I think four is enough for now. Harper’s always crying. And not just crying /screaming/. Austin calls her the ’shrieking death harpy’. Besides, I think the stress of the brood is getting to Angelina, and that’s not to say the nanny isn’t helpful–”

Waving her hand in a dismissive fashion Astra sighs “Drop them off at the estate and get them a tutor. It’ll be good for the both of you to have some /you/ time.” The woman’s notion on how to raise a family is perhaps not the *best* example out there. “The estate and the resources exist. If my father says anything, which I doubt he will, you can tell him to take it up with me. I’ll give you the funds to find appropriate tutors if that’s what you need. You can visit them on the weekends or after work or whatever you need to do.” Arching an eyebrow at the “peddling” comment she smirks, “Duty to family my dear boy and he hasn’t seen fit to produce any direct heirs. Neither has Satinka. Not that I /blame/ Satinka. The men have the easy part of it, but some women don’t mind it for all that I suppose. I don’t think Satinka will be bearing me any grandchildren and so *someone* has to fulfill that role.” “I’m not /peddling/ him off so much as making sure the family’s ties and roots r
emain strong. Marriage for love is a beautiful thing, but it rarely works that way. Marriage, at least for *us*, is primarily political and duty bound. You have Angelina and in that you are lucky, but most purebloods aren’t so fortunate.” “Now, come sit. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’ll talk to Angelina about dropping the children off at the estate–” Martin shrugs and sighs “–she’s not looking well. Very. . . thin lately. I’m not entirely sure why–” He cuts himself off as he takes a seat. “And I understand love and marriage don’t always go hand in hand, but I’m curious as to what Seker thinks about it all. But /you/ wouldn’t marry someone for the sake of the line, would you?” the question is emphasized with an arched eyebrow. He shrugs again as he smoothes out the wrinkles in his robe from sitting in the chair. “I /am/ fortunate, Angelina is a gem.”

“Good, good the older ones should be starting an education in earnest anyway and it’s about time we set them up for a productive future.” Astra stretches out her legs under the desk, not a difficult thing given her size, and she waits a breath before answering Martin’s question. “No. I didn’t. The man in question was a twit who was two decades older than myself. Instead of biding my father’s command, which now that I look back on it would have probably been /better/ for me, I went off and chose who was going to be the father of *my* children. I had secured my duty by the time I was eighteen.” Running two fingers over her brow the woman sighs again, “If I had done as my father wished I probably would have had a happier life, but I couldn’t see it then. I was too young. I may not have /loved/ the man, but we would have had a good strong family and the troubles I had would probably not have existed. Granted, there would have been other issues but not Ministry related.” A thin ru
eful smile follows quickly upon those words.” “The girl is eleven this year and entering Hogwarts but I’m sure with the right guidance she’ll grow into a strong enough woman to fit into the Rathe family.” “I need to pin Seker down and ask him to consider the contract, but I’d rather know he was committed to something than wait and hope that he’ll find a suitable match on his own. Sometimes I think I did those children a disservice in the way Blair and I raised them.”

“Have you met the young lady in question? Or just her family?” Martin asks idly as he leisurely leans back in his seat. “So I assume, since she’s only eleven the two won’t be wedding until she’s done, correct?” “Is it necessary to draw a contract so soon? I don’t know much about such things, but it just seems. . . early, particularly considering her age.” He presses his lips together and then asks a more personal question, “Are you suggesting you think you might have led a happier life if you’d been with the aforementioned twit than Professor Helit?” He looks down uncomfortably. It’s not in his nature to raise such things with people he cares about or is loyal to. Questioning strangers is so much easier than questioning those he’s loyal to.

