13 Aug 2018, 04:46
Polished
Private with Maxwell Avery
24 August, 2018
The outskirts of Manchester, England
Stavrou Manor
The Manchester countryside was a charming place. Keeping true to the English landscape, there was an immense amount of land in the form of gentle hills, forests, and valleys as far as the eye could eye. Hard to spot against the sea of vegetation was a lonesome, rock and dirt-paved road that ultimately forked off into two different directions, avoiding an eventual head-on-collision with a lake it was leading towards. To muggle eyes, the western fork would continue as expected, closely hugging the left side of the water’s grassy shore as it went, while the east appeared to travel many metres in the opposite direction until a sudden fade into nothingness, its rocky foundation no more. Any curious muggle who took the main road wouldn’t know what to think of it. An abandoned construction project, perhaps? Why build a road that went nowhere? - but dare they venture too closely, they would find themselves befuddled and wondering just what their intentions were in the first place before turning back on their merry way.
To wizardkind, however, the strange road was no mistake at all but rather a common example of skilled, purposeful acts of magic performed to keep their existences a secret. The end of the eastern fork was not bare, far from it in fact, and in the empty field the non-magicals so often rode by without a care sat a wealthy, magically concealed property owned by none other than the pure-blooded Stavrous.
Built in the late nineteenth century, the three storey home stood, still surviving as proud and prominent as the day it was born. Though Greek in origin, the family who resided there were known to admire and adopt some smidgens of British culture through time and marriages, as indicated when their earliest ancestor to the country took it upon himself to construct the place with such a neo-gothic design. The exterior walls possessed plain browns and greys, but for what they lacked in colour they made up for with extravagant windows, Tudor oriels, and small, cylindrical turrets piercing the roofline. The lakeside manor sat situated between vibrant floral and hedge gardens, two popular strolling areas for guests and residents alike.
It was as clear as day that the home had every ounce of love breathed into its creation, every little detail complimenting each other in a whimsical and innocent way that, unfortunately, could not be said for the people who lived there.
Inside of the grand abode, the ambience differed drastically from the out, lively and booming as house elves bustled on every floor to finish preparations. Rather than the large pure-blood galas that often hosted multiple families, tonight’s event would be a more personal affair - a formal, yet quiet dinner between the Stavrous and the Averys. The adults of both respective families had long agreed to explore the possibilities of a political alliance, and Chrysa Stavrou, hostess and mother of Phaedra, wanted nothing more than for Alisdair and Rosalyn Avery to leave with zero doubt that they had made the right decision.
Pacing back and forth, said woman towered over the small, wrinkled heads of her elf servants as they worked before her. The kitchen, which connected and led to wine cellars and basements, was a layer underneath the main dining room. Similar to Hogwarts, food would be transported up through a linked table when it came time to dine. There was an elder, male house elf on a stool cooking and his frail hands waved lazily in front of a cutting knife. The blade hovered into the air at once, almost as if growing a mind of its own, and began to chop up fresh carrots for a soup while the elf stood before it, his arms then crossing behind his small back patiently.
“Iza,” spoke Mrs. Stavrou, stopping in her tracks to address the creature with an assertive tone. Out of all of the Stavrou elves, he had been with the family the longest and was the most knowledgeable and efficient in a variety of household chores. In a way, he oversaw after the younger elves, possessed the most responsibility, and surprisingly, even gained the trust of the wizards he worked for - as much as a mere servant could, anyway. “How is everything coming along? Our guests are to arrive at 630, sharp.” The bells had just struck for six.
“Iza and other house elves work hard, Mrs. Stavrou,” drawled the old elf, his large, brown eyes blinking slowly. With another drawn-out motion, Iza’s left hand rose from their comfortable position and he gave his fingers a snap - the now finished pile of raw carrots floating off of the cutting board to plop into a nearby boiling pot with a splash. He turned to face the woman. “Soup and fish cooking to perfection, Mrs. Stavrou. Guests will love main course and dessert, Mrs. Stavrou. Iza make sure of this,” he said finally, his head dipping into a respectful bow.
“You better. I want this evening to go smoothly. Our future will benefit if everything goes as planned,” the stern woman responded, watching as his large head rose back to look at her. Her scowl deepened. “You are loyal to this family, are you not?”
“Yes, Mrs. Stavrou. Iza would never dream of serving another.” His previously bored demeanour was now gradually becoming more anxious; they hated when she starting her questioning. The woman could be quite fearsome even on a good day, let alone one as stressful as this. All of the house elves knew better than to leave the woman with the slightest doubt in their abilities, lest they lose their livelihoods and get thrown out on the streets.
