Oct 5th, 1888 - Porphyria's Residence

Not for the first time that day, anger coursed through Amelia's blood as she eyed the ridiculous magazine that a zoo-goer had dropped. Though she hadn't taken to reading the ridiculous magazine, once every few months where the occasional slow moment had presented itself, the witch obliged herself a brief flipthrough. Today wouldn't have been such an occasion had she not seen the cover of the subscription as well as hearing the names Barnabas Skeeter and Maeve Connolly. The two events paired so closely together tore down her curiosity and almost made her spit out her tea during her break.

Fury (really she'd fancied herself thinking it was fury, but it, in fact, was an unpleasant mix of jealousy, humiliation, and sadness) bubbled inside of the witch as she made her way through the town to find a safe place to apparate to Phyri's residence. Once arrived, she'd been invited in and seated in the parlor where they were to converse. As her friend took a brief leave to fetch something, Amelia had caught a glimpse of that dreadful subscription she'd tucked into her bag. She resisted the urge to gnash her teeth and snarl. As Phyri returned into the room, Amelia crossed her arms. Then, with an air of finality and, as if she'd discovered something reprehensible on the table in front of her, declared as though talking about the weather: "Ugh. Men are despicable."

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Elias Grimstone

  

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She had always liked to be contrary. Being contrary in public might count as being subversive - and Porphyria certainly did not mind that - but she also took a fair delight in being contrary for the purest sake of it. So that was why not every acquaintance got the luxury of sitting in the parlour, nor Phyri fetching, by her own hand, a handful of the family's best bottles from the cellar. No, that honour went to those who were least benumbed by society of the experience, those who would not mistake Porphyria playing the hostess for a serious attempt at being ladylike.

She set the selection of drinks down and summoned two glasses which came speeding down the hallway (deserted, miraculously), and onto the side table with a zealous clink. Pleased as Phyri was to see Amelia, she could not help but notice that her friend seemed in rather tumultuous spirits. Something was not right.

There was nothing wrong with Amelia's outburst, however. "Naturally," Porphyria agreed firmly, quite conscious the statement was nothing if old news, but nonetheless always receptive to the topic. "If there was ever a species overdue for a culling..." she remarked with a careless wave of her wand, about to uncork the bottle but pausing to eye her friend with a touch of sympathy, wondering whether something more was the matter today than man's general offensiveness. "Did something happen?" She enquired, her tone cheerful but a little more concerned than she pretended. "Can I dismember someone for you?"

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

There was no doubt Phyri would agree. Amelia knew Phyri had no intentions of marrying and was not afraid of making it well known. She adored her for that and envied her unabashed voicings on the matter. She just wasn't certain if Phyri would support her being upset on the recent scandal or if she would pish posh the whole thing away. Amelia smiled at her friend as she spotted the bottle in her hand. Trust that Phyri would see to it that she would be accepted just as equally as any member of society while under her dwelling.

At present, she was also grateful for any vice that might quell her emotions - for medicinal purposes, she told herself. Phryi's question came with such casualty that Amelia laughed. "No, it's not that," she replied, raising a hand up to her mouth to cover her delight. While the witch was certainly tempted to take Phyri up on the offer, Amelia knew better than that. Porphyria Dempsey may go about mocking society at many things, but the macabre and disturbed were topics she took with the utmost seriousness. If Amelia had a body to dispose of, she knew the witch wouldn't blink an eye before marching forward to assist, sleeves rolled up and ready for burial.

"Nothing like that...." She started this conversation, as embarrassed as she may be at her current state of emotions, there was nothing to it but to finish it. "It's just...." she sighed, avoiding meeting her friend's eye as she fished in her bag and put the magazine out on the table for Phryi to read. "that..." Amelia waited a few beats before looking at Phryi, nervous about her reaction.

  

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Porphyria was smiling as she poured them each a drink and slid a glass over to Amelia. Amelia’s laughter did not last long, however, before she grew - chagrined, almost. Phyri steeled herself for whatever was coming, sure that this was bound to induce her fury in one way or another. Not least if it had something to do with men, or indeed with heartache.

