[ It's the one thing all professionally paranoid (former? sort of?) hunters love seeing after the turning point of a drawn out war between terrified humans with guns and the supernatural and technically still in the middle of the conflict upon returning to whatever passes for home these days — something off about the premises, the curtain in the window of the door not quite where it was when one left, the indefinable disturbance in the air of the house. Like the quality of light has changed. Like another terrible twist is lurking around the corner from all the preceding terrible twists.
Peter has been out of communication for a few days, and that is totally unremarkable from him, perhaps even a bonus in some people's eyes. Well. In most people's eyes. ... Everyone's eyes? The man simply won't die, so what are the odds he got picked off by any of Monroe's twitchy newbies?
Then again, the odds are always pretty fucked up for them. What are the odds, for example, that there's a young man on the floor of Chris Argent's kitchen, his back against the cabinet beneath the sink, one chair of the table knocked over and lying askew from the sprawl of one of his legs, eyes shut, shallow breathing. A couple of sluggishly healing knife wounds, but not much blood anywhere for a goddamn change; he must have come in after he finished doing most of the bleeding. His hand is resting over what is probably some other injury on his stomach.
And it is, of course, Peter. A much younger Peter, just a few years older than Scott and the others are now. Back in those days (and why isn't he there instead of this kitchen), he hadn't been known for being aggressive and this is an all too picture perfect scene to emphasize it. That he hasn't even opened his eyes yet either makes the situation more dire, or more suspicious. They probably hadn't interacted much all those years ago, but Chris knows him, doesn't he? Knows how he works, how he is. Besides, there's always so much bullshit that this could be, some kind of illusion, whatever. ]
[The mess doesn't stop just because Scott McCall saves the day. There's legions of other hunters out there with a taste for the kill, all of whom have been waiting with baited breaths for a war to start. He's ashamed to be tied to the man who instigated it, ashamed of his own name sometimes in ways that could drive him crazy, if he let it. But he remembers Alison, who also had his name, and it's easier to live with it.
He's back from what could have been a peaceful negotiation, except Chris has bruise forming on his arm and an ache in his back from where Scott threw him out of the way of a bullet. Sometimes this is just how it is, bullets before understanding. He's getting old, though, and Scott might be likeable, and sweet, but even Chris has to admit that he does have a face that you want to punch first. He's tired, and when he finds the door isn't locked, and that he's sure he closed the curtains on his way out, he instinctively reaches for his gun and loathes the thought of having to move yet again to avoid hit and run's.
He's expecting to be ambushed; what he's not expecting is to find someone on his kitchen floor, bleeding out, that much obvious even with the lights low. When he flips them on, bright and an unforgiving yellow, he's fairly certain he's stepped outside the realm of reality. He remembers Peter in some vague capacity; pictures on walls, brief glimpses from old recon missions where he wanted desperately to impress his father and do better than Kate, who was always more ruthless and more keen for the kill. He approaches on soft steps, sliding his gun onto the kitchen counter and crouching down for a better look at Peter's face. It is him, the same way it was Derek a couple of years back, fifteen and better tempered.
The question, then, isn't is this really Peter Hale, and more why the fuck is Peter Hale on my kitchen floor. He's tired. ] Give me the goddamn strength, [he mutters under his breath, and inches close again, reaching to press two fingers under Peter's jaw, testing his pulse, and then after that, he rakes his eyes over to try and assess the damage; try to assess if there's any wolfsbane he has to purge. ]
[ The pulse is there beneath his fingers, annoyingly strong despite Peter's apparent state. So like him. Fucking drama queen, even if he must be genuinely out of it to not react right away. Or perhaps it's just that he's never been the strongest werewolf, not at this age, definitely not in his family. Which is not to compare Talia to Kate... or maybe he would, if he and Chris had ever cared to hold a conversation.
Still, the ol' werewolf senses are kicking in, which Chris must have seen thousands of times before on occasions of varying morality. The eyes open, the adrenaline kicks in practically before he can process what he's seeing, the body reacts because that's the problem with all of them, especially at this age: instinct overrules. In this case, it's tempered by his injuries. Peter sure does try to launch himself backwards and away from the hunter he recognizes as an Argent, the same distant and anxiety-inducing way Chris recognized him, but he can only slide like, a foot to the right on the kitchen tiles before falling over.