“I have yet to meet the child in person, but I know that my uncle does business with her father. Right there we already have connections and that is enough for me.” Calm about this, Astra’s taken the time to digest what she’s potentially doing to her son and while it doesn’t sit the best with her it is, in her mind, far better than a bad alternative. “They’ll be married when she’s seventeen, whether she’s finished with school or not. Of course, I’ll insist that she finish her education regardless because a witch without schooling may as well be nothing more than a glorified muggle.” Pulling her hands out of her lap the woman reaches out and rests them on the arms of the chair. Tapping her fingers against the wood, she sizes Martin up as she allows the silence to encompass the room. The time stretches out but in actuality maybe ten or twenty seconds pass at most. “Quintus? No. I would not have been happier with Reynard than Quintus. My father chose that match for me when I was
no more than five. I might have been younger. Quintus /I/ chose well after my children were born and my duty in that regard filled.” There’s another beat, “But Quintus *did* ask my father’s permission and had father refused,” uncomfortably she shifts and there’s a frown, “I would have done as he wanted. Duty to family always comes before desire for self – no matter the cost.” Then she looks up sharply and eyes the man in front of her, considering something but not bringing voice to her words just yet.

Several seconds of silence encompass the room and Martin sits in the quiet, unsure what to say in response. He cross his arms over his chest, and continues to stare at the same spot on the floor. After several moments pass, he swallows and then moistens his lips, “Well the Rathes have my loyalty despite regardless of anyone else claiming the title ‘family’ to me.”

Whatever was sitting ready to say is lost in that moment. Snapping to sit straight and leaning in slightly over the desk, Astra is wired. “The Rathe /are/ your family regardless of blood. You are one in every way that matters to us.” Narrowing her eyes the corners of her lips twitch downward, “Who is trying to make claims on you that they have no right to? Your grandparents? I’ll show them the door if they even try that. Leaving you to rot until it suited /their/ purposes. What do they know of family or loyalty?” Hands move to rest on the flat of the table surface and her fingers curl down like claws. “You are my son. You should have been my brother. You are a Rathe. Who is trying to make claims on you?”

“No, the Fosters have left me alone for some time now. They tried to contact us when Hope was born, but I nipped that in the bud.” Martin looks up from the floor. “Just after my final year at Hogwarts, a man claiming to be my birth father contacted me. He lived in Cyprus, and Angelina and I visited him a couple years in a row. I genuinely thought nothing of it–” He frowns slightly, and then seemingly changes the subject, “Astra, do you read the Daily Prophet?”

Lifting on hand in an attempt to say something she drops it back onto the desk and just stares. A few more attempts are made by Astra to speak as she first opens and then closes her mouth in an attempt to figure out just /what/ to say. Then, instead of addressing the first issue she decides to answer the question. “Not often, no. It’s a trashy and sensationalist paper. It’s not fit for human consumption most days unless you’re looking for something to laugh at, why? What does this have to do with a man who happened to be there during the conception of your life but not during your childhood?”

A nod is given at the notion of the Daily Prophet being sensationalist and then he frowns, “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” He takes a deep breath, “Anyways my supposed birth-father moved to Diagon Alley to set up shop for a family business–a Mediterranean restaurant in Diagon Alley. Apparently I have many biological cousins, uncles, and aunts and they run a chain of restaurants throughout Cyprus and Greece.” He shrugs slightly. “Once again, I thought nothing of it. I assumed there wasn’t harm in getting to know this man, even though he’ll never /really/ be my family. Until–” He frowns and cuts himself off. “–I’m getting ahead of myself again. I apologize.” After clearing his throat he continues, “Anyways, several months ago an article was printed in the Daily Prophet, by one Thomas Porter–a reporter with a death wish. Porter described generalities about Dark Wizards, but named the Vasilis in his article–my biological father’s lastname.” He swallows again, “Wel
l aware of the tripe printed in the Prophet, I ignored it. And then another article came out with more sinister material connected to the name, so I visited the Daily Prophet. No one I’ve talked to knows who Thomas Porter even is.” He offers another shrug. “I still didn’t fret. Not until a few weeks back in Diagon Alley–”

