August 30, 1894 - Magical Portrait Gallery, London (some obscure, almost empty hall)

Sebastian was tired of his family. He was tired of Sissy and her perfect marriage, tired of his mother with her ridiculous expectations, tired of the Earl Nottingham and his bloody, stupid, bonehead fiancée— It was with no small amount of bad mood that Seb slammed the door to his bedroom at Dyrham. They were all camped out here for the autumn, settled as was expected of the peerage on their splendid estates while the rest of the (wizarding) season carried on in London! How in the hell was he supposed to do anything for himself when he was squirreled away here?! He wasn’t, according to his mother. She more than had it handled and Seb was sick of it. Sick of them, sick of every overprivileged airhead that flounced through the revolving door his mother had made of their estate, and sick of his sister's condescension. He was a capable viscount despite his being vaguely magical— or unnatural, according to the women in his life— and he was a capable wizard too, despite his abilities being unreliable and, well, the fact that he was a muggleborn. (Alright, so he wasn’t perfect but he was good enough, and perhaps one day someone would finally see that!)

Seb paced back and forth, once, twice, running his hand over his face. He had to get out of here before he did something stupid. But where to go? He couldn’t well storm off into the nearby town. They all knew him and it was a small village. He could floo back to London, he supposed, but the staff there were loyal to their dictator-ess only. Hogsmeade maybe? Hogsmeade seemed safe enough in maintaining his relative obscurity, but also rather small and cramped. Wizarding London it would be then— at least there he might find a place to squirrel away for a drink where nobody might recognize him. The Leaky Cauldron even.

Running a hand through his hair and tugging on the ends in his frustration, Sebastian eyed the fireplace in his room. It was the only one on the entire estate connected to the Floo network but he was the only one who needed to know that. He didn’t know if this current bout of irritation would do anything to his abilities and so aparating, especially that far, did not seem like a good idea. Deciding the risk of landing somewhere he didn’t know far outweighed the risk of splinching, he grabbed a handful of floo powder and was on his (less than) merry way.

When Sebastian stumbled back out of the fireplace, he was certainly not where he’d expected to be.

Dust kicked up around him and the viscount coughed as he swatted it away. He blinked large blue eyes and looked around blearily. Ugh, this was certainly not the Leaky Cauldron. (But why would it be? He didn’t even know if they had a floo entrance!) A few protests sounded from just nearby and Seb realized they were from… portraits?

“I dare say! What do you think you’re doing young man!”

“That floo hasn’t been serviced in over a decade!”

“You could have been killed! Worse, you could have ripped one of us!!”

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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The studio was her happy place; large windows that let the light in meant she had little need for artificial light during the day, and as a bonus didn’t make her feel as if she were trapped in. Blank canvases leaned against the wall whereas the completed paintings she needed to attend to were lined up one by one just outside in the hallway. (It made for an efficient queuing system that allowed Irene to do her work and organize without having to listen to all the paintings complain about the things that were wrong with them - they could complain to each other instead.) Potions and solutions to dissolve certain paints were lined up in cabinets, and paints were all organized by color in drawers. Various pieces of spare wood and tools also had their own location beside the spare frames that were waiting for repair. And then, Irene’s favorite corner, one nestled right up by the window, her painting corner. An easel set up to take in the daylight, with a palette of already mixed colors; some paintbrushes already soaking in solution in a glass jar; a small teacup and teapot on a tray sat on a simple wooden table by her stool; and just a bit further away, a chaise with a blanket because there were times when she painted so late into the night, aided by floating orbs of light, that she figured she might as well sleep there anyways.

It was her place of peace, and Irene felt content to paint the day away. It was what she’d been planning on doing this very day. She had just made up a fresh pot of tea, and had sat down to put some finishing touches on one of her personal pieces (she’d finished up the queue for the day) when a bunch of chattering broke through her concentration. She even heard her name being called somewhere in there.

“Miss Crawley come at once!”

“The floo is lighting up, oh we shall all perish!”

“Miss Crawley, I refuse to be ripped to shreds again before you are done restoring me!”