And what a time for nostalgia; his eyes are still yellow, though they shut quickly. Ah yes, pain. The reminder that he's the one who showed up here, one way or another. After a moment, Peter wheezes a sort of laugh out, the fatalistic kind that indicates he has some grasp of the situational irony involved. ]
Mr. ... Argent.
[ It must not be that bad if he can sound like that, like somebody's polite classmate who's shown up to work on a school project with your son, ma'am, who wouldn't mind staying for dinner, with the faint sheen of parody. Not wolfsbane, maybe, but some other less effective poison, or a low dosage. ]
[He notices the eyes, too, and isn't sure what to do with that brief, perhaps hallucinatory piece of information. Maybe this is a dream; maybe he's still back at that old warehouse, knocked unconscious with Scott McCall somewhere close by. What a terrible dream, though. Has to be the top ten worst possible dreams of his life. ]
You recognise me. That's good. [He's not sure that it is, actually. There isn't a protocol for this, really. He doesn't even like Peter, either, and yet -- he's here, on his kitchen floor, and so many people have died already. It's not really a choice. ] Can you stand? You're healing, but slow. You know what you were shot with?
[Movement isn't fluid or graceful at this angle, but he does side-crouch to hook one of Peter's arms around his shoulder, and then gently starts to lift. Less weight than the Peter he's used to, and he thinks about saying that as a jibe. He's got questions, and not the faintest clue where to start. ] C'mon, over to the counter.
[ The kindness of it, which is to say beyond the typical hunter-werewolf interaction and well into considerate, gentle territory, must be inexplicable to Peter, and the reason behind the panicky huff of breath he lets out against his will when Chris stoops to lift him up as well as the stiffness in his shoulders — but he grabs for the counter to help when it's in reach, and though his eyes have been fixed warily on the other man since he managed to pry them back open, he seems to be making some effort to be... agreeable. As cooperative as he can be while not removing his hand from his stomach. ]
Can't get it out.
[ "It" being whatever he's covering up down there, probably something still lodged in his body, per the good old traditions. ]
Told me to come here.
[ This is as much explanation as he's currently up for giving, and he only gives it because he has an urgent need to understand how this is going to work, if he's actually safe. ]
Who did? Derek? [That does seem like a Derek thing to do. Who else can I inconvenience with this turn of events? Oh right, Chris. He thinks Derek left for Mexico already, though, and Malia would almost definitely patch Peter onto Scott. The questions just continue to mount, but in the mean time, he hoists Peter up onto the counter and starts rummaging through cupboards for the Basics. Something to clean the wounds; something to force the poison out. He's not Deaton; he doesn't have everything lying around for emergencies.
There is a small, petty voice in the back of his head that says: and it's not like Peter deserves it. He ignores it. It doesn't sound like him, anyway. It sounds older, and crueller, and Chris is done with it.
When he has what he needs (which are the basics needed to remove a bullet), he shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the opposite counter, where the stove is. He tries to think of a weirder night than this, and finds that he can't.] Lie back for me. You can tell me how the hell you managed to shave off twenty years, while you're at it.
[Was it Kate he wants to ask, but it seems like a stupid question. Why would she bother? And with Peter, of all people?]
[ His uncomfortable grimace might be for Chris merely saying Derek's name, or it may be about being put onto the counter like a lanky toddler, or both. Either way, he doesn't complain about either thing, or about makeshift medical supplies. This is weird for him too, Chris!! Unless he's pretending for his own amusement, which while possible, isn't really characteristic of the Peter Hale of recent events. That Peter has always had better things to do, though they may amount to buying luxury cars or hitting on people's moms.
This Peter, on the other hand, watches Chris with the dazed concentration of someone who is concerned that a moment's lapse of attention will render him vulnerable again. His eyes track, though they sometimes lose focus, and the consternation that crawls across his expression at the bizarre question Chris asks him would be funny under other circumstances. Besides the beard, he doesn't think Chris looks that much older. (Because everybody older than 30 is "old.") ]
You know Derek.
