InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Halocarbons! O joy!"

This was not the first time that Claire had been to the National Gallery of Ireland; it might have surprised many of her contemporaries- certainly, her husband shook his head in apparently-benign bemusement when the subject came up, rarely though it did- but she was rather fond of muggle artwork in all its frozen glory. The necessary paralysis of non-magical painting made many wizards uncomfortable at best and downright frightened at worst, but she’d always found it to be quiet in the way a deep, still pool was quiet; and Merlin knew, she liked her quiet. And it was fascinating, too, to see how they counteracted that stillness, how they put motion into their work when motion could not, by definition, be put into their work.

And so it wasn’t so unusual for Claire to visit this gallery, or any gallery, really; she’d chosen it as a rendez-vous point for that, and for the twin fact that it was very unusual to see any other wizard here. Choosing the Irish museum rather than one in London was simply another layer of security, given that few London wizards- her set, and Fabian Prewett’s- spent much time in Dublin. Here, they were as anonymous as they could possibly be without choosing a meeting point in South America or somewhere equally far-flung.

She’d arrived early to give herself plenty of time to wander, naturally, to The Marriage of Strongbow and Aoife- a popular enough attraction of the gallery that it wouldn’t be so strange that the only two wizards in the place happened to stumble upon each other there. Well, no stranger than their presence in the first place. Her wand was in her sleeve, the tip of it cupped in her palm so that she might unobtrusively cast the spell to muffle their conversation from outside ears once Fabian did arrive himself.

And then he was there. Fabian had a talent for being obscure, or perhaps an enchantment for it, because for all that Claire was accomplished at spotting every detail--she had to be--he had managed yet again to sneak up on her. In a low voice, he spoke the first part of the passphrase they'd agreed on: "Strengthen what is weak within us." There was a surprising sadness in his voice.

He might have snuck up on her, but Claire didn’t jump at the sound of Fabian’s voice. She didn’t so much as twitch. Still examining the painting, she murmured the response: “Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens.” She rather liked that phrase, little time for Muggle religion though she had. Certainly quietness appealed to her. She’d never asked Fabian why he suggested it, nor did she ask him about the unhappy note to his voice now. If it was relevant, he would tell her. If not, it wasn’t her business.

After another moment she turned her head to smile politely at him, the way a woman might at any acquaintance. “Quite a painting, isn’t it? The use of light- the chiaroscuro of the thing is quite lovely.” Her hand with the wand moved to gesture at the painting, or rather, to cast the spell while she looked as if she was gesturing at the painting. It wouldn’t protect them from a truly determined listener, but it would obscure their conversation to sound mundane and make the listening far less effective.

"It's quite lovely. An excellent choice." For both the meeting place and the spell that was now muffling their conversation from prying ears. "I have some terrible news, and a request for information from our mutual friends. The news is that the one who flies from death may have taken precautions against his death, to ensure it would not be final." Which, when you put his name that way, made a lot of sense. "You know the tale of the Warlock's Hairy Heart, of course. Are you familiar with the Dark magics behind it?"

Claire was silent, considering. This news was hardly shocking. In fact, in the face of it, it seemed absurd that no one had seen this coming. Except- probably, inevitably- Dumbledore.

“Familiar?” she asked when shed thought it through and was certain she knew to what Fabian was referring. “No. I don't work in Death, Mr. Prewett. But I am aware of the general idea, yes.”

"We need to know what sorts of resources the Department has on that matter. Our friends have access to Secrets of the Darkest Arts but I assume there's more information out there. And that the other side has more access to whatever information there is." Clearly a set of conclusions that Fabian didn't like. "Have you heard anything since the battle about anything related to the subject? Either at the Ministry or in company?"

The other side would have more access, yes, of that Claire was certain. She ought to be, as that access was undoubtedly through her own husband. She didn’t work in Death, no. But Augustus did.

She shook her head gently, mutely, and remained that way for another minute as she considered the painting before her. “No. But now that I’ve an idea what to listen for, I imagine that will change.” It wouldn’t be difficult to show a touch more interest in Augustus’s work. Doing so without arousing suspicion was another thing, especially at a time like this one, but subtlety had always been one of her strong suits. She’d employed it for the Order of the Phoenix before, and she would again. “Do you wish to know what they know? Or shall I do my own research into the matter?”

Both, most likely. It was unlikely that she could discover anything which her husband hadn’t. But she didn’t find low odds daunting these days.

"Both," Fabian confirmed. "We've got to find out where he's hidden the--objects. Multiple," he clarified. "And destroy them. We have people working on that part too, but--you seem well-placed for that as well."