Or with that bloody magazine. Phyri scoffed at the very sight of Witch Weekly, prepared to suffer to take it seriously for Amelia’s sake and offer her sympathies if need be, but not about to pretend that old rag had ever written a decent article in its existence. And even worse, the headline read Matchmaking Mayhem. This could not be good.

Porphyria picked it up and gingerly leafed through, trying to keep her expression neutral as she read, sensing that something in this had made Amelia feel vulnerable, somehow. Ah. His face had been one of those on the cover. She should have guessed Barnabas Skeeter would be the root of all problems.

“Good god,” Phyri exclaimed, when she had digested the situation. “Poor bloody Connolly.” Up and married - and making out with - Barnabas Skeeter, of all people. Hastily remembering that Amelia had, er, a similar history with him and, whatever she felt about him now (Phyri genuinely wasn’t sure what Amelia thought of him now), might not entirely appreciate that response. So she added, with a frown, “Or poor Skeeter, in fact. I’d not be surprised if Connolly’s more than capable of murdering him herself.” (She had respect for only one auror in the world, and that was, obviously, Maeve Connolly.) She pulled a quizzical grimace at Amelia, trying to gauge how she really felt about this, since they were in private, and could afford to be honest here. “Whoever matched them must have really been mad.”

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

It was with a slight wince that Ameila watched Phyri flip through the magazine. She wasn't without a hint of pink in her cheeks either - normally, she wouldn't care for such magazines either - at least not any more. But when they had to do with Barnabas fucking Skeeter, they usually caught her attention, and not in the good way. Not ever in the good way.

There was a modicum of relief that she felt when Phryri announced her first thoughts on the wretched magazine. Amelia never doubted her friend's reaction, however, she was glad at least the words didn't seem to chide her in any way. Although frankly speaking, Amelia wasn't entirely sure she'd oppose to Connelly murdering Barnabas either - if not to just get him out of her mind. Their....courtship (and Amelia would use that term loosely) had been passionate, it had been filled with rage, anger and in the cases of the spiked pastries - false love. It felt both so far away and yet so recent, which irked her to no end. She wanted him gone and gone for good.

"Perhaps," she responded, picking up her drink and taking a sip. It was impossible to keep her features arranged in such an indifferent way. Plus, the last thing she felt like she had to do here was disguising her true feelings on the topic. It was one of the reasons why she appreciated Phyri so much - you could show your true feelings and regardless, the witch would tell you what she thought without so much as a by your leave. That she did it without intentions of truly hurting you was one of the reasons why Amelia enjoyed her company. "I can't say I'd protest to that option, frankly. I thought I'd have been rid of him by now, yet he keeps finding ways to crawl back into my life!" Her tone darkened with every word, as did the scowl on her face. She heaved a sigh and put her head in her hand. "Phyri, how pathetic must one be to be hung up on such an arse?"

At least in her mind - quite.

  

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“Not unlike a cockroach,” Porphyria put in brightly, piping up with one of her favourite similes for men. Wretched pests of the most persistent kind. Still, she softened a little at seeing Amelia’s head in her hands.

She liked to think herself a perfectly merciless creature - with no room for pity in her heart - but she couldn’t help herself, looking at her friend so incensed and defeated at the same moment. A pang of pity struck her, and she refrained, with every ounce of her self control, from agreeing that one must indeed be a pathetic creature to care about him.

Besides, one could, she supposed, find elements of intrigue in even the most hateable people. And flaws in the best. Shades of light and dark, all humanity.

She sighed, and slid onto the floor to find herself a little less far away from her friend, and a little more comfortable, cross-legged. It was too easy not to see the world in perspective from a chair. Chairs made people quite oblivious. “We’re more puzzling creatures than any others you’ve seen, I expect,” Phyri said fondly, at little in jest about Amelia’s career. Forget zoological gardens: the human heart in its odd rib-cage was oddity enough. (Porphyria usually preferred not to look at it too closely.)