[ Like. Know him, not just as a photograph with a target on him. The disbelief in his voice might even make someone forget that Peter absolutely doesn't deserve help, or that he is who he is, and always has been. Unless Chris can see how hard he's thinking, trying to math meme things out, and probably getting a lot further than the fifteen year old Derek did. In any case, he has leaned back, he has with some trepidation removed the hand from his stomach and the deep puncture wound there. ]
[More than Peter being younger, the statement rings as particularly odd. He doesn't quite verbalise this with anything other than a soft hm, and his eyebrows doing a brief lift, like the statement caught him off-guard too. Derek had been young young; it makes sense, to some degree, that Peter would be the same. That he would have no memory of his life after the fire, or even the fire at all.
Briefly, Chris feels a pang of misplaced guilt. He's quick to squash it. ] Yeah, I know Derek. [He doesn't say well or unfortunately. Humour beyond this version of Peter, and Chris isn't sure where he'd begin with the explanations. Instead, he concentrates on the wound; lifts Peter's shirt high enough to get a good look at how deep it is, and try to hazard a guess and the cause. Not a bullet, he thinks, which is good. Something sharp and laced with poison, which isn't an Argent trait. Worse, maybe shrapnel, which could be an Argent trait.] You got any idea what hit you? [as he starts cleaning around the wound with an antiseptic-damp cloth. ] Or who, more specifically?
[Not being Deaton is, at this specific moment in time, a little bit of a hindrance. He thinks about calling, and maybe he should if the very basic herb combination that he has, fails to work. ] Might give me a better idea on how to fix this.
[ After they're gone, there is a shop in New Orleans that sits empty. Madam Mambo's absence is felt not only by Zelda, but by Prudence and Roz alike. Every few months, Prudence makes the trip to dust away the cobwebs and lay the cards across the table. Sometimes people come in and find her, and sometimes Prudence is charitable enough to take their money and send them on their way.
It's summer this time, New Orleans wet and hot, and Prudence stands on a chair to press her duster between the cracks between the idolatry lining the upper shelves. The door is unlocked, and in a corner there is an old fan pointed directly at Prudence's back as she works. Perhaps elsewhere, Roz and Agatha are close by, taking in the sights.
It's been long to admit that she's sentimental. When the door chimes open, Prudence does not turn. Rather, she stretches to another crack, and offers:] Just a minute.
[The Goblin Market does not stay in Mae's control forever, nor does she want it to. Five years pass and she, as agreed, hands the reigns over to Sin and takes a hard look at her life and decides that she has spent years and years making choices for Jamie, or for Nick, or for Adam, and none for herself. So with the scant savings she's manages to finangle away along the years, she books herself a holiday on her own.
There are covens in America who don't care that much if you're a magician, because you can be a witch anyway. There are covens in America who would take one look at Nick's mark on her neck and welcome her with open arms, a sister in worship; even though, technically, the only demon she ever summoned is her on again and off again boyfriend with no soul.
She has lead the Market into a subdued, sanitised, safe version of itself, and now she finds that she wants that edge back. So wild girl Mae is back, this time in New Orleans. Her sources say there's a shop for the occult that acts more like a doorway to it, and well, Mae is curious and feeling reckless. So she goes.
What she finds is probably a witch - but also the prettiest woman she's seen in her life. Honestly, it's intimidating.]
[Regardless of Mae's polite regard, Prudence would have been taking her time anyway. Some things do not change, no matter what circumstances have since reshaped her. A Weird Sister bends to no one, etc etc. Of course, more than that, she finds the dust frustrating. After a moment she steps down from the chair and turns, dusting herself off with her vague smile and eyes narrow.
She takes the size of Mae in; the pink hair, the clothes, the manner in which she holds herself. She does not think witch, but there is a smell to her that says magic. A friend of someone magical, like Sabrina's little group of misguided idiots. ] Thank you. What can I help you with?
[She likes to make assumptions, therefore she does make a few. Fortunes; charms; something wicked this way comes. ]
[Right - act cool, Maevis. She directs her most winsome smile at the woman behind the counter, trying to not hold her breath for being in the presence of a witch. Chances are, the covens in America are not as vile as in England - then again, chances are she's wrong about that.
Still.] A reading, if that's alright with you? I've heard about this place, and it's been a while since someone read my cards...