A nod is given at the notion of the Daily Prophet being sensationalist and then he frowns, “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” Martin takes a deep breath, “Anyways my supposed birth-father moved to Diagon Alley to set up shop for a family business–a Mediterranean restaurant in Diagon Alley. Apparently I have many biological cousins, uncles, and aunts and they run a chain of restaurants throughout Cyprus and Greece.” He shrugs slightly. “Once again, I thought nothing of it. I assumed there wasn’t harm in getting to know this man, even though he’ll never /really/ be my family. Until–” He frowns and cuts himself off. “–I’m getting ahead of myself again. I apologize.” After clearing his throat he continues, “Anyways, several months ago an article was printed in the Daily Prophet, by one Thomas Porter–a reporter with a death wish. Porter described generalities about Dark Wizards, but named the Vasilis in his article–my biological father’s lastname.” He swallows again,
“Well aware of the tripe printed in the Prophet, I ignored it. And then another article came out with more sinister material connected to the name, so I visited the Daily Prophet. No one I’ve talked to knows who Thomas Porter even is.” He offers another shrug. “I still didn’t fret. Not until a few weeks back in Diagon Alley–”

Digging her fingernails into the desk top as if they were claws the small woman listens intently without any form of interruption. Keen eyes observe the other’s facial features and expressions while Astra herself keeps close observation on not words alone but body language. Not ready to spring into any sort of action she detaches herself from her stance and leans back into the chair. Grabbing the edges of her coat she coils it around herself as if it were a cloak, but there is less draping of fabric. She doesn’t hunch down but remains seated upright and still, her pale face peering over the edge of her collar while she puts this to memory. It is her way of taking in her surroundings, pacing herself before flying into a flurry of action. There is only one motion as she lifts a hand from her lap as if to say “continue”.

“Do you remember that student with met in Diagon Alley? Quinn Branigan? Well if you recall I had an encounter that involved him several days prior,” Martin frowns further as he recalls the events of the day. “Daniel Darian was there with a younger woman I didn’t know and a darker haired woman who introduced herself as Angelica Harrington. Harrington knew who I was and that I was remotely affiliated with Niklos Vasili.” “I can’t quite describe it, but something about her urged me to do some back-checking, and when I did, I learned Harrington was a runaway. She’d been expelled from Hogwarts at age fourteen and had supposedly runaway thereafter. That was thirty-some years ago.” He moistens his lips and pauses for several seconds before adding, “The stranger part in all of it is, the description in the file did not match the woman I saw. At all. And beyond that there was no picture.” He pauses again. “I thought it was an oversight. Files can get lost after thirty years so I thoug
ht I’d contact her family, perhaps they’d still have a picture.” Several moments of silence pass as Martin considers how to articulate the rest, “Dead. All dead. Not one relative remaining. Not a cousin. Not an aunt. No one.”

Too long has silence and happiness made Astra complacent when it comes to dealing with life outside of Hogwarts. This news, along with the earlier revelations brings all that to a screeching halt and she’s rattled headlong back into her old ways of doing things. The icy silence that envelops her doesn’t melt away immediately and when it does it is only the silence that shatters. “Daniel ran away at the age of fourteen. I remember that because he fled right after the Malumaximi attacked the school. I never understood /why/ he left, but I remember that he dropped off the face of the earth only to return some twelve years ago.” Hooded eyes open wider and the woman forcibly keeps herself still. “Now we have another orphan with no living family attaching herself to Darian or Darian is attached to her but neither of them have a past that is easily traceable.” “Angelica Harrington reminds me of another name, but I somehow doubt it is the same person. There are a billion Angelica’s i
n the world,” and here her smile curls into a feral thing, “but it would be my luck if fate spat that hairball up near my feet.” “I remember you and Quinn speaking of this altercation, yes. There was another woman involved if I’m recalling correctly. You didn’t happen to catch her name, did you?”

“Yes, there was an altercation after I left–Quinn described it. But, no, I didn’t catch her name, although she looked vaguely familiar.” Martin sighs. “And I admit I didn’t look at her as well as I ought. It was sloppy.” He bites his bottom lip and then adds, “It’s all so strange. And it seems sinister, but there’s nothing blatantly so; nothing obviously wrong. Merely suspicion.”