“...Good,” Chrysa said, after a brief pause, for now, content with his answer. Straightening her neck from staring down at the creature, her levelled eyesight landed on the boiling pot hanging above a fire. She took a fistful of her dress hem, hiked it up slightly, and sauntered over to the pot to peer inside. The broth both looked and smelled delightful, yet the woman’s glower remained; not easily convinced that the rest of the elves would be up to par. A lot had changed now that house-elves were receiving pay, the beings now much more confident and less willing to put up with any abuse. Hopefully, there would be no attempts of sabotage - they were sometimes known to do such a thing.
“Taste a bit of everything before it leaves this room and is served,” she instructed to Iza before giving the kitchen and its busy workers one final look-over. If the house elf was annoyed by the woman lingering in the kitchen while he tried to work, he did not let it show and instead gave yet another bow before turning to clean up his area. “Yes, Mrs. Stavrou. It would be Iza’s honour.”
With her dress trailing behind her, Chrysa took the flight of wooden stairs in the corner of the room, leaving the elves at last to their duties. Even after her departure, an air of fear still hung in the room.
Mrs. Stavrou was a frightening woman indeed.
Up on the second storey, there was a loud slam heard from the bedroom of the youngest Stavrou daughter, double doors shaking from the impact as servants trembled before them. These few elves, in particular, were all female and had just been excused from Phaedra’s presence for getting on her last nerve about what to wear. Sometimes, they were worse than even her mother with these things, and not to mention, Phaedra was now a mere three days from turning twelve. She was fairly certain she could get dressed on her own without a few house-elves making the decision for her.
“Miss Stavrou,” called out one elf from behind the barrier. “Turi requests that you allow us back in,” the female house-elf continued nervously with a croaky voice, her thin, grey fingers playing with the simple fabrics on her person. Turi obviously could have opened the doors herself with her superior brand of house-elf magic, but that would do nothing more than upset the child further. An unhappy pure-blood child could soon become unhappy pure-blood parents to deal with later.
“I already said, Turi, I would look silly wearing that in front of Maxwell and his parents! It’s not happening! Go away!” Phaedra often didn’t raise her voice to her family’s servants - in truth, she knew that she probably needed them more than they needed her - but in the past two weeks the girl had impulsively decided that she had outgrown the colour pink, and any article of clothing with it would face a turned up nose and crossed arms. That wasn’t even considering the dreadful, poofy hem that the elves thought was a nice touch.
“Turi and other elves think Miss Stavrou would look lovely in 'silly' dress!”
Much had happened in the past fortnight. From seeing her distant, Greek family again after months, to a holiday ruined after being sat down alongside her mother and nosy, perfume-drenched aunts to endure quite the embarrassment of her short life: a brief explanation over the oh so “joyous” event of puberty, with books and diagrams galore.
Over the course of a year she had certainly grown several inches, now standing at five feet. A bit above average for a girl her age, but it was to be expected - the Stavrou family overall was quite tall. Many of her previous clothes were now tighter-fitting around the waist or too short on the sleeves, which meant that there were future appointments to be made for resizing and fitting. Phaedra was not a measly little first year anymore and initially expected to be excited, but in reality, she was a confused mess.
Did she have to act like a preteen now? What did that even mean? Even if she had the slightest clue, it was still a difficult thing to accomplish when her emotions were running haywire every second of the day, and now they were even worse with the anxious anticipation of her school friend, Max, and his family.
Phaedra tsked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a sound of irritability she found herself using quite often lately. In one hand she held a modest black skirt and blouse, and in the other, a navy blue dress with a dainty bow on the side. There was a slight pause, her eyes more drawn to the dress, and without a word, she turned to discard the other outfit by tossing it onto her bed for now. At her failure to respond, the same voice outside spoke up once more, defeated yet wanting to please.
"...Very well, Miss Stavrou," said the elf, staring down at her feet. "Miss Stavrou wishes to dress alone. Does not need Turi anymore. What does Miss Stavrou wish for Turi and other elves do now?"
Hopping back and forth on one foot, Phaedra was preoccupied with pulling on a pair of sheer tights. "Umm," she trailed off, switching over to now do the same to her other leg. "Go assist my mum with final preparations - scrub the floor again or something. Tell her I sent you." Phaedra said, standing back straight to pull over the dark blue dress. She would have told them that they could rest until the guests left and it was time to clean again, but her mother would definitely have a word to say about that. "...Thank you!" she yelled finally, louder to accommodate for the fabric covering her head. Those elves seemed to love dressing her up as if she were a doll, and they may have had their hearts broken tonight for not being able to do so on such an important day as this. A thank you was the least Phaedra could do, to them for allowing her to get her way for once.
