InsaneJournal

WHO. Dirk Cresswell, Jo Savage & Benedict Marshall (as played by the lovely Saj!)
WHERE. The French Consulate
WHEN. Well; now. 1pm.
WHAT. Dirk & Jo talk of a new world order.
RATING. Warning for violence, gore & character death.
STATUS. Complete

***

The pale January sunshine, streaming through the high panes in the ambassador’s office, scattered in a wash of prismatic colour across Josephine Savage’s desk. The intricately carved wooden monstrosity, lovingly and painstakingly carved she was sure out of some British man’s whole field of pine, managed quite well to produce an air of intimidation where she expected an ambassador should court compassion. And as Dirk Creswell was expected in moments, she emerged from behind it to take a seat at a side table within a small alcove of books.

Much better.

“Mobby,” and an Elf materialized with a bow to her side. “Tea, for our appointment. And macarons, if you please.” The Elf squeaked its happy compliance and disappeared within a shower of sparks. She was excited to meet Dirk Creswell, and to hitch the influence and money she could muster, to his rising star.

Dirk arrived a few minutes before their scheduled appointment, and he announced himself to Ms. Savage's assistant, who motioned for him to go on through. Politely, he knocked on the ajar door, stepping in through the dark wood frame and straightening himself to greet her. He offered his hand first, as he greeted her in French. "Mademoiselle Savage, a pleasure to meet you face to face, finally. I'm glad you could find the time to get together." He leaned in to kiss one cheek then the other, smiling.

Jo returned this customary greeting, and gestured for the gilt chair arranged opposite her. Dirk Creswell’s French was impeccable; from the consonance of his accent, to his well chosen verbal conjugations she was sure he’d often passed for native in any Parisian arrondissement. “Likewise, Monsieur Cresswell. And do have a seat.”

She gave him a breath to settle himself, then gestured toward the window. “Our interaction, though sparse, has shown me quite precisely that you and I have similar thoughts regarding the role and the plight of the Muggleborn in British society.” As her hand lit back in her lap, she was still for a moment before turning to pour delicate porcelain cups of tea.

“It’s my goal to use my influence and power in the Diplomatic Corps to raise the profile of the Muggleborn. And with your talents, sir. I should think of no other reason why you cannot be my guinea pig.”

Dirk took the offered seat and thanked her. It had been some time since he was in this part of the city, and he hoped to spend some time wandering around outside the building before returning home. Perhaps he could pick something special up for his wife, he thought. There was a pastry shop nearby that he knew she enjoyed.

He allowed himself a moment to get comfortable, settling back in the chair and crossing his leg over his knee. He nodded as she spoke. "I'm sure we do," he said. But then at her use of the words guinea pig, he raised an eyebrow. "Now just what exactly have you got in mind?" he asked.

“The Embassy will financially cover a public works project, Monsieur Creswell. One that shall seek to partner both English and French Muggleborns in a mission to solve the problem of Purism and lobby the government to form a Good Will coalition. What say you?”

This project had been on Jo’s mind for quite some time - since her Auror days, she supposed, walking her beat in Knockturn Alley - but it seemed more important than ever. With the rhetorically savvy Creswell at the helm, and a few other hand-picked French Muggleborns, there could be real change that could raise understanding in a stroke. People only have to be willing to try.

“If, however, this is not a viable option for you - given the nature of the current climate - there are no hard feelings. In fact, I’ve prepared a small gift for you. One that, perhaps, your wife might like. Straight from the streets of Paris.”

Dirk would have said yes even before the gift was mentioned, and he said as much. "I don't see why that would be a problem. My wife knows my feelings on the matter, and my sons are safely tucked away at Hogwarts most of the year. I can't imagine anything I do with you and your project would be worse than going off at the mouth as I've already been doing." His wife's words, not his. He smiled over at Jo.