Heaving a sigh, Irene set down her teacup and hurried out into the hallway, figuring it was likely a new tactic they’d come up with to try and get her to work the way through the queue faster. Except when she went out into the hallway expecting nothing but a line of complaining portraits, she found that the fireplace - one that hadn’t been serviced in months if not years - was lighting up. Her heart began to pound in her ears as she realized she’d forgotten her wand back in the studio. And suddenly the portraits complaints were overlapping each other, some encouraging her to fight and others telling her to flee. Before she had time to decide on what to do, a figure stumbled out, swatting the air. So Irene did the only thing she felt she could do. She leapt forwards with a cry, hoping to at least push him off balance so she could get past him and run.

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

The haze of smoke was thick as Seb stumbled out into a corridor that he absolutely did not recognize. He heard a few distant protests from the portraits and managed to piece together the fact that he’d floo'd into somewhere that had not been serviced recently and had just been… left open for whatever reason. It was dangerous that, he agreed, but made no such comment. He’d barely registered there was anyone to make a comment to when, gaze clearing, something - or someone - rammed right smack into him.

Thrown further off balance, the viscount let out a soft oof and tripped back into a wall, letting his hand swipe out to catch him against the moulding. He didn’t quite manage it and instead landed on his rear in the very soot he’d just stumbled out of. Another cloud of black smoke kicked up around him making Sebastian cough.

Who in their right mind attacked someone willy nilly as they stumbled out of a Floo!

“Hey!” He cried out, swatting away the puff quickly to try and make out the figure. He recognized the vague, ghostly shape as his vision cleared and then— his heart skipped an unreliable, frustrating beat. Of course it was none other than Ms. Irene Crawley. Even with her hair cut short and paint on her left cheek, he’d have recognized that face anywhere. Scowling, Sebastian pouted up at her like a belligerent child. “What is with you, always attacking me when I’m utterly at a disadvantage!” Never mind the fact that it had been a year since he’d last seen her and a veritable decade or five before that!

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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She’d been only a few steps down the hallway when the voice crying out reached her ears and she stopped dead, whipping around. It couldn’t be. It had been years since she heard that voice, and it was one that she thought she wouldn’t ever hear again. A vision of tulle, champagne-hazed nights and golden masks sprung to her mind as she stared in shock at the viscount currently sitting in a pile of ash at the end of the hall.

“What in god’s name are you doing here, Bash?!” She exclaimed, not bothering to keep her voice down, and not bothering to stand on ceremony either; she'd already pushed him down onto the ground, maybe it seemed a bit of an insult to call him Lord Talbot when he was covered in soot. Irene hurried over, a flush coating her cheeks as she reached out a hand to help him up. “And when was the last time I attacked you at a disadvantage?” She couldn’t help but argue, as if no time had passed and they were still bickering with each other years ago.

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The following 1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post:1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post
   Sebastian Talbot

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

Seeing Irene always managed to catch Seb off guard. She was too pretty in that familiar, aching kind of way that he tried so hard not to think about, and now - with this strange new look that was decidedly unfamiliar to him - he wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was still pretty, and it still ached, but it was… different certainly. An indicator of time gone by.

The fact that she called him ‘Bash’ brought Seb swirling back to the present reality. How long had it been since anyone had called him that? Not since Colin, and even that was… too long ago now. It didn’t cross his mind that she’d forgone his title, not with how natural it sounded, and the brunette made to wrinkle his nose instead at the fact that she was surprised to see him. What, was he an unwelcome guest here too then? (Wherever here was… since he still didn’t know.) The fact that Irene came running back to him settled some of the offense however and Seb accepted the hand that was offered.

“In Italy, or don’t you remember?” He sniffed, half insulted at the fact that she could forget about their… jarring encounter a year ago. The whole thing had left him reeling for days, wondering if he ought to reach out again or just let her be. In the end, he’d decided to give some space thinking it was best for both of them and it looked like he’d been right. Tugging himself up to a stand, and jerking her closer than he’d perhaps expected in the movement, Seb came face to face with Irene and only just managed to keep them both steady with a hand settling in the small of her back. All bite left his tone as he gazed at her a second.