“So this strange woman comes out of nowhere, supposedly friends of Darian and approaches /you/.” Stirring from her seat Astra finally stands up and shoving her hands behind her back she clasps them there as she begins to pace. “What you say bodes ill and I sense there’s a change in the weather Martin. It feels like a storm is approaching. Low, quiet, and gathering it feels like there are clouds on the horizon.” As if to verify this she looks to the clear and sunny skies outside of the nearest window and she releases another sigh. “I’ll need to get back issues of the Prophet unless you’ve kept copies of the articles?” “Strange that too how articles can be written and printed by an author no one at the paper knows about. Something is rotting and I have a very bad feeling we’re about to walk on top of it all.” Turning her head to look at Martin she stops mid-pace and comes to a halt, standing straight again but her hands kept behind her back. “The man who is claiming heritage ov
er you has a shop in Diagon you say. Perhaps I should develop a taste for,” pondering, “Greek” pausing before adding, “food.”

“I didn’t bring the articles with me, but I have them stored away at my office. I could owl them to you–” Martin offers as he nods at the idea of a storm coming. “Yes, the Vasilis have a restaurant in Diagon Alley: The Pantheon.” He wrinkles his nose and then adds, “Be careful. I don’t really know what’s going on, or what it will all come to.” He swallows again and sighs, “I’m sorry to have brought this up at all. I don’t mention it to Angelina. She’s looking so thin, and I don’t want to alarm her uncessarily.”

“I think it would be best if you moved your family to the estate. I’ll make sure father keeps the family’s private parlor open for apparation, but the rest of it will be shut off like it usual.” Astra’s calm has taken back hold of her but her eyes give away the energy that lies under that unruffled exterior. “If there is something foul afoot it would be best if you had a place of safety and while the estate isn’t Hogwarts it’s safe enough.” Pulling her hands away from the small of her back she waves one offhandedly. “I am, if nothing else, a small woman and that often helps me.” Smiling, she shows teeth and the expression is all edges and sharp points, but she does seem amused. “You’d be surprised at how many people who don’t know me brush me off given my size and sex. Stupid, stupid, stupid but people are generally lazy. I want to see what this man who is trying to claim /my/ family member as his is made of. I bet it’s none too tasty.”

A nod is given. “I’ll speak to Angelina about moving to the estate.” Martin frowns slightly, “Although I may have to actually explain everything going on.” Swallowing hard he stands to his feet. “Alright, I will owl those articles to you to review. They are, at the very least, scandalous. And at the most–” He shrugs again. “Thank you for seeing me. Unfortunately, I best be off to see to the children.” That said, the auror walks to the door.

Hrmphing at something Astra calls out “One moment Martin!” Stepping forward toward a glass case she stops up short as something occurs to her. Waving her hand distractedly in front of her face, she turns instead. “I’ll have the pensieve shipped round to the manor. You can access it there and that way I can use it too if I find I have need for it.” Worried eyes take in the younger man but all she does is offer a very real smile. “Martin, take care of yourself and Angelina. We’ll come out of this. We always do.” What she doesn’t add is /I hope/. “Give everyone my love and I’ll see you soon.”

It’s been a long day for Martin Rathe, but at least it’s over. He could, like he normally does, apparate home, but then he’d miss out on important thinking time; time to control his emotions and thoughts. Frowning, Martin walks down Diagon Alley, away from the Ministry of Magic, with his satchel slung precariously over his shoulder. In his arms he clutches a number of thick file folders loaded with parchment: he’s taking work home again, Angelina won’t be impressed.

Diagon Alley is often full to bustling and today is certainly no different than most. The after work crowd descends upon the streets and there are the constant *pops* and *cracks* of adult wizards and witches coming and going. Astra cannot be bothered with such mundane magic and in true show of her desire for drama she chooses her alternative method. Blue sparkles appear overhead and come down to the ground, confusing a few people who are ever so inconveniently in *her* way. A sudden *flash* of light and the woman stands solidly on the street acting as if she owns the cobblestones beneath her feet. A middle-aged wizard hops backward upon nearly walking into the smaller woman and she merely casts a disdainful and haughty look at him as if it is his fault that he was unaware of her sudden appearance.