“It’d be going off at the mouth with rather more teeth,” she finished, and poured a cup of tea, offering it to him. It was teeth she wished she’d had back during the First War, and now that they were hers -- now that France was behind her in the purpose to stop bloody Purism before it started, so it would never fade into their borders -- she meant to share them quite liberally.

“The first thing we’ve got to do is get you in front of a reputable journalist.”

He rubbed his jaw and nodded. "So you mean, not in front of Rita Skeeter," he pointed out. "I would suggest going straight to the top but I have a feeling Mulciber isn't exactly an ally in this kind of cause. Do you have any immediate suggestions?" Talking to a reporter was something Dirk could do. He had to sometimes for his position at the Ministry, when it came to cleaning up after goblin fiascos.

It had begun, at first, innocuously enough. Benedict Marshall didn’t have much to say or think about mudbloods and muggles. He had given them very little thought before they had ruined his life by both stealing his wife--

(he had killed him first thing that morning and had allowed her to cry it out before killing her as well)

-- and chances at the Ministry job --

(Some rubbish about affirmative action, what a load of bollocks.)

-- that should have rightfully been his.

Sure, he weren’t some elite, snotty pure blood himself, but he weren’t some lowborn mudblood either. It was the latest spate of murders in the papers, the call to action: rise up! that had struck a chord with him. Were they supposed to just let these intruders steal their jobs, their women, and their dignity, all while daring to smugly rub it in everyone’s faces across the journal networks and papers? No. Rise up. Malfoy was right. Lady Noir was finally trying to clean house around here.

Marshall was ready to do his part too, and the pretty French mudblood bint ambassador would be a big gesture -- it would set an example for his fellow magical citisens: we have to get rid of them all. Best to start with the foreigners first.

It was easy enough to get an appointment with the French Consulate, mutterings about French visas and all. It got him through the gates and front doors, and that was all he needed before smashing a glass vial filled with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and causing an opaque darkness to flood the halls of the embassy. He didn’t need the light by which to see -- the eerie green sparks of his killing curses lit up his next targets as he moved swiftly towards the top floors.

Funny thing about Consulates - though their security was generally tight within the public spaces, it only took a good long sprint down a hallway to get to the private levels - and the French Consulate was not lax. Surprise took him a good long way, but the alarm which sounded cut off Jo’s thought regarding the propriety of English journalism off tight. Intruder.

She unfurled her crossed leg and stood, crossing the space of the office to lay her hand upon the door. “Monsieur Creswell, I must offer you my apologies. It seems as though there is an intruder on the first floor. This happens from time to time - malcontents, really - and though it is likely that, I must deal with it. Please do take your leisure, and I shall not be gone long. Then, we can reconvene --”

And she opened the door, only to be assaulted with the cloying scent (and the blotted light) of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder --

Dirk Cresswell wasn't the type to sit around and wait for something to happen either. While he wasn't ever the best at defensive magic -- his mind, after all, made up for it by picking up languages much quicker than most -- he did know his way around a defensive charm or two. He found his wand quickly and stood. "I'm going with you," he said, crossing to the door and holding it up with a hand stretched out over her head.

"What the --?" he said, swearing under his breath and then stepping in front of her.

Green, and the occasional splash of light of a different hue from those roused with enough ire to fight back, spilled across the floor -- Marshall had arrived. His left shoulder had taken a hit and would not stop seizing, something dark and dripping curtained the right side of his face where another spell had slammed him against the corner of a desk, but these were nothing in the face of his desire to finish his mission.

“For Lady Noir!” he shouted, aiming his killing curse to the French Ambassador’s open door where he could just make out the pale sheen of her face from the last exchange of spells.

It was impossible to tell what he thought meant to happen in the moment when Dirk stepped in front of Jo, because the Killing Curse leaves little room for defense when caught off guard. Which is precisely what happened when the bolt of green hit him in the left shoulder just as he raised his wand to cast a Lumos. One moment, he was thinking about next steps and the next he was slumped and sliding down the doorframe into the open, yet dark, doorway.