Well, usually the cards decide if they're in the mood. [There is a sense that Prudence always had, that everything in Madam Mambo's shop had a life and a mind of its own. From the walls to the furniture, she always felt spectated upon to some degree. She nods towards a small table towards the further right of the room, where curtains are half drawn and things have been left as she recalled them. ] Take a seat, put your hand on the deck.
[This part, perhaps, is mostly show. Prudence has always liked to tease mortals, after all, and she has been stuck here for some hours. ] You're passing through, then?
So to speak. I'm staying for a while. [How much information did you reveal a Tarot card reader, without revealing too much? She's gotten pretty good by now at telling scams from the real thing apart, but it would be a shame to find out that this place doesn't live up to its reputation.]
Looking for something. [With that, and a smile, she sits down at the table, and puts her hand on the deck, looking up towards the other woman expectantly.]
Most people are, if they find this place. The cards seem amicable enough.
[The nicest way of saying you passed the vibe check. She nods to the cards, and leans forward onto her elbows, half way theatrical with her eyebrow lift and half-way interested. ] You may cut the deck.
[There are witches, Prudence knows, who's magic comes from the old gods and their like. Witches who placed their faith in the earth, and the energy around them, and made power from it. Her own magic is changing now, with each passing day and with each new prayer to the triple Goddess. Her energy longs for the old ways; to be gone from the oppressive hold of Greendale, and to be where magic is not something that is given, but something that simply is.
She does entirely mean to return to Scotland. She thinks of Haiti first, or New Orleans, or even the deepest parts of South America. But she has unfinished business in Scotland she has to attend to first, with the last of her fathers being buried under twelve feet of holy scripture and different bonds to keep him. Hogsmede is where she stays, tucked away in a little room with her clothes layered and her own admiration for the towns ability to stay so far away from mortals.
It's peaceful, for a bit. The butterbeer is sweet, the food is -- well. The food is edible, and no one pays her any mind. She listens to the talks of Hogwarts and their very different approach to teaching; listens to the talks of darker wizards who's practices resemble her own more closely. It's always so funny how black and white magic has to be to people, she thinks.
She looks like one of their dark wizards, she supposes, and that's fine, too. When she is looking through books at the bookstore, it means people keep their distance. The restricted books, of course, are more to her liking. She's aimless, though, fingers drawn to the Eldritch texts, but so averse to them that she forces her eyes to the beasts instead. Her hand moves to Finding Your Skin: Newt Scamander's Notes On Selkie Hides, when her fingers brush someone else's. ] Ah -- pardon me.
oh my gOD DANI THIS IS BEAUTIFUL (no voldemort au hermione is an experience)
[It would be fair to admit that life does get better after Hogwarts, at least by a bit. The bullies that made life hell for her in school have all moved on with their lives, away from her, and that's allowed Hermione to move on with her own too. The wizarding world isn't perfect - despite proof of brilliance from many muggleborn witches and wizards, society is still inclined to swallow the utter bullshit around blood purity and what made magic good or bad, so her opportunities have been pretty scarce.
An intense Mastery in Charms and Transfiguration, a boring year spent as the intern of a Ministry official, and finally the letter from McGonagall. In all honesty, she thinks life's picked up recently, more than anything.
She's been Professor of Charms for one year now, and finally living in Hogsmeade has come to feel comfortable. She has her routine - the bookshop owner knows her by name, her orders are set aside, and she even has an arrangement with Aberforth for delivery of muggle food by owl.
But she is still very much a recluse, she knows this. It hasn't changed since her school years: Hermione Granger, nose buried in a book, never lifts it unless someting extremely interesting happens.
And today, it does.]
Oh - sorry. I hadn't looked - my bad. [She doesn't recognise this young woman, and she recognises almost everyone. It still is polite to smile, and she does, even though she wants that book.]
Oh, not at all. [Prudence's smile is very polite, her eyes narrowed as she nods with it, tapping the book spine with a ringed knuckle. ] Is it truly? We don't have much of Mr. Scamander's notes in my neck of the woods.
[Too sanitary, her father had once said. Whitewashed nonsense about unity and so on. She's more inclined towards it now, perhaps as an act of defiance. Ambrose might like it, she thinks. He always has had a fondness for the oddities of their world. ]
[She hesitates for a moment, and then relinquishes control of the book, because if this is a stranger from a different neck of the woods, then they can't wait until a month from now when the bookseller will order her a new copy.]