It really shouldn’t be this easy for an 11 year old boy with 1 working eye to get away from his parents, but he does it. And Quinn does it too well by now, he’s had a while to perfect the art. He moves along quietly looking like the results of a Pirate and a Gypsy who decided to get together and reproduce…and he’s quite busy. Slung in front of him like a baby carrier is something all wrapped up like a baby and he has a couple of parchments under one arm, his wand tucked away somewhere and of course his satchel which has been stuffed with nobody really knows what slung from his other arm as he sighs and continues on his way. But he has to stop abbruptly when he sees all the blue sparkles and then the flashing and his eyes widen a bit. “…well blazin’ footsies, what the…” BlinkBLINK.

Very few people could ignore the kind of entrance Astra has made, and Martin is certainly not one of them. While squinting at the theatrics his adopted mother so enjoys, a smile spreads across Martin’s lips–the first genuine one that’s showed up for the last few days. He pads up towards Astra and offers the middle aged wizard who nearly ran into her a similar look of disdain. Clearing his throat, he reprimands the gentleman in his ‘Ministry voice’ “You should be more careful. Someone’s apt to get hurt if /you/ don’t pay attention.” Like it’s the other guy’s fault. Then redirecting his attention to the headmistress, he smirks, “Astra.”

Arching an eyebrow at the reprimand to the man Astra smirks in a smug fashion. “You’d best do to listen to your betters, /sir/.” Gesturing with her hand in a wave of dismissal she turns her attention upon Martin in earnest. “Martin my boy! I didn’t expect to run into you so soon.” Holding out her hands to grab the young man’s arms, she doesn’t embrace him but rather she sizes him up and down. “It’s simply been too long since I’ve seen you. For shame! You don’t even bring the grandchildren to see me. Now that Seker and Satinka are grown it’s difficult getting used to the silence.” For all her “rebukes” there is a fond smile on her lips and from the looks of this woman that in itself is an uncommon occurrence. “How *is* the family?” Finally letting go of the taller man she tucks her hands behind her back and her stance suggests that she expects others to give them plenty of room. Even though she’s paying most of her attention to Martin her eyes flick about as she constantly ch
ecks her surroundings.

Quinn Branigan looks between the two adults, back and forth and forth and back and back and forth before he awkwardly unrolls a piece of parchment and he gets his piece of charcoal and eyes them as he gets to sketching, half bent over and leaning against a wall for balance as he slowly slides down and seems to be doing a half head stand with his trying to draw and not drop anything.

Beaming, Martin straightens his posture, “Yes, I should stop by the school more often. But I admit between work and the children, life is quite busy these days.” His eyes twinkle as she looks him over. “The children are good–they’re as noisy as ever, and while it is distracting, it’s beautiful noise. The temper tantrums and tears aren’t so pleasant, but the giggles and laughter are.” He shrugs, still clutching all of his file folders. “I’ll bring them around soon. I promise.” Chuckling, he nods about Seker and Satinka, “I can imagine life would be quiet without those two around. What are they doing these days, anyways?” Furtively, Martin glances around the area, and then his gaze catches Quinn–the kid from the other day with the ‘Angelica Harrington’ incident. And then his gaze turns from stealthy into an all-out stare.

“Satinka is trying to restore the family name to some semblance of “respectability” and Seker is, well, I’m not sure what he’s doing. I think most days he’s taking after Cedric and wasting the family resources.” Astra stifles the mischievous grin, “I’m fairly sure he’ll be doing something sooner or later. I’m of the mind he really ought to work as a serious artist or else start a shop here in Diagon where he can build his own violins. He’d be good at it and it’s something he loves.” Catching Martin’s glance and then his outright stare she turns just as quickly to look at the child that has stolen the man’s attention. “The children in Diagon get weirder every year.” “Do you know him or something?”

Quinn Branigan just looks a bit frozen in place…he may be stuck as he falls over to the side, peering between his legs to continue sketching his picture before rolling it back up and shoving it back under his arm as he squirms and gets to his feet with an oof, careful of the baby like bundle held to his chest. It takes him a few to notice Martin staring and he adjusts his eye patch and smile brightly, making his way over rather quickly, free hand shoved into his satchel and rummaging around. “Mr Soft! I’ve been looking for you.” He bows to Astra distractedly.