“You always seem to swoop in from nowhere, right when I least expect it.”

He released her quickly and made to take a step back, frowning again and dusting himself off. His trousers were covered in soot and Seb was not pleased with this new development. “Where in the hell are we, anyway?!” He demanded to know.

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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© the genius that is Lady <3

In Italy? She blinked, stunned as the mere reference of the memory came flooding back to her (as most memories did nowadays with her still-recovering mind). Then she was quite literally pulled back to the present as he tugged on her hand to stand up, which saw her pitch forward. A familiar smell overcame her, one that was comforting and reminded her of bygone days. It didn’t take much to startle Irene these days, but even so she seemed particularly struck dumb by the woodsy, earthy scent that seemed to envelop them as she stared up at the man who’d stumbled his way into her work place.

And before her heart could leap into her throat, he’d released her to brush himself off. Irene stumbled backward slightly, her hand briefly touching the frame of a painting as if to try and orient herself; remind herself where exactly she was. And who might be listening. “I believe it’s you who was doing the swooping, Bash,” She corrected as she cleared her throat. “You’re in the Magical Portrait Gallery in London, it’s where I work.”

As if to remind her exactly where she worked, one of the paintings piped up again, but Irene was still too dazed to hear what exactly they said. How in the world had he ended up here?

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

The scent of lavender and citrus lingered in his nose even after Sebastian released her and it took a considerable effort not to commit it to memory. (Had she always smelled that way or was this something new, too?) As for his swooping, maybe she was right there— this time at least.

The Magical Portrait Gallery of London was not where he had intended to land. Looking around as if to orient himself, Seb wondered how in the hell he was supposed to get out of here. There was a quiet murmur that came into focus around them, the various portrait subjects whispering to one another. “Awfully familiar aren’t they?” One hissed to another. “Yes, quite.” A third responded. Then, louder, “Erm— Ms. Crawley, might you tell this delinquent to find some other place to cause a ruckus! We have work to do!”

Seb couldn’t help the flicker of amusement that scrawled itself across his face as he turned back to the lady before him. “The Magical Portrait Gallery?” He responded, lazily. “Is this where you’ve been hiding all these years?” He made to lean back against the wall in an effort to put some more distance between them and looked around less than impressed. “An awfully vocal group you’ve got here. I can’t imagine it’s much fun putting up with all the demands.”

Around him a chorus of exclamations rung out, each coloring various shades of affronted and insulted. “I beg your pardon, sir!” “Who does this ruffian think he is!” “Irene, we demand you discard of this hooligan!” Sebastian laughed. “Will you, Irene?” He teased, leaning forward a bit and crossing his arms over his chest. “Discard of me, that is.”

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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© the genius that is Lady <3

Despite not usually caring what people thought about her place of work, Irene suddenly felt rather self-conscious about the state of both the gallery hall, the studio and - well, herself. She was sure that there was paint on her face, charcoal on her apron and she was certainly not wearing anything as extravagant as that dress she’d been wearing last time he’d seen her. But he still looked at her in a peculiar way that made her brush her fingers against her cheek in case there was any residual dust. And then, of course there was the delightful Greek Chorus made of the portraits in the hall who were very willfully contributing their thoughts to the situation.

She wanted to tell them to shove off, but Bash had spoken instead. “I haven’t been hiding here, Bash.” She protested again, crossing her arms. “I’ve been working.” Must he be so…so…judgmental? Nevermind the fact that he was right about how draining it was to deal with the portraits demanding things right and left of her. In fact there were certainly times when she felt like that muggle girl in that fairy tale, working at the behest of everyone around her. But then there were other times when she genuinely enjoyed their chatter, fussy as it was.

As for how their protests struck her now, though… and it was hard to think with him leaning so close.

