InsaneJournal

WHO. Brutus Scrimgeour & Fabian Prewett
WHERE. The distillery; & a v. curious little place
WHEN. This afternoon.
WHAT. Plans are made to build a shelter for folk caught in the oncoming crossfire.

***

Fabian always enjoyed walking around in the Black distllery. The mechanomagical processes of distillation and ageing were fascinating to him in a way potions had never been. The rows upon rows of wooden casks of aging whisky were comfortable and homely. The scent and sounds of the place, even if they weren't exactly familiar, spoke of a routine and harmony that Fabian approved of, even if he didn't always manage it in his own dealings. It was, he thought, a reflection of something about Brutus Scrimgeour that made the distillery that way.

How he'd come to trust Rufus Scrimgeour's brother was something Fabian didn't exactly understand. But Fabian was secure in the knowledge that Brutus had earned it, both by the care with which he'd treated Fabian's many ailments over the years since his release and by the more recent revelation that Brutus had been the chief hand behind the Advocate. The paper hadn't been a reliable ally of the Order's during the old war, or so Fabian had thought, but it had stood against the Death Eaters and the garbage the Prophet had been printing. It was a damned shame that they were back in the same place twenty years later.

But that wasn't the purpose of today's visit. Today was for wards and herbs--Brutus' herb garden would make Molly green with envy, Fabian thought, and he wished he could bring Gideon up to see it--and possibly a few minutes of quiet from the rush in a world that had gone a little mad.

"It's all quiet this time of year," he observed to Brutus. "Everything's waiting under the earth until the spring comes again."

“Says the man that doesn’t know where to look,” came Brutus’ retort, a mutter from the corner of his mouth. While an earlier version of him might even have smiled to lessen the sting of his words, there had been enough years that he simply trusted Fabian to understand -- enter: smile. For Brutus’ home was here, and Brutus belonged here, amongst the dormant herb gardens. Though the rows were tidy, beneath the well-kempt edges there grew enough winter herb to be considered riotous.

He knelt, uncovering a mound of thyme.

“Give a growing thing a spot of shelter, and see what it does for you.”

Fabian came to stand by him, looking down at the plant Brutus was examining. Once, the criticism would have stung, but Fabian had grown into an appreciation of knowledge that others possessed, and even, occasionally, enough humility to appreciate the free tuition. "True enough," he conceded. "You've got the wrong Prewett for the knowing of growing things, alas. What are you raising this season besides the thyme?" The thing about magic was that you could grow anything anytime, at least in theory, but that wasn't how Brutus worked. He and Gideon were much alike in that.

Magic could afford a man much, but it did not help a man develop an appreciation and love for the natural world. It did not help him understand the importance of permitting a thing time and space; or the care inherent in nurturing it to its full flower. Looking at Fabian finally, Brutus shrugged. You’re the Prewett here.

Then -- “My secret.” He recovered the thyme, and rose, dusting his hands on his thighs before offering one for Fabian to clasp.

“This is just a mite too far for a social visit. What can I do for you?”

Fabian took the clasp and returned it in equal measure. "Several things, none of which probably individually required my presence, but cumulatively seemed best spoken of in person." He did not add that he found the atmosphere of the distillery and the herb garden somewhat soothing, and the warning signals he'd been getting from his friends suggested that a break in Fabian's routine for a little quiet might be in order. And this was probably better for him than letting Bilius drink him under the bar at the Hog's Head.

"Not least of which was that I thought I ought to have a look in on you and yours after all the recent news. On general principle."

“You mean on the deaths, or on my brother’s return?” With narrowed eyes, Brutus’ fist found a hip. “If it’s one, I’m surprised. If it’s the other, I’m not surprised.” And though there was no disambiguation in his sentence, he supposed Fabian would pretty accurately catch the drift.