“I, uh, met him in a very unusual way the other day. Saphia tripped over him . . . and an . . .” Martin thinks better than to tell Astra the whole story “. . ./unnamed/ crazed witch reprimanded him for commenting on some young lady’s bosom.” He forces that same fake smile that he’s been feeding Angelina all week. He attempts a fleeting shrug, “Just strange is all.” He hears the boy call him Mr Soft, and immediately corrects, “It’s Mister Rathe, actually. The soft-story was just to demonstrate why I shouldn’t eat sweets–” He furrows his eyebrows, “Why are you looking for me?”

Looking from boy to man and making the circuit again Astra’s gaze lands firmly on Martin as she narrows her eyes “Don’t think I’m an idiot Martin, you know I can’t stand poorly disguised lies. You’ll be telling me the story, in full, later.” The tone of voice is commanding and she doesn’t think twice about how she addresses the auror before turning again to look at the strange child. “So boy, you seem to know my son.” Gesturing with a wave to direct Quinn over to their place on the pavement, she addresses both casually “Do I even *want* to know?” “And just what is he,” this to Martin, “a pirate or a gypsy or is he a Gypsy Pirate do you think?” There’s a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips, but it is the merest suggestion of good humor.

Quinn Branigan shifts his weight from foot to foot and he smiles sweetly at Astra, ducking his head sheepishly and then looking back to Martin. “I’m sorry!” He chirps. “Mr. Rathe.” He pulls the small loaf of bread wrapped up in pieces of an old shirt and he holds it out to Martin, his other hand resting on his baby bundle and petting it as he is almost squirming with excitement. “Now you can have sweets, here! It is some of my Granny’s bread, it has a lot of fiber in it.” He nods sagely and then squints at Astra. “I know your son? But you look too young ma’am to have a son, is it a baby?” Then he chuckles at the comment about gypsies and pirates, toeing the ground.

“Yes ma’am,” Martin states knowing full well it’s not worth arguing with Astra. “I’d say a Gypsy Pirate,” he half-smiles. Turning a pale crimson, Martin accepts the loaf of bread (that probably weighs a pound or more), “I don’t avoid sweets because my diet lacks fiber; it’s my wife–” Shrugging, Martin drops it. Some things are better left unsaid. “Thank you for the bread,” he concedes. “Tell me, did that strange woman–not the one with the bosoms that looked like the painting–do anything /unusual/ after I went back to work?”

Rolling her eyes in an exaggerated manner Astra waggles two fingers in the boy’s direction. “I have two natural children that are adults and this one here who I adopted some, what now, ten years ago?” Pulling her hand back and crossing her arms over her chest she eyes the boy with a critical gaze. “Hrmph. Guess I should cut back on the potions if my own children, adopted or not, start looking /older/ than me.” Glancing at Martin with a smirk, “I don’t suppose you’ll start halting your age anytime soon?” The discussion turns more *interesting* and instead of interrupting right away she falls silent to listen to the back and forth. Curious as to what’s going on but wanting to satisfy her curiosity about something else she gestures offhandedly at Quinn. “No more babies for me – ever, but it would seem you have one of your own? Do Gypsy-Pirates buy babies on the street and drag them around?”

“Your /wife/ lacks fiber in ‘er diet? That poor woman! Ahhh, maybe iffen ya put a bit of jam on the bread after slicing some for toast and feed it to ‘er she won’t be so cranky.” Quinn likes to consider himself a genius. The heavy bread is taken and Quinn seems a bit relieved, shoving his parchments into his satchel before freezing at the question and tugging one back out. “Oh sir, oh goodness sir…um, can ye define /unusual/?” Then he’s listening to Astra closely as he blinks several times. “Well, is it bad to say that you look too pretty to be a mummy? Me mum’s a mum but she’s uh, well she’s special and I guess she’s pretty but eh…” He just looks confused as he blinks some more, that one eye widening. “Me mum dropped me from a broom and put me eye out, but no. I dun tink they buy babies on the street.” He unwraps his bundle with one hand to carefully expose the little soft grey rhesus monkey he’s holding close to his chest. “This is Mittens.”

