InsaneJournal

Who: Fabian Prewett and Madoc Dearborn
What: Madoc scopes out his uncle
When: Afternoon, Thursday 5 March 1998
Where: Office of Prewett & Diggle, Diagon Alley
Warnings: None



I would have wanted you. I want you now. For all the good feeling imbued within Gideon Prewett’s statement, Madoc Dearborn knew well that there could be a thousand different shocks and strings attached. Least of which, he supposed, could have been the Prewett family themselves. Talking it over with Una (brief, terse sentences including both warning and benediction lead him back to England. There, in Diagon Alley, he determined that he’d have the other twin’s measure. Fabian Prewett: brother, fellow convict, wardsmith. He thought briefly of Jacob and Esau, the blessed and the cursed, but supposed the both of them had thrown their blessings aside with both hands.

But he entered Fabian’s wardsmithing shoppe, waiting quietly to be greeted by whosoever chose to attend to the little tinkling bell above the door.

The shop was really more of an office than a shop, properly, and Madoc was greeted by the sight of the two wardsmiths' desks and a working table spread with tools. There was, of all things, a Muggle record player in the corner, belting out a tune that predated stereo recordings. The gentleman working at one of the desks gestured with his wand at it and the tone arm lifted from the vinyl and moved back to the rest position.

When he looked up, Madoc could see the family resemblance to Gideon: a bit in colouring, though this fellow's hair was redder, but moreso in facial structure. Fabian, for this had to be he, was smaller and more compact, shown clearly when he rose to his feet. And definitely professional, because as he gave Madoc an assessing look, his expression was composed but friendly and he offered his hand. "Hello. I'm Fabian Prewett. And how may I help you--?" The question left the space open for a name.

“ … Warren.” It was automatic and easy. Fabian Prewett, who was a compact and slightly more choleric version of his brother (Esau), would’ve been obvious by that slightly hawkish and shared nose. “Madoc.”

Gloved, Madoc took the offered hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’d heard this was the place to go, if I wanted a reliable wardsmith.”

"I'm pleased to hear that our reputation precedes us." Fabian's grip was firm and businesslike. "Do sit down, Mr Warren." There were chairs, obviously intended for guests, on the far side of Fabian's desk. "Tell me about the property you're thinking of warding, and what kinds of protection you're particularly looking for, if any, and we can go from there." This was clearly a sort of potted speech, as Fabian was also settling back in his own chair and clearing his desk of the blueprints he'd been working with, which were safely rolled up and stored in a long scroll tube.

“Well, if it isn’t obvious, I’m not from around here. I live in Boston, for now, but I just recently came into a little property … I want to see if somebody could --” he watched Fabian carefully -- “tell me about the property, assess the wards currently in place and shore up any holes.”
He paused. “So what happens if somebody takes over your mind? Are there failsafes in place to maintain the security in case the Architect goes awry?”

Fabian had been about to say something about the situation in Britain not necessarily being something an American would want to step into lightly at the moment when the question, all unexpected, came up. He frowned, more thoughtfully than with annoyance. "It's common custom in Britain to build wards into the property itself one way or another. This prevents all sorts of mischief that could potentially occur. For instance, the sort of bindings I do on wards externalises them so that if I were killed, they wouldn't immediately all disintegrate. This is both for the safety of our clients and for the safety of us, because otherwise my partner and I would be very tempting targets for anyone who wanted to break into a warded property.

"Now in terms of direct control of the mind, technically anything is possible, but my understanding is that it would take a very technically proficient use of the Imperius, and a strong one, to be able to control a wardsmith's mind without addling them to the point of being unable to do the work." His own experience dealing with Unforgivables was not something Fabian discussed with clients, but he was able to speak to it with confidence, so he did.

“How are the wards sewn into a property?” There was that underlying tension between what Fabian said and what he meant, which Madoc perceived to be the impingement of what he displayed versus what he particularly felt. Then, a smile. “You’re assuming I only meant the Imperius.” The British and their Unforgivable curses, neither giving attention to nor the proper due to that which lay beyond the veil, accessible not only through Legilimency but with congress beyond the veil. “But we’ll leave it to that.”

“What’s your rate, Mr Prewett, for a day in County Galway?”

Fabian picked the most important piece of that out to answer first. "The Imperius is the form of mental control I'm most familiar with. I'll be upfront and say I don't know enough about other forms to be certain, Mr Warren. And how I do what I do is part of my professional secrets. Not to mention it would take longer than all day and significant grounding in magical theory to explain." Though an American might actually be more familiar with some of the esoteric schema Fabian worked with from outside the British isles. "And I look over properties for free, because I like to review, note, and come up with an estimate so the client and I are agreed on the scope of the work to be performed, the schedule, and the fees in advance. I'm free this afternoon, so if you'd like to go out now, I can lock things up and we can be on our way."

“ … honestly.” Loosening the snaps at his wrist which held his glove in place, for it was distressingly warm within the office (or was that the nearness to which his Uncle pressed, the thought of space being ceded, even his mother’s space), he gave a crooked smile.

“Soon. I haven’t signed off on all the paperwork. It was ceded to me in a will.”