At the pattering of many feet walking away, Phaedra finally got the garment over her body and turned to look into a mirror and brush her hair. She decided to leave her long locks falling freely behind her in loose waves, and placed a blue headband on top of her head and a silver bracelet on her wrist to accent. She wasn't allowed to wear makeup or even get her ears pierced for earrings, so bracelets, rings, and necklaces were all that inhabited her armoire. Lastly were her polished shoes, and she bent down to buckle them.
A few minutes later, the Ravenclaw emerged from her bedroom, now fully dressed, and walked outside to a hall and lower floor that was gradually getting quieter as various chores were being completed. The Averys would be arriving any moment now, and Phaedra took a slow, deep breath at the top of the staircase, her hand holding onto the railing as she took her first step downward.
Her parents were nowhere to be seen, but they were likely relaxing in a sitting room, waiting for the few minutes to pass until Max arrived. Now that Phaedra thought about it, she had yet to ask how the Averys would arrive, or even what this alliance would mean for her and her friend in the future. All that she knew was that this was something the adults had planned for a long time. She was sure there would be time to ask questions at dinner later.
Poking her head into a room on the left, she found her parents sitting, quietly conversing with each other. Her father was sitting in his favourite chair by the fireplace, as usual, in a nice suit and his beard for once neatly trimmed. His eyes, however, still looked the same, faint laugh lines appearing around them. Strict as he could be at times, Giannis loved his family.
"Phaedra," he said, turning in his seat to better face his daughter. "You already know of our expectations - no need to waste our time there. Tell us about the Maxwell boy."
27 Aug 2018, 17:29
Polished
❝ I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. ❞
― Charlotte Brontë
The hands on the old grandfather clock above the mantle seemed to tick by at an alarmingly slow pace as she waited, hands folded neatly in her lap. In the background the sounds of house elves' tiny feet slapping across the marbled floor could be heard as the tiny creatures bustled to ready the clothes her son would wear when he got home, but she was long used to tuning out anything regarding the work her servants did. She was more focused on the wine as she sat there in the drawing room, posture perfect in a stiff-backed oak chair. Yes, the wine, that was important - Rosalyn was an expert in it.
The Stavrous were a Greek family and so something close to the taste of home would suit; nostalgia always offered a slightly better impression. Yet she'd heard through the networks that the family had gone on a trip to what she could only assume was their place of origin. A taste of home so soon after being there wouldn't leave as much of an impression, so she'd chosen something from a different place in Greece to give that hint of familiarity without being overly boring. Domaine Sigalas, an Assyrtiko wine from the archipelago of Santorini. Supposedly quite a popular wine with the tasters - and with only subtle hints of sweeter fruits before leading into the lime - it suggested class rather than adventure. Cheap, but some practical things were.
"When will he be back." The voice was flat but edged with a frustrated tinge of impatience, more like a whine than anything. It took a considerable amount of willpower for Rosalyn not to roll her eyes as she reached out to pick up the wine bottle, slender, graceful fingers tapping an idle melody on the glass.
"Soon, darling." Her ridiculous, unpredictable husband was the only unknown in this equation - at least, as far as she could see now. This alliance that she'd been waiting forever for was with a family her parents would've killed to get to know had they the time; money, class, similar worldviews, and ties to another continent. From everything she'd heard about Chrysa and Giannis Stavrou, this alliance would be one of the most beneficial for a long time to come. It was one of the few things left that gave her small thrills - expanding ties for the family, doing her duty and doing it well. She knew without a doubt she could push this forward with sagacious compliments that weren't overly ingratiating, but Alisdair...
"The boy knows we're to be there at precisely 18:27 - if he doesn't come soon then there'll be no time to dress or wash off whatever filth your brother has him tracking in." Alisdair began pacing across the Ziegler Mahal yet again, seeming perfectly content to wear a hole in something they'd paid what many would consider a small fortune for.
He'd been in a mood since their son had left for school, one that had gradually worsened the longer he hadn't had someone to take his anger out on. He'd learned many years ago not to dare speak aggressively to his wife, but his son was a different matter entirely. Rosalyn had spent years turning her boy into a meek, sensible young man so as not bring his father's wrath down on him quite so much; as well as she could control the man's behaviour towards herself, he seemed to think he had some ownership over the boy that she had no right to interfere with. It was infuriating, but there was nothing she could do short of leaving him, and a divorce would ruin everything for the family.
