Late evening, 11th June, 1888 — Walsh/MacKay house
He'd meant to warn her that he was coming. But in the end, it had been a snap decision to board the boat. Had Conall thought about it any longer, he'd have turned tail right back to the rainforest for another three years. He'd written a letter telling her once they were underway, but it was a muggle ship so the only owl he had on him any more was a wild Amazonian pygmy, a runty little thing who had refused to let him alone for months and who'd managed to make a nest for himself in Conall's belongings without him knowing. And who, it appeared, was afraid of water: every time Conall sent him off, he had circled straight back to the foremast or Conall's shoulder.
And by that point, they'd already reached British soil. So Conall had shrugged, gathered up the two small cases that contained most everything he owned (he hadn't ever needed a single expansion charm to manage, and until recently, he'd thought that an asset more than a problem) and made his way north to Scotland.
Irvingly was where she was, but no sooner than he'd reached his brief Hogsmeade stop-off, he'd heard talk about some darned fog that way. A few gruff questions later, he'd got the picture of it. The fog was suppressing magic, and growing by the day, causing all sorts of chaos. Best, he'd been told, to steer clear of it.
Conall had never cared for that phrase. Steer clear. As if. He'd have been the same, he suspected, even if he weren't already so set on the destination. But his daughter was living under the fog, and it was his daughter he'd come to see, so where was the use in loitering about until it passed?
The Hogsmeade folk he'd exchanged words with had advised against apparating into Irvingly by means of the usual way, not certain of whether it was still accessible; Conall had listened to that much, and instead found himself in the shade of the Forbidden Forest to the north of the town, taking the last of the journey in on foot and obligingly stowing his wand once he'd passed through into the fog.
He knew, vaguely, his daughter's address; but Irvingly was foreign to him, and the fog under cover of evening was hell on the eyes, so it had taken him twice as long as he'd meant to come to the right door. It was only at the very point of knocking on the door that Conall felt a twist of misgiving at all, but only rapped more loudly on the door in response. It felt like a thousand odd years before the door opened, but Conall barely registered it opening, because he was more focused on the flash he'd caught of a familiar freckled face in the hall and strode right in to greet her. "Eavan!" he declared in firm relief, swiftly releasing his grasp on his luggage.
And by that point, they'd already reached British soil. So Conall had shrugged, gathered up the two small cases that contained most everything he owned (he hadn't ever needed a single expansion charm to manage, and until recently, he'd thought that an asset more than a problem) and made his way north to Scotland.
Irvingly was where she was, but no sooner than he'd reached his brief Hogsmeade stop-off, he'd heard talk about some darned fog that way. A few gruff questions later, he'd got the picture of it. The fog was suppressing magic, and growing by the day, causing all sorts of chaos. Best, he'd been told, to steer clear of it.
Conall had never cared for that phrase. Steer clear. As if. He'd have been the same, he suspected, even if he weren't already so set on the destination. But his daughter was living under the fog, and it was his daughter he'd come to see, so where was the use in loitering about until it passed?
The Hogsmeade folk he'd exchanged words with had advised against apparating into Irvingly by means of the usual way, not certain of whether it was still accessible; Conall had listened to that much, and instead found himself in the shade of the Forbidden Forest to the north of the town, taking the last of the journey in on foot and obligingly stowing his wand once he'd passed through into the fog.
He knew, vaguely, his daughter's address; but Irvingly was foreign to him, and the fog under cover of evening was hell on the eyes, so it had taken him twice as long as he'd meant to come to the right door. It was only at the very point of knocking on the door that Conall felt a twist of misgiving at all, but only rapped more loudly on the door in response. It felt like a thousand odd years before the door opened, but Conall barely registered it opening, because he was more focused on the flash he'd caught of a familiar freckled face in the hall and strode right in to greet her. "Eavan!" he declared in firm relief, swiftly releasing his grasp on his luggage.