“I like looking older. I’m hoping that someday my hair will go white and some Ministry intern will mistake me for someone wise. No one else would,” Martin states matter-of-factly. He turns back to Quinn, “She’s not cranky, she just wants us all healthy. . . in fact if anything, Angelina is the opposite of cranky. Most of the time, anyways.” Everyone had their moments, right? “I have to define unusual? Did she have words with anyone? Or perhaps threaten anyone? Hurt someone? I would call any of these things unusual unless provoked.” He shudders ever so slightly as he recalls the woman’s manner.

Arching an eyebrow again at the man’s last words and especially the shudder, Astra’s taking in everything and storing it all up. Instead of asking about the possible altercation she smiles widely at Quinn and if allowed will actually pat him on the head in a fond fashion. “Martin, I like this one. Do you think I should add it to my collection?” Laughing softly as she draws back a step, she tilts her head and eyes Quinn with an appraising look. “Monkeys and Gypsy-Pirates wandering Diagon Alley. I knew there was a good reason for leaving Hogwarts today. Tell me boy, when do you start school? I’ll certainly be keeping my eyes open for your arrival. You are, shall we say, interesting.” “And I *do* so like *interesting* people.”

Wow. This is interesting, Quinn’s head cocks to the side much like a little bird and he squints that eye at Martin. “Hmm.” Heads are patted and he chuckles with a waggle of his eyebrows. “M’ 11 ma’am, so I start next term thingie I’m sure. I’m still gettin’ me stuff, I’ve got me wand though!” He nods sagely. “I’m glad, I’d hate it if ye didn’t like me.” He sighs and then goes back to the serious topic, unrolling the parchment after tucking Mittens back against him and he holds it up for them to say. He’s drawn with his charcoal a rather dramatic picture…there are 2 women and and a man, one of the women is…very well endowed and the other looks crazy with her hair sticking up all over her head and she’s reaching out to pull the busty woman’s hair and her mouth is open and there are sharp teeth and the busty woman’s nose is turned up very high and she’s crying and the man is off to the side with his hands on his hips. “This is what happened. She lost ‘er mind, I’m sorry, she
went bonkers and M’ not sure if she pulled the Pillow lady’s ‘air all our or not, but she was rather loud…”

“I think he could make a good addition to your ever-growing collection,” Martin agrees stroking his chin. And then the picture is shown. Shock and awe. Martin’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and the Auror inhales a deep breath. “Good lad. I can see you have /excellent/ documentation skills. This is very helpful. May I–borrow these?” he points to the pictures. “I promise I’ll get them back to you, by owl if need be.” He strokes his chin again.

Raising her eyebrows and looking at the picture with keen interest she turns to Martin, “People I know or just a random event that happened? You seem. . .perturbed by whatever did happen.” Noting the man’s reaction she chews on the inside of her cheek. “Boy, I’ll want your name. Further, I think it will be in your best interest if you continue to take reports on whatever is going on in the Alley while you’re here. Martin is a *very* good man to get to know.” Running a hand through her hair she pulls on her ponytail as she thinks. “Martin, I think if there are things of gravity afoot you could use an extra pair of ears and. . .” smiling just a touch, “well an extra eye if nothing else.” “Of course,” turning to Quinn she addresses him again, “I’d expect you wouldn’t speak of this to anyone as it’d be all very hush-hush. You know good spy work and all that. Think you’re up for a bit of adventure?” Then realizing she’s never given her name she tucks her hands behind her back, “I’
m Astra Rathe. Headmistress at Hogwarts.”

Quinn Branigan is quiet for a few moments, eyeing Martin and whispering to his monkey then he nods firmly. “Oh, okay, yes sir…it isn’t me best work though, you can’t see the Bug Nutso woman’s arm as well cuz the Pillow Lady’s friends there get in the way…” He points a bit before blinking and handing the parchment over with a grin. “I’m Quinn Branigan.” He thumbs the side of his nose and offers a hand all polite like. “Err, I tink this is where I say pleased ta meetcha.” He opens his mouth and shuts it and opens it again as he listens. “Ooo, of course I’ll keep lookin’ at tings and be quiet about it.” He almost bounces before he hears ‘Headmistress at Hogwarts’ and he flashes a sheepish smile. “…Doh, Um. Err. Whoa.”