Setting the wine down on a sandalwood table inlaid with gold (this was one of two drawing rooms, and this was the one made for intimidation via wealth), Rosalyn rose to her feet to make her way over to her husband, stopping him mid-stride by wrapping her arms around his back. She was quite tall for a woman, tall enough in heels that the height difference between Alisdair and her was only a few small centimeters. Tall enough to press her lips to the back of her husband's neck and whisper, "Patience, my love." It was enough to give him pause, though if her son didn't return soon then even she'd have issues controlling the sense of frustration in her chest. The things she did for that boy. She wondered if he knew how repulsed she felt by his father sometimes; touching the man like this left a sour taste in her mouth.
"M-Mrs. Avery...?" a timid voice interrupted, sounding terrified to cut in on what must, to the outside, seem like a tender moment between man and wife. Rosalyn abruptly released her husband, glad for the excuse as she arched a brow at the elf (whose name she didn't know and likely wouldn't, as the turnover in their house was fearsomely high). "Young M-Master Avery is home."
It was impossible for her to stop the momentary flicker of her eyes to her husband, her mouth tightening imperceptibly at the glee she saw written all over him. Could he not be proud of their son for a moment? He'd done something incredible in becoming friends with young Phaedra, and even her chest had warmed a little about how highly he spoke of the girl in his letters. He'd done his duty to perfection despite ending up in the wrong House, and he deserved to be rewarded.
"Bring him here," Alisdair commanded in a voice that sent the pitiful little creature nearly tripping over itself to obey. Rosalyn wondered what she could say to ensure this night would remain full of pleasantries. Nothing to her husband, perhaps, but in the pre-dinner conversations she could insinuate to the Stavrous that having their children sitting together would be something worth doing. After all, their children were the future who would hopefully carry on this alliance for years and possibly generations to come.
At least she'd trained her son well - after the incident with the muggle boy, he would keep his head down and do everything in his power not to incur his parents' anger. Or so she believed. So when the house elf brought in a boy who was taller, leaner, and wilder than she ever could've imagined after only a summer... For a long, happy moment she thought it was only some sort of stupid dream, because her mind could only conjure up such a horribly funny scenario in her sleep.
"Mother!" he greeted with a smirk, voice sounding a near octave lower than it had when he'd first left for school, and Rosalyn's hands twitched, her face paling at the way he stared her straight in the eyes without a hint of meekness. Clothes torn, hair a mess, and one arm thickly plastered in what looked like a muggle apparatus. "Father! How wonderful it is to see you both. I'll go get changed and then we can go meet Phaedra's family. Unless you have something you'd like to discuss? But, naturally, we'd be cutting it quite close to the time of arrival, which I assume is three minutes before our 18:30 time we said we'd be there at. So I'll have to object to a discussion at present. It can wait for the carriage ride over."
He didn't wait a moment longer before nodding to the house elf to show him to his room, and for once in their lives both of his parents were absolutely speechless. Was this what other parents had referred to as 'teenage rebellion?' Yet he hadn't pouted or said anything untowards... he'd simply taken charge in a way no one could've expected. Risking a glance towards Alisdair, Rosalyn wondered what that meant for tonight.
This could go very well or very poorly. With a brief sigh, she went to scoop the wine up again and signal for the house elves to ready the floo powder to their stables situated in Manchester. It was up to her to ensure that it was the former.
Getting a suit jacket on over a cast was a struggle. Max hadn't quite prepared himself for the amount of times it would get stuck or he'd have to utter a creative swear under his breath when his arm was wrenched the wrong way. In times prior, he might've given up on trying to do this on his own and let the house elves dress him, but his uncle had drilled the lesson into him until it had stuck; independence. The key to freedom, once you could find the lock.
Besides, he wasn't in an overly bad mood despite coming home for the first time in nearly a year. If anything, he was excited about the fact that he'd get to see one of his close friends again - he had no real idea of what her parents were like, but he figured they couldn't be all that bad if they were the people who had raised Phaedra. He still hadn't forgotten the fact that she said she'd play the bouzouki for him too; he was looking forward to hearing an instrument from another country. All in all, even though this thing was something his parents and hers had said up, in his mind the real Stavrou-Avery alliance (or at least, the one that mattered) was their friendship. That was one of the big things he'd learned this summer, after spending the first half of August completely alone in that place. You needed friends.
Fixing his jacket in the mirror and steadfastly ignoring the way three house elves hovered around like worried grandmothers wringing their hands, he decided he looked put-together once again. No more baggy sweatshirts or - god forbid - jeans this time. He looked more like himself than he had since... well, the Fawley gala, probably, because all of August he had felt like a stranger in a strange land. A dinner party was just the thing to get him grounded before school, give him back some of the feeling of being a rich pure-blood instead of whatever he'd been this summer. It was satisfying. Tonight would go well. It had to.