The rush of air which preceded the Killing Curse - and the lurid green pall it cast upon Dirk’s now slack features - stunned Jo into momentary stillness before her instincts caught. Inasmuch as she wanted to mourn the man she’d hardly known - the man she’d simply been excited to grow in the knowing of - there was no doubt regarding her next steps. The nerves and synapses fired in perfect muscle memory, her manner calm as she stepped round Dirk protectively. A twist of her wand expelled the powder to reveal Marshall, whose pale face shone with what seemed like victory.

Her wand, outstretched in her palm, seemed to welcome this would-be assassin.

“Come then, sir, and finish your work.”

Marshall’s features slightly faltered upon seeing the French ambassador, well, alive and smug about it, but he swiftly recovered. The sight of her seeming unshakable resolve filled with with renewed rage -- that she would dare to be more than she ever could, her and all the other mudbloods.

“We don’t want your kind here,” he hissed, and instead of a quick Killing Curse, for he wanted her to suffer more first, it was a Cruciatus.

“Where? Where is here?” There should have been a diplomatic segue, or an attempt to quell the violence. But all the shattered bulk of Dirk behind her was enough to drive her to a distraction which kept her shield charm from taking the full force of the man’s Cruciatus.

She hit one knee, then the other and though her wand remained firm within her grip it was the pain exploding in stars across her field of vision which caused her next curse - Incarcerous! - to fly wild.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted in return, aiming to disarm her with her guard so soundly trounced. He grinned. He didn’t even flinch. Weak -- she was weak. Of course she was: all of her kind were. “For the purity of England. You are a stain. One of many. It is our patriotic duty to cleanse this world of your filth.” He closed the distance between them, wand always aimed up at her, as if he could already visualise where his next curse would strike. He wanted to see her face as he did it. “Don’t worry, soon you will have all your mudblood friends to keep you company.” And with that, his lips parted, Killing Curse ready to fall from them.

There was a lull -- no more than a second, really -- in which the polarization of Jo’s life seemed to stand in stark contrast to this hateful face before her. From the slack countenances of her parents to Manech’s crooked young smile, she remembered the love which surrounded her. And perhaps she thought of Dirk’s young children. Perhaps she remembered a wife who would now be a widow. This anger; this injustice crystallized to her fist in his collar, pulling him down as she levered herself up.

“You fucking idiot,” slitted between her teeth was a growl. A wandless charm brought a petite letter knife her free hand. Blind hate and ignorance -- wasn’t it that she’d wanted Dirk Creswell to combat? -- drew this tableau they’d all believed died with Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle. It simply slept, waiting for the opportune moment to revivify its tenants.

And now was as opportune a time as any. The letter knife, held fast in Jo’s hand in place of a wand, plunged through Marshall’s neck to sever his carotid artery.

Shock coloured Marshall’s features as his wand fell from his fingers, the other immediately rising to his neck. Blood began to burble out of the wound in furious crimson droves. He stumbled back, gagging, until he could stand no more, falling hard to his knees and then fully to the floor, eyes widened and still as they glazed over in death.

That’s right. Die. And perhaps she saw a measure of Manech’s killer in this face. Perhaps she beheld naught more than the sick-scared countenance of one who knew the close-encroaching finality of hell. But in it she was satisfied. A preponderance of booted heels sounded in the hall as what was left of the security detail fought to make their way to the Ambassador. But Jo, whose face was set with resolution despite the cloying blood spray and the maw which opened in shock before here, was on her feet when they rounded the corner.

One such agent, who upon seeing the Ambassador breathing, touched his ear to mutter -- Sparrow in sight; premises secure. -- before offering her a handkerchief. Jo waved it off, and instead gestured to the bodies behind her. “Leave the murderer where he lays, but look after Cresswell.” She paused long enough to retrieve her wand from the vase into which it had flown.

“I shall contact the authorities.”