No? It's funny, I thought that after all that he did, Mr Scamander was well known in the States.
[Prudence's sidelong smile is filled with quiet humour as she examines the book's cover, fingernails trailing over the embossed imagery painted in gold. ] Oh, we know him to be sure. I imagine he's well taught in other sides of the country.
[She glances up again, pressing the book close to her chest. ] My schooling was rather eclectic by comparison, I would imagine. We had a very specific focus and purpose right up until our final years. We had a change of management.
[She rather thinks Zelda Spellmen would hate to be called management rather than High Priestess, which is privately quite funny. Some people need to relax.] Did you study here, then?
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Peter has been out of communication for a few days, and that is totally unremarkable from him, perhaps even a bonus in some people's eyes. Well. In most people's eyes. ... Everyone's eyes? The man simply won't die, so what are the odds he got picked off by any of Monroe's twitchy newbies?
Then again, the odds are always pretty fucked up for them. What are the odds, for example, that there's a young man on the floor of Chris Argent's kitchen, his back against the cabinet beneath the sink, one chair of the table knocked over and lying askew from the sprawl of one of his legs, eyes shut, shallow breathing. A couple of sluggishly healing knife wounds, but not much blood anywhere for a goddamn change; he must have come in after he finished doing most of the bleeding. His hand is resting over what is probably some other injury on his stomach.
And it is, of course, Peter. A much younger Peter, just a few years older than Scott and the others are now. Back in those days (and why isn't he there instead of this kitchen), he hadn't been known for being aggressive and this is an all too picture perfect scene to emphasize it. That he hasn't even opened his eyes yet either makes the situation more dire, or more suspicious. They probably hadn't interacted much all those years ago, but Chris knows him, doesn't he? Knows how he works, how he is. Besides, there's always so much bullshit that this could be, some kind of illusion, whatever. ]
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He's back from what could have been a peaceful negotiation, except Chris has bruise forming on his arm and an ache in his back from where Scott threw him out of the way of a bullet. Sometimes this is just how it is, bullets before understanding. He's getting old, though, and Scott might be likeable, and sweet, but even Chris has to admit that he does have a face that you want to punch first. He's tired, and when he finds the door isn't locked, and that he's sure he closed the curtains on his way out, he instinctively reaches for his gun and loathes the thought of having to move yet again to avoid hit and run's.
He's expecting to be ambushed; what he's not expecting is to find someone on his kitchen floor, bleeding out, that much obvious even with the lights low. When he flips them on, bright and an unforgiving yellow, he's fairly certain he's stepped outside the realm of reality. He remembers Peter in some vague capacity; pictures on walls, brief glimpses from old recon missions where he wanted desperately to impress his father and do better than Kate, who was always more ruthless and more keen for the kill. He approaches on soft steps, sliding his gun onto the kitchen counter and crouching down for a better look at Peter's face. It is him, the same way it was Derek a couple of years back, fifteen and better tempered.
The question, then, isn't is this really Peter Hale, and more why the fuck is Peter Hale on my kitchen floor. He's tired. ] Give me the goddamn strength, [he mutters under his breath, and inches close again, reaching to press two fingers under Peter's jaw, testing his pulse, and then after that, he rakes his eyes over to try and assess the damage; try to assess if there's any wolfsbane he has to purge. ]
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Still, the ol' werewolf senses are kicking in, which Chris must have seen thousands of times before on occasions of varying morality. The eyes open, the adrenaline kicks in practically before he can process what he's seeing, the body reacts because that's the problem with all of them, especially at this age: instinct overrules. In this case, it's tempered by his injuries. Peter sure does try to launch himself backwards and away from the hunter he recognizes as an Argent, the same distant and anxiety-inducing way Chris recognized him, but he can only slide like, a foot to the right on the kitchen tiles before falling over.
And what a time for nostalgia; his eyes are still yellow, though they shut quickly. Ah yes, pain. The reminder that he's the one who showed up here, one way or another. After a moment, Peter wheezes a sort of laugh out, the fatalistic kind that indicates he has some grasp of the situational irony involved. ]
Mr. ... Argent.