“We’re safe.” Then, a breath. “You’re not safe.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. Fabian wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Fabian shook his head, not so much dismissing Brutus' concerns as relegating them to a secondary place for the moment. "I've never been safe. I'm not much less safe than I was six weeks ago." He had told Brutus after he'd been named by Lady Noir that it was a relief, seeing the world fall into focus for everyone else the way it already had for him. With the murders at Gringotts, there was no more hiding from the rising storm. It had arrived.

"It's you I'm concerned about at the moment. I trust your brother sees to your own wards at your home and the distillery." That Fabian could speak of Rufus Scrimgeour, even in this context, so smoothly was a credit to the ruthless discipline instilled in men of Fabian's class and breeding. "We spoke about--other wards, and other places that might need warding--once. I think it's time we considered making sure those places are as protected as they can be."

Rufus was not a point of discussion between he & Fabian; his brother, an entity unto himself, was to be trusted. But neither did he have the compunction to excavate the feelings between law man and vigilante, particularly when he didn’t entirely know if he himself would be subject to that dogged pursuit one day.

“I’ll take you there. The entrance is quite screened, but I think what we need is a way to make it both unplottable and impossible to give away, if pressed. Though I don’t mean for it to be a necessarily long term shelter - a way station, only - this should be relatively (and by relatively, I mean thoroughly) safe.”

"Unplottable is necessary, and simple. I can do that with what I have with me." Fabian was carrying a valise, something that a Muggle might have called more of a shoulder bag, with his warding necessities. Brutus might guess that it was enchanted to be larger on the inside.

"Impossible to give away when pressed is harder. Normally the binding is placed on those who know the secret, unless it's the Fidelius or something on that order, which is overkill for a temporary shelter. And binding the tongue of those who know about the shelter, either with something simple like a Tongue-Tying Curse in the short term or contractual oathbinding, presents a separate set of problems." The corner of Fabian's mouth rose in a crooked smile. "Obviously I'm not in the Solicitor's Guild any more, but I still know the ins and outs of how that works. Which is more important to you: ensuring the location can't be revealed under duress, or ensuring that, in need, people can be brought to it?"

“The latter,” was automatically said. Issues of morality notwithstanding, particularly when it came to the community members and distillery workers not entirely acquainted with the ways of magic. Brutus did not discriminate -- statute of secrecy or not, all would be protected within his own sphere of influence.

Then, a breath. It was as if every steel rod which clung to his spine loosened and he became something fluid and bendable once again.

“Thank you.”

Fabian nodded, as if Brutus had merely confirmed something Fabian already knew instead of answering his question. "You're welcome."

He let that stand for the moment that seemed to be required before continuing.

"To shelter everyone in need, nothing at all for secrecy is best, save trust in your people. Some will remain silent when put to the test even at great personal cost. And for the rest of it: wards, unplottability, and subtle glamours to make it unobtrusive. I am not," and here he lost his professional mien, meeting Brutus' gaze and offering a wry confessional grin, "unfamiliar with the procedures."

There was a checklist in his head for it: one of those he'd kept in mind all through Azkaban, recitation of facts one a ritual barrier against madness and deterioration of mind. The checklist for stocking a shelter was another. Brutus would have that before Fabian left.

“Very well. I think, before the conversation goes further, you need to see it.” And inasmuch as Brutus gave Fabian a modicum of his trust, it did not extend to walking him there. Not just yet. With wand in hand, he stretched out the other to provide him an anchor point for sidealong.

“If you trust me, Fabian. I’m not taking you anywhere unseemly.”

"I trust you," Fabian said, and after a beat, added, "for that." He extended his own hand to Brutus, permission implicit in the grasp. But it was his right hand, not his left.

That familiar hook to the middle whirled them through time and space until, with the ground again solid beneath their feet, they stood beneath the crooked old boughs of an oak tree. This tree, spread upon the edge of a loch which reflected the grey sky above, was also situated near to a rolling cairn. Brutus gestured to the formation --

“There’s a system of caves, and they’re small enough, but the whole valley area is sustainable and should very well offer unplottable shelter.”