Getting to their carriage was a rather silent affair of floo powder and the furtive glances he could feel his parents stealing at him. What had happened, who he'd become, what he'd do next. It was like a comedy skit on their faces as he watched those questions surface and quickly become smothered. His parents weren't sure who he was anymore, not after a jovial greeting like that. If he acted around Phaedra at the Stavrou Manor the same way he acted around his friends at school... his laugh at the thought of their confusion startled his mother so bad she looked like she wanted to slap him. They both clearly thought their son had gone insane. They might even be half-right.
"Are you not going to ask about what I know?" Max finally broached when their carriage was well underway to the destination. It was pretty once they left the heavily inhabited areas behind - the countryside had a charming optimism in its greens and slopes, like it thought it would remain natural forever. If one had an imagination they could imagine what it be like to simply relax on one of those hills, listen to merrily chirping crickets with a haze of heat making things shimmer. It truly seemed like a nice area to grow up.
"Are there things you didn't tell us in the letters?" his father asked, adjusting himself to look bigger and more threatening. But he wouldn't dare do anything just before a dinner party, so Max looked him in the eye with an expression his uncle had taught him. Like he was looking through his father but lazily amused by something ridiculously dumb.
"Ivor - That b -" his mother snapped after a sharp intake of breath, but when he glanced over she had one palm pressed fastidiously against her mouth and was staring daggers out at the beautiful landscape.
"I told you everything you needed," Max answered, returning his gaze to his father. "But I thought you might have other questions I could confirm or deny knowing. Isn't that the way these things usually work?" They hadn't even asked about his arm, which was unusual because it could've come from someone he'd made an enemy of. Clearly something had changed in his family's dynamic while he was away. He only hoped the tension between them wouldn't become visible; he wanted this to work just as much as his mother did.
"What are you implying, boy? That I'm an idiot?" His father was frighteningly quick for such a large man, his hand darting out to seize Max's collar and roughly drag him close. "I know how these things usually work - I have quite a bit more experience than you. I've grown up in this and never once talked back to my parents, unlike what you're doing now. If you think that - "
"Stop it!" Rosalyn was snarling, one hand on her husband's arm trying to tug him away as he continued to rant. "This is not conducive to a good dinner. I need you both on your best behaviour. Smarten up." It was just enough to get through to his father, and Max was released to fall back against his seat in the carriage, stifling anger as best he could. Feigning nonchalance, he reached up to fix his collar and uttered a short, easy, "Ok."
That, apparently, was the last straw, because suddenly his father was lunging at him across the seat, his mother was yelling, he was still trying to keep his smile up, and the whole thing was about to become quite horrid. Until suddenly a lot more light was streaming in and they all paused to stare at the door that had opened on its own to reveal the incredible manor standing proudly and looking every inch a pure-blood residence belonging to people of a certain kind of wealth.
"We're here," Rosalyn said quickly, practically shoving her husband out of the carriage before quickly reaching out to smooth Max's suit and straighten the deep green tie she'd picked out. "Alisdair, be a darling and go knock for us." The tension remained, hovering like a stormcloud, before breaking as Mr. Avery made the decision to do his wife's bidding. The second he was out of earshot, Max's mother turned to him with that coldness he was so familiar with and brought a finger up a hair's breadth from his nose.
"Don't you ever, ever antagonize your father like that again." The way she said it left no room for doubt who she was siding with, and Max fought to keep his expression blank as he dropped his eyes. It was for Phaedra and her family. He couldn't mess this up for them. As much as he wanted that fight right here and right now - to finally get it over with and leave for good - he couldn't do that to his friend.
"I'm sorry, Mother." And just like that, the power balance was shifted again. She nodded in satisfaction and they both left the carriage, her hand lightly hovering over his back as she guided him up beside his father with a bottle of wine tucked under her other arm. Alisdair must've seen something on his son's face that appeased him as well, because he gave on sharp nod of approval before turning to the door and soundly rapping on it. 18:27. If nothing else, the Averys could always be counted on to be punctual and polite at social functions. Irregardless of whether or not the entire family was about to fall apart.
"There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends."
Fearless | Poison Resistance
STA - 7, EV - 5, STR - 1, WIS - 9, ARC - 10, ACC - 8
Fearless | Poison Resistance
STA - 7, EV - 5, STR - 1, WIS - 9, ARC - 10, ACC - 8