[ It must not be that bad if he can sound like that, like somebody's polite classmate who's shown up to work on a school project with your son, ma'am, who wouldn't mind staying for dinner, with the faint sheen of parody. Not wolfsbane, maybe, but some other less effective poison, or a low dosage. ]
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You recognise me. That's good. [He's not sure that it is, actually. There isn't a protocol for this, really. He doesn't even like Peter, either, and yet -- he's here, on his kitchen floor, and so many people have died already. It's not really a choice. ] Can you stand? You're healing, but slow. You know what you were shot with?
[Movement isn't fluid or graceful at this angle, but he does side-crouch to hook one of Peter's arms around his shoulder, and then gently starts to lift. Less weight than the Peter he's used to, and he thinks about saying that as a jibe. He's got questions, and not the faintest clue where to start. ] C'mon, over to the counter.
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Can't get it out.
[ "It" being whatever he's covering up down there, probably something still lodged in his body, per the good old traditions. ]
Told me to come here.
[ This is as much explanation as he's currently up for giving, and he only gives it because he has an urgent need to understand how this is going to work, if he's actually safe. ]
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There is a small, petty voice in the back of his head that says: and it's not like Peter deserves it. He ignores it. It doesn't sound like him, anyway. It sounds older, and crueller, and Chris is done with it.
When he has what he needs (which are the basics needed to remove a bullet), he shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the opposite counter, where the stove is. He tries to think of a weirder night than this, and finds that he can't.] Lie back for me. You can tell me how the hell you managed to shave off twenty years, while you're at it.
[Was it Kate he wants to ask, but it seems like a stupid question. Why would she bother? And with Peter, of all people?]
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This Peter, on the other hand, watches Chris with the dazed concentration of someone who is concerned that a moment's lapse of attention will render him vulnerable again. His eyes track, though they sometimes lose focus, and the consternation that crawls across his expression at the bizarre question Chris asks him would be funny under other circumstances. Besides the beard, he doesn't think Chris looks that much older. (Because everybody older than 30 is "old.") ]
You know Derek.
[ Like. Know him, not just as a photograph with a target on him. The disbelief in his voice might even make someone forget that Peter absolutely doesn't deserve help, or that he is who he is, and always has been. Unless Chris can see how hard he's thinking, trying to math meme things out, and probably getting a lot further than the fifteen year old Derek did. In any case, he has leaned back, he has with some trepidation removed the hand from his stomach and the deep puncture wound there. ]
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Briefly, Chris feels a pang of misplaced guilt. He's quick to squash it. ] Yeah, I know Derek. [He doesn't say well or unfortunately. Humour beyond this version of Peter, and Chris isn't sure where he'd begin with the explanations. Instead, he concentrates on the wound; lifts Peter's shirt high enough to get a good look at how deep it is, and try to hazard a guess and the cause. Not a bullet, he thinks, which is good. Something sharp and laced with poison, which isn't an Argent trait. Worse, maybe shrapnel, which could be an Argent trait.] You got any idea what hit you? [as he starts cleaning around the wound with an antiseptic-damp cloth. ] Or who, more specifically?
[Not being Deaton is, at this specific moment in time, a little bit of a hindrance. He thinks about calling, and maybe he should if the very basic herb combination that he has, fails to work. ] Might give me a better idea on how to fix this.
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actually googled "hangry first usage" then shrugged bc teen wolf chronology
derek is hangry like ... all the time
it took him what, 3 seasons to move to somewhere that could conceivably have a working fridge?
i blocked out that he was living in the burned out husk of his family home
don't forget the random underground wreck!!!
the literal train carriage...
erica, isaac, and boyd like :(
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ms prudence if you're nasty
are u a bad bitch ms mae
It's summer this time, New Orleans wet and hot, and Prudence stands on a chair to press her duster between the cracks between the idolatry lining the upper shelves. The door is unlocked, and in a corner there is an old fan pointed directly at Prudence's back as she works. Perhaps elsewhere, Roz and Agatha are close by, taking in the sights.
It's been long to admit that she's sentimental. When the door chimes open, Prudence does not turn. Rather, she stretches to another crack, and offers:] Just a minute.
she summoned demons before you hipsters did
There are covens in America who don't care that much if you're a magician, because you can be a witch anyway. There are covens in America who would take one look at Nick's mark on her neck and welcome her with open arms, a sister in worship; even though, technically, the only demon she ever summoned is her on again and off again boyfriend with no soul.