Fabian set down his bag and reached into it, unerringly producing a spyglass from it without fumbling in a way that suggested intimate connection between man and possession or perhaps a wandless, wordless summons. "I have to admit when I said I had the necessary with me, I wasn't thinking of a whole valley, Brutus." He quirked a grin in Brutus' direction. "The caves, now that should be a bit easier. Assuming I can pace them off quickly enough.

"You'll want this as well." Reaching into the bag a second time, Fabian pulled out a piece of paper, which he handed to Brutus. The list on it was written in some form of Quick-Quotes Quill or the like, something to anonymise the source. He took the moment while Brutus was reviewing the list to survey the valley and take its measure for Unplottability. "I've stocked safehouses before. Those are the kinds of things you'll need to keep the place ready in case you have people fleeing from an attack, or someone has to hide for a few days.

"I think we've bought some time, maybe enough, with the Macnairs. I don't think it's over, but it speaks of--poor organisation? But I can't say I trust that the Macnairs did everything up until then, and what was left on the steps of Gringotts says there are others. So this is still needed." Fabian gestured around at the valley and the tree. "But the likelihood that you'll be using it on an emergency basis in the immediate future seems blessedly low."

“ … we can come back,” he told him, though he took the scroll and the quill with a good will. “I didn’t necessarily expect for you to ward it all out in a day. Because, as you said, we have some time.” With the lack of Macnairs and the appearance of his brother back in Britain, Brutus did hold a modicum of hope that this would be a far more thorough victory than the last time.

“There’s a wand wood farm about 50 kilometers to the south, but other than that … it’s all open. When I’m up here, I rarely see a rabbit -- much less a person, and certainly not a muggle.”

"Here's hoping we don't see anything like a dragon." Which was what Fabian would have expected from this kind of open space. "This loch's not quite big enough for a crannog, I don't think. If you didn't have the caves, I'd suggest a crannog for defensibility." He looked round again. "I'm not sure I've ever started from scratch with something quite this big. Most estates of this size have wardwork already laid, and I'm just shoring that up. This will be a new trick." But his tone was confident, as if Fabian expected himself to master it despite being something of an old dog.

"Shall we walk a bit? It helps getting the sense of the place."

“The Macfusty place is a little ways from here, and I think the keeping of dragons does ward of those who go it wild.” Not that Brutus had ever necessarily run contrary to any beast whose talons and breath could scald him. It simply seemed to suggest that he live in enough harmony to ward off those feelings. And as such, his smile seemed to suggest that even a dragon would be welcome.

He took off walking, sticking to the edge of the loch. “A crannog would be easy built, and might offer folks more shelter than a network of caves meant to be … well. Temporary. I have misgivings when it comes to taking the light from people, and planting them that far in the ground would certainly do so.”

Walking alongside Brutus, keeping pace with him easily, Fabian considered the wisdom of that approach. What he came up with was: "Building a crannog for the shelter would make the shelter simpler to ward. There are things you can put into the structure that will make the warding easier. That's on top of the benefit the water will give you toward Unplottability."

“Like what? Certain natural things that you can charm to repel certain … elements?” Brutus had always been adept when it came to wards and charms, but had preferred the simplicity of nature and the pleasantry of community and a good, full belly. He eyed Fabian askance --

“I’ll build a crannog.”

"We'll build a crannog," Fabian agreed. "The water's not technically running, but it's not still here either. It will serve our purposes as a barrier against finding the shelter. Just because we're using magic doesn't mean we can't work in harmony with the elements the world gives you: stones for strength, water for mutability, earth for stuff of life that grows from it. It's a better working for something of yours anyroad. The ward should be suited to the place should be suited to the wizard, just as the wand is."

Brutus smiled, and it was finally a full one, reaching the corners of his eyes. Between them, he was sure they could not only fill several shelters against the encroaching war. Call it what it is, Brutus. Your brother is back for a reason. “We’ll see it done, then. And done right.”