Shaking his head, Martin strokes his chin once again, “I only knew /one/. And that was because he helped me find some art at his shop. The man in the picture is Daniel Darian. The crazed woman claimed to be someone who she likely wasn’t. And the other woman looked familiar, and I’m certain I’ve met her before, but I really didn’t take much note of her–in all honesty she ignored me and was thus easy to overlook. Honestly, I left the group uneasy, but have only grown in my . . . uneasiness after doing some fact-checking.” He bites his bottom lip and then nods at Quinn, “Thank you, Mister Branigan. This is helpful to me. And yes, I think it would helpful if you keep drawing and reporting on the goings-on. When I’m around people tend to behave, it’s when I leave that they. . . interesting.” He arches an eyebrow and tucks the parchment into his satchel.

“I couldn’t agree more with Martin. Besides, however stupid it may be, adults tend to trust children more and say or do things around them they wouldn’t dream of doing around other adults.” A feral smile parts her lips and she shows the barest glint of teeth, “Let them underestimate you and brush you off as “just a child”. It’s more amusing that way anyway.” The name Darian does cause a look of distress and Astra turns to the man with a suddenly worried air. “What in the name of Mordred’s betrayal is *that* man getting up into *now*? Darian filth.” Turning her head to spit first to her left and then to her right she allows a single shudder to pass through her frame. “His boy Tommy *doesn’t seem* bad, but I don’t trust the father.” “Someone with that many smiles and that many manners has *got* to be hiding something.” That or perhaps the woman’s just insanely paranoid.

Quinn’s eyebrows raise a fraction as he listens and looks between the two, submitting things to memory and continuing to look back and forth and forth and back and he finally nods firmly. “I’ll do me best.” He promises before adjusting his eye patch. “I’ll ‘ave to get some more parchment though.” A pause. “And if the crazy lady comes again, I’ll do me best but I might ‘ave to hide.” He sighs softly, submitting more things to his memory as he listens before he points at each adult in turn. “If either of ye need more of Granny’s Rye of Regularity morning ‘appy loaf, don’t hesitate to call.” He freezes like he just heard somebody call his name. “…I tink I ‘ave to go…”

Martin Rathe notes the change in Astra’s manner at the mention of Darian, “I don’t /know/ what Darian’s up to, but the company he’s keeping is questionable at best.” His lips curl down into a small frown, “It’s far more complex than the event in Diagon Alley.” “Mister Branigan, please watch out for strange happenings and pay particular attention to the man you drew in your picture.” “If the crazy lady comes back, please contact me directly via owl.”

“If you need more parchment and your family will not or cannot provide you with sufficient feel free to send a post to me and I’ll make sure you have the supplies you need. I can’t have our spy unable to fulfill his duties.” Astra’s smile returns briefly but it doesn’t linger overlong. Nodding to Quinn as the boy explains his need to depart, “Of course, hopefully we’ll see each other again before too long.” Then turning to Martin, “Come by Hogwarts soon and fill me in on what’s going on as you know it. Anything Darian is up to can’t be good.”

Quinn Branigan tilts his head to the side, unasked questions on his tongue but he just has to nod to show he understands. “Gotcha, nutter returns, owl. No more parchment and me da gets too nosy, owl.” He ticks things off on his fingers. “I ‘ope you both ‘ave the best rest of time together!” He waggles his fingers and grins, adjusting his hold on his monkey baby bundle and the strap of his satchel and he turns on his heel smoothly and calls out as he departs. “Ta ta fer now!” Then takes off running.

“I will come by Hogwarts in the next week or so. I think I need to process all of this first,” Martin bites his bottom lip. “It’s not official Ministry business, you know. I just–have a feeling.” “I best be getting home. Angelina will worry.” He pastes the toothy grin he’s been wearing for the last few days on his lips and takes a few steps on his journey before turning back and waving to his mother, “I’ll see you soon. I promise.” That said, he turns around and continues on his path: homeward bound.