She has lead the Market into a subdued, sanitised, safe version of itself, and now she finds that she wants that edge back. So wild girl Mae is back, this time in New Orleans. Her sources say there's a shop for the occult that acts more like a doorway to it, and well, Mae is curious and feeling reckless. So she goes.
What she finds is probably a witch - but also the prettiest woman she's seen in her life. Honestly, it's intimidating.]
Take your time.
okay granny mae
She takes the size of Mae in; the pink hair, the clothes, the manner in which she holds herself. She does not think witch, but there is a smell to her that says magic. A friend of someone magical, like Sabrina's little group of misguided idiots. ] Thank you. What can I help you with?
[She likes to make assumptions, therefore she does make a few. Fortunes; charms; something wicked this way comes. ]
the audacity
Still.] A reading, if that's alright with you? I've heard about this place, and it's been a while since someone read my cards...
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[This part, perhaps, is mostly show. Prudence has always liked to tease mortals, after all, and she has been stuck here for some hours. ] You're passing through, then?
the other gay agenda
Looking for something. [With that, and a smile, she sits down at the table, and puts her hand on the deck, looking up towards the other woman expectantly.]
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[The nicest way of saying you passed the vibe check. She nods to the cards, and leans forward onto her elbows, half way theatrical with her eyebrow lift and half-way interested. ] You may cut the deck.
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ALSO PRUDENCE?? I HAVE SIMPLE NEEDS
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jesus WHATEVER THIS IS no voldemort or something
She does entirely mean to return to Scotland. She thinks of Haiti first, or New Orleans, or even the deepest parts of South America. But she has unfinished business in Scotland she has to attend to first, with the last of her fathers being buried under twelve feet of holy scripture and different bonds to keep him. Hogsmede is where she stays, tucked away in a little room with her clothes layered and her own admiration for the towns ability to stay so far away from mortals.
It's peaceful, for a bit. The butterbeer is sweet, the food is -- well. The food is edible, and no one pays her any mind. She listens to the talks of Hogwarts and their very different approach to teaching; listens to the talks of darker wizards who's practices resemble her own more closely. It's always so funny how black and white magic has to be to people, she thinks.
She looks like one of their dark wizards, she supposes, and that's fine, too. When she is looking through books at the bookstore, it means people keep their distance. The restricted books, of course, are more to her liking. She's aimless, though, fingers drawn to the Eldritch texts, but so averse to them that she forces her eyes to the beasts instead. Her hand moves to Finding Your Skin: Newt Scamander's Notes On Selkie Hides, when her fingers brush someone else's. ] Ah -- pardon me.
oh my gOD DANI THIS IS BEAUTIFUL (no voldemort au hermione is an experience)
An intense Mastery in Charms and Transfiguration, a boring year spent as the intern of a Ministry official, and finally the letter from McGonagall. In all honesty, she thinks life's picked up recently, more than anything.
She's been Professor of Charms for one year now, and finally living in Hogsmeade has come to feel comfortable. She has her routine - the bookshop owner knows her by name, her orders are set aside, and she even has an arrangement with Aberforth for delivery of muggle food by owl.
But she is still very much a recluse, she knows this. It hasn't changed since her school years: Hermione Granger, nose buried in a book, never lifts it unless someting extremely interesting happens.
And today, it does.]
Oh - sorry. I hadn't looked - my bad. [She doesn't recognise this young woman, and she recognises almost everyone. It still is polite to smile, and she does, even though she wants that book.]
Go ahead. Nice choice in lecture.
meet cute MEET CUTE
[Too sanitary, her father had once said. Whitewashed nonsense about unity and so on. She's more inclined towards it now, perhaps as an act of defiance. Ambrose might like it, she thinks. He always has had a fondness for the oddities of their world. ]
THEY ARE CUTE AND THEY MET
No? It's funny, I thought that after all that he did, Mr Scamander was well known in the States.
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[She glances up again, pressing the book close to her chest. ] My schooling was rather eclectic by comparison, I would imagine. We had a very specific focus and purpose right up until our final years. We had a change of management.
[She rather thinks Zelda Spellmen would hate to be called management rather than High Priestess, which is privately quite funny. Some people need to relax.] Did you study here, then?
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