“Perhaps you ought to think of it as a war,” Phryi said, wondering how on earth it was that anyone was trying to beg romantic advice from her. “You’re still entrenched in your past, and you’re miserable for it. You’ve lost a battle here and there. Skeeter’s had the gall to take some hostages. But you might still turn the tide, and win the war. You just need to... obliterate him from your life completely.” Stamp out all memory of that cockroach once and for all. However one did that.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

The soft rustle of fabric made Amelia peep through her fingers to see Phyri had plopped right onto the ground. Were it any other person in front of her Amelia would have thought them mad (well - for all intents and purposes, one could say the woman in front of her was a touch mad), however this seemed pretty on par with behaviors associated with the dark haired determined-to-be-spinster.

It was one of the things Amelia appreciated about her friend - she wasn't really afraid to be herself or do anything that struck her mind, including doing something as unladylike as sliding out of her seat and straight onto the floor in such a decided fashion.

In a spur of what Amelia could only describe as spontaneity, she too eased her self off the chaise and onto the floor. While it certainly felt weird, it also felt...quite comfortable. She grinned at Phyri before listening to her poetic words. Only Porphyria Dempsey could tell her she lost, call Skeeter a cockroach, and tell her to destroy him with such elegance. Amelia couldn't help but laugh heartily. "How?" she said, half-jokingly half-seriously. "Burn everything he's given me or anything that reminds me of him?" She thought back to the Christmas presents he'd given her: the small book of poems, a small commissioned portrait of Penny...she'd grown quite fond of those small items, but perhaps it was time to really part with them...

  

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Amelia had followed her to the floor, and had broken into a laugh.

Good. As she damn well should. And being on the floor, well, it signalled something, Porphyria felt, always strangely attuned to the imagery of a situation: this was rock bottom, the floor firm beneath them. Amelia had lowered herself to be with Skeeter in the first place (morally, not socially) and of course he’d knocked her down. A set back, only. Time to venture on the attack. No sense in being emotionally left for dead in a ditch forever. One must forgive the cliché, but the only way, as they said, was up.

“There’s an idea,” Phyri said, leaning in with a gleam of fervour in her eyes, glad Amelia was getting it. (She was also pleased that her friend had suggested burning things herself, because that meant she would not have to prod her friend into it, and merely appreciate the drama.) “Yes, send it all up on a pyre!” She glanced towards the fireplace quickly, but also she’d been picturing a hellishly large bonfire on a beach somewhere rather than a drawing room fireplace, and Amelia probably did not have every memento of Barnabas Skeeter on hand with her ready for the burning.

(Or at least Porphyria would be concerned if she did.)

She leant back against the edge of the furniture, letting her head loll thoughtfully. “I should think it’s that or throwing yourself at some other man post-haste,” Porphyria mused aloud, letting her nose wrinkle at the thought of it. Not something she would try, personally, but it seemed like a leaf out of Byron’s book, and although one could not say Byron had ever made the best choices, he had at least managed drama. “A - palate cleanser, or something.” Literally, perhaps, if Amelia took that to mean some aggressive snogging. This was not Phyri’s comfort zone, and she shrugged carelessly to prove it. “Desperate times, you know. Desperate measures.”

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

She got the feeling that Phyri probably contemplated this more seriously than her own self – but ultimately, Amelia was open to anything at this point. She saw Phyri glance towards the fireplace, and her mouth popped open slightly as she thought she knew what the witch was thinking. While she certainly accepted that she needed help, Amelia hoped Phyri thought was not so far gone as to carry the relics of her last relationship with her wherever she went. Hopefully not, seeing as she didn't suggest Amelia throw all such possessions into the flames immediately.

As she relaxed her figure, she reached over to take another sip from her glass and let the drink's liquids soothe her. At least until her friend voiced a second course of action. Amelia contemplated between taking another unladylike swig to cover her shock (and partial disgust) of the suggested plan and laughing. She settled ultimately with doing one after the other which saw her dissolve into fits of coughing. She reached out a hand to steady herself - damn corsets.

"I think," she said hoarsely, "something less drastic, Phyri," she weighed in, laughing at her reaction. "I believe I'm more willing to part with small relics of sentimentality than part of my dignity." Not that she retained any in deciding to intertwine her path with Barnabas Skeeter's.

  

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Porphyria received her friend’s coughing fit with nothing more than mild bemusement. She was relieved, though, that Amelia managed to clear her airways successfully and recover; and even more relieved, if she were honest, that Amelia had not leapt at the rebound suggestion.