"Ah." Fabian nodded; it explained a great deal. "I'm sorry for your loss." The British wizarding community was tightly knit; Fabian pondered a moment whether he knew anyone who might have left an American a bequest of property in Galway. Nothing immediately came to mind, though--most of the deaths he'd paid heed to recently were violent, and not necessarily from the sort with a lot of property to leave--so he dismissed the thought.

"If you could tell me a bit about the property, whatever you know, the size and the sort of buildings on it, urban or rural, magical neighbourhood or muggle--I know that's more common in some parts of Ireland--continuously inhabited or not, I might be able to walk you through some of the basics, as it were. Otherwise, I'd be happy to meet with you once the bindings are secured and the parchments filed properly. And if you need a solicitor for your end of the bindings, I can recommend someone. I have friends in the Solicitors' Guild whose services I trust." He realised he'd fallen into solicitor's body language--dead on neutral, betraying very little--and he wasn't quite sure why. There was no threat here as far as Fabian could tell, but there was something a bit off. Perhaps it was just that the bloke was American and Fabian was still itchy about Dad trying to send him to New York.

“It’s rural. And it’s on the outskirts of a Muggle village.” Primrose’s limestone house with its barn and rolling green countryside was a mere snapshot in his mind. And perhaps he’d gone too far, admitting as much about his family. Gideon had secrets -- him, he supposed -- he was willing to protect. But the curiosity would not be abated.

“Who would you recommend?”

Fabian started to say "Fletwock and Rumleigh," but of course Mr Rumleigh had died while Fabian was in stir and Mr Fletwock had all but retired. It should have been and Prewett fifteen years ago. "Athanasius Fletwock's firm, though your work may not require more than an associate." He opened one of the desk drawers to pull out one of their current cards. "I've worked with him off and on for almost twenty-five years. Very discreet and very reasonable. Tell him I sent you."

Madoc thanked him for the card with a single nod, tucking it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He’d learned really very little about his father’s brother with regards to this routine, just that Prewett had a wards business and a marked boundary regarding what he thought and what he was willing to say. That, he supposed, could be claimed for most Englishmen.

“I see you have two desks here. Who is your partner?”

"A gentleman named Dedalus Diggle, formerly of the Department of Mysteries. He and I have been partners for some years now." Six and change as wardsmiths, more than that counting all their Order escapades, and not talking at all about the ten years in between. "He brings a wealth of knowledge to our endeavours, and is probably a better man to answer your question about control of the human mind than I am."

A blink -- “And not your brother, then. You’ll forgive me, it’s only that I’ve usually been accustomed to these being familial affairs.” Madoc arched a brow, sitting back in his chair. “I might be very curious to speak with Mr. Diggle as well, then.”

"He's out on a job today, but that can certainly be arranged. As for my brother--" Fabian was still smiling, and his expression hadn't changed, but he was now on high alert, even if there was no immediate threat and he didn't have the sense that whoever this fellow was, he was about to throw a hex or three Fabian's way "--I wasn't aware either of our reputations had spread to America, or were particularly of note to anyone in Ireland, Mr Warren. May I ask what your interest in him is?"

“We do read the papers in Boston, Mr. Prewett. It isn’t a stretch to know your history or the random fact that you’ve got a brother. The world is much less isolated than any of us should care to admit …” this was a gamble, Madoc knew. But he leaned forward, drawing his elbow upon the desk.

“I was only curious. But I can see I’ve hit a pain point. Maybe I’ll be on my way.”

"No, it's quite all right. Everyone in Britain knows who we are and what we did, but it's old news." Unless the Lady Noir threats had got their names in the paper in America again as well, which was not an idea that pleased Fabian. No trace of that showed on his face, though; he'd been drilled into keeping his thoughts under wraps in several different disciplines. "My brother has mostly retired from public life and has no interest in my business.

"But since you're aware of the history there, I should mention that my colleague Mr Diggle served his term in Azkaban for his part in orchestrating the only successful break-in in the history of Gringotts. His expertise in security, and its dismantling, is unsurpassed." Which Fabian could say with no small confidence.

“If he cracked your bank’s wards, then simple family plots must lie down like lovers for him. It must be difficult being Dedalus Diggle.” He paused, long enough to rise to his full height and step back from the desk.

“There are better things you could be doing than shooting the breeze with me, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Prewett.”

Fabian came to his feet as well. "'Shooting the breeze', as you put it, is a normal part of my day. A fair part of our practice is public-facing. People understandably want to know the man who's going to build protections around their home or property. Good luck with getting your property settled, Mr Warren, and when you do, I'll be happy to take a look at it, or have Mr Diggle do so."

Perhaps he shouldn’t have (or perhaps he should have shot straight from the beginning, though Gideon’s secret was his own and Madoc had no intention of sharing his parentage beyond his mother with no word from his father yet) done what he was about ready to do, and perhaps he’d later regret it, but there was some part of him which yearned to be recognized. Maybe not as a Prewett by blood, but as someone who could be known. And Una Dearborn’s words rang clear in his mind. “ … see what you can dig up about Prim Dearborn’s house.”

Then, with a smile, he pushed through the door and lost himself in the crowd on the street.

Fabian got up and went to the small office window in time to see Mr Warren slip out the front door at the foot of their stairwell and away into the crowd. It took him a moment to place the given name--that was Caradoc's sister, the one who'd moved away while he was in Auror training--and he filed it for later review. Too much was going on at the moment for him to worry about that just now.