Claire was not a woman prone to movement; she never twitched or fidgetted, had no nervous tics to speak of, rarely took two steps where one might do. It was not, in short, strange to see her hold herself still. There was, however, a different quality to the stillness that followed the word multiple, though whether Fabian knew her well enough to see it was questionable. She was frozen, her only movement the rising of her chest with her breath, as she considered it. The horror of it. Multiple.

Tearing one’s soul in two was unimaginable enough. To then do it again, and again...Suffice it to say that even in Mysteries, she’d never heard of such a thing.

“That may be the easy part,” she said finally, voice steady. “Theoretically, anything of sufficient caustic power would do it. I’ll see what I can find on the subject. Do we know...how many? Or shall I try to find that out as well?” Augustus might very well know it, she thought. He must have helped Voldemort in the creation to some degree with his research: why else would a man in Death have risen so high when the Death Eaters knew nothing better than how to kill? Maybe he’d learned how many times a man might rip his soul before the fragments became too thin to resemble anything like life regardless of their immortality.

"We're still researching on that point," Fabian said gently. He might not have been reading Claire, but he had skimmed through the necessary sections of Secrets of the Darkest Art and that was enough to suggest the horror to him. "More than two, let us say, but probably not more than seven. I would think five or seven if he could do it."

“Three would be too few for his purposes, I suppose,” Claire murmured. “I’ve never heard of anyone doing it more than once. But of course I haven’t heard of everything.”

How to investigate using Augustus’s resources without awakening Augustus’s suspicions was the question, but it was hardly a new question. Claire had done it before and managed it.

Fabian frowned. "I think that's the point. Nobody has heard of it. But if anyone were going to fix it, it would be someone who describes himself as 'flying from death'. Changing the subject, he added, "I think we need to reconsider the question of how to extract you, as well. I know your arguments against, but I've worked out some additional subtleties with Gideon and the next time we meet, I'll have a portkey for you. There's about to be too much knowledge in your head to risk losing it, and if I'm right, your work is about to be exponentially more dangerous."

Claire gave Fabian a quelling look at that, but didn’t argue verbally. His points were fair; she simply didn’t like them. It wasn’t a question of being frightened: she’d long-since burned the fear of being caught by her husband and his friends to as much a pile of ash as she could manage and then stuffed those remnants into a lockbox deep inside of herself so that they took up as little room as possible. She wanted, however, to see this through. Wanted Augustus to realize what she’d done, what she was, on her own terms. Wanted to watch the dawning knowledge on his face as he died, that she was the one who’d done it.

But she supposed a portkey could be useful for a quick exit after all of that. The question was where to hide it so that it would be within easy access should she need it but secret enough that her husband would never stumble across it or search it out. But that was her problem, not Fabian Prewett’s.

She nodded once in acceptance. “Very well, if you think it necessary. I’ll trust you to make it subtle and very dull indeed.”

"I shall endeavour to find something suitable to your tastes." Which was enough to make Fabian smile, even if only momentarily. "If you can think of something you'd keep on your person at all times--something your grandfather might have given you--I'll go with that for the enchantment. This will be personalised to you, so you needn't worry that someone else will use it."

The request seemed easy enough on the surface; the Ollivander family was practically lousy with rings and brooches bearing its crest, a forebear having taken rather a fancy to jewelry-making as a side-hobby to the wandsmithery. Claire had several such items; the issue was handing one that she habitually wore over without Augustus noting its absence and subsequent return. She could always, she supposed, lose and then find it under the dresser or behind the sink. Simple enough.

“This will do,” she said, surreptitiously slipping a ring from her right hand. “Assuming you’ll return it quickly? It might fall off at the shop in the course of my work with Grandfather- I’m off to help him after this- and one might find it on the floor in a few days and return it to the counter, as it bears the family crest. Assuming one could find an excuse to be in the shop at all.”

Fabian hadn't considered something of Claire's, mostly because he hadn't expected something to be on offer, but this was a neat solution to the problem. "I'll get right on it. It will be a one-off, but I assume if you need to use it, you won't be coming back. But yes, I'll leave it with your grandfather--and please be safe until I can."

Claire gave Fabian something of a Look; she was many things, in her home with a Death Eater, her life as a spy, but ‘safe’ would never be one of them.

Otherwise, though, she let it pass with a short nod. “You as well. Now, let’s part, shall we? I’ve a mind to head toward the Etching Revival exhibit, if you’d like to walk with me a way before we split.”