So she grinned in response instead and slouched even further against the furniture; there was no room for refinement here. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure you can do much better,” Phyri said with a sniff at the mere memory of Barnabas Skeeter, though she hoped her friend would believe it. (And gain herself some standards.) “But burning things is good for the soul,” she added more brightly. “I’m glad you agree.”

While they were marking that on the books - Porphyria didn’t know whether burning the last remnants of a relationship was something one did alone, but frankly she would be put out to have heard about it and not be given an invitation - she grinned her most shark-like grin, and said casually, “You should let me interview the next one when he comes along, though.” There would be a next man at some point, she was sure. Plenty of her friends called themselves spinsters, but Phyri was well aware she was the only one of them who had made it a militant manifesto. And when Amelia fell for someone again, she needed the auxiliary support in place in case of - casualties. “I’m sure I could set him straight.”

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Amelia rose her eyebrows and grimaced in a 'yes, you're quite right' sort of way before taking another drink from her glass. She could do better. There was so much....yelling, with Barnabas; so many emotions that twisted at her stomach in the most unpleasant way. Amelia was far from a romantic – her early upbringing had seen to that – but....there had to be something more than arguing in a relationship. She'd seen it in her aunt and uncle. They weren't the richest people nor were they the poorest, but they were comfortable in their living and loved each other. It was something that – while it may be naïve, Amelia knew she wanted at some point in her life. Barnabas Skeeter had taught her that; she couldn't go through a marriage without having some modicum of respect for the man.

"The next one...tuh!" History had told her that her judgment was not always sound. For this reason, Amelia took Phyri's suggestion to heart and countered with another laugh. She knew if she'd approached Phryi with such a prospect, the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin that had just graced her friend's features would make an immediate reappearance. "I shall then put my palms together and pray to Merlin the poor man comes out the other side unscathed." she said, shooting Phyri an amused glance.

"And I suppose,""burning would be an apt response, if not proportional one." She looked back at Phyri with a grin of her own. It was quite some time ago – more than 10 years in fact – that Amelia would get a most intense detention after setting her future lover's robes aflame. "Remember when I set Barnabas's robes aflame after he insulted you?" While not in the same house, the encounter would set forth the trajectory for Amelia's relationship with both the Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

  

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Well, Amelia knew her well, they could say that. Porphyria knew, in all frankness, that she was not the fairweather friend suited to all situations, and she quite accepted that - indeed, she made it her business to be horribly unsuited to everything - but if there was one thing she felt she could do it was defend her friends from worthless sorts. Defend them... fragrantly.

And Porphyria had firm evidence that Amelia was the sort who would do the same, because she had.

“I’ll remember that in eighty years,” Phyri replied, grinning unabashedly. Insults from boys with upturned noses and floppy hair had never been at much risk of offending her - she would give as good as she got - but not everyone would have stepped into the line of fire so willingly. “At the risk of sounding terrible - or being sentimental, I’m not sure which,” she added pensively, before peering across at Amelia with bright sincerity, “I’m glad our friendship has outlasted your relationship with Skeeter.”

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Reaching up to her drink with a not-so-subtle grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, and held up her glass to Porphyria. Of all the people she'd crossed paths with in her life, Porphyria was the one whose company she'd anticipated the least to last as long as it did. But she knew the other witch's loyalties stood as steadfast as her own when it came to her friends.

They might jest about Porphyria interrogating any further suitors Amelia might have, but the redhead would not be surprised if the moment came where word reached her of a dark-haired upper-class woman that approached someone of interest to Amelia and thoroughly interrogated them without hesitation or abandon. Truth be told, Amelia herself she wasn't sure if she was highly anticipating the day or wary of it. "If it had to be you or him," Amelia said, surprised by the own certainty her voice conveyed. "I'd rather it be you."

Amelia knew she and Barnabas were just too different in the most important ways. A part of her still ached to know she'd been right in breaking off their courtship. It was all for the better that she'd realized it when she did, for she knew if they'd continued down the path they'd been heading, it would have ended how their original meeting had begun: in flames.

  

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