“Everyone shut it!” She demanded, raising her voice after a searching look at the man in front of her. “This is Lord Talbot, Viscount of Cheltenham.” She announced in her most proper voice; this new revelation certainly caused a fair few of the paintings to indeed ‘shut it’; and some of them gaped. “He’s an old friend of mine, so I’m not discarding him; he’s my guest and I’m showing him around the gallery, and you all had better behave.” At the end of her threat, she even cast her eyes about the hallway before landing on Bash, giving him a warning look as well. Without waiting for a response from the portraits or Bash, she pivoted and turned back the way she’d come.

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

The Magical Portrait Gallery made sense in that weird way Sebastian felt wasn’t fair for him to have to recognize. If he’d ever really wanted to look for Irene, it was as obvious a place as any, but he’d be kidding himself if he admitted that he had tried. He hadn’t. In fact, he’d let Colin’s disappearance take with it all confusing, painful memories and feelings associated with Irene. His guilt had come forward as the main driving factor and, unworthy - maybe - of her attention, and certainly not inclined to pursue anything with her given the facts… well. It had just been easier. Now that he stood here, however, in her wake, faced with Irene Crawley herself, live and in person— it was a different matter altogether. Every sentiment he’d spent so long trying to suppress came simmering to the surface and when she cried out like that, all angry and irritated at him and her surroundings… he couldn’t help but but feel a small tug. This was familiar. This was… them.

Sebastian folded his hands across his chest and leaned against the wall, pushing that thought quite far into the back trenches of his mind. He listened to the exasperated way Irene introduced him and commanded the portraits to mind their own business, thinking to himself that she’d have made a good tyrant herself in a past life. Or, tyrant-ess, he supposed. Whatever the proper equivalent might be. Her storming off just then and leaving him behind was not so surprising either and Seb peeled himself lazily off the wall to trot after her, hands raised in mock surrender as he promised to behave. Whatever that meant.

He was still turning over the fact that she’d deigned to call him an old friend, and perhaps trying to think of a way to rub it in, when he stopped short just in front of the dirty floo. “You’re not going to get in trouble for this, are you?” He heard himself ask. That would be a shame. But he was a patron so… who was to say he couldn’t well get her out of it?

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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© the genius that is Lady <3

She could still hear the chattering of portraits behind her, not to mention the fact that multiple of them had multiple portraits in the hall, so some of them popped up in their paintings in the workshop. It smelled comforting, and even the portrait chatter, which so often faded into the background to settle in as a lovely sound scape, provided much needed relief sometimes. Now, however, Irene worried it would only serve as a sort of heckling gallery for her conversation with Sebastian.

A familiar knot twisted in her gut, yet she hadn’t determined what in Merlin’s name had caused the sensation. She had a feeling it had something to do with the figure in front of her though. Irene crossed her arms, settling into a comfortable stance at her main workbench and fixed her gaze on him. Of course, he walked about the place as if he already owned it. “No.” She commented easily. “No one cares about a middle class spinster in her grubby little workshop.”

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

Irene’s response tugged at something that Sebastian didn’t want to consider. (His heart, mind you— not the other thing. Though perhaps that a little too.) He cared about the middle class sprinter in her grubby workshop even though he was loathe to admit it. And this place certainly was… dank, if a little damp smelling. He didn’t know what to say that wasn’t the exact truth he refused to acknowledge however, and so he settled on saying nothing at all, instead taking a turn to peer around her workspace.

There were bits and pieces of Irene all over. Little hints and idiosyncrasies that unless one knew her they wouldn’t even pause to recognize. But Seb knew her. Seb knew her better than he cared to, even after all these years. He turned back to the pretty brunette before he could be accused of lurking or some such and the scene of her cast against the messy backdrop tugged at an idea in the back of his mind.

No one cares about a middle class spinster in her grubby little workshop.

Sebastian grinned. “No,” he agreed slowly. Nobody did care about a middle class spinster, generally in any context. So who was to say that it would matter if she spent her days toiling here or— “Come work for me instead.”

The proposition was out before he could think twice. Stated so matter-of-factly, Sebastian was surprised at his own nonchalance. But really, it was perfect. Mama had been badgering him to have a new portrait done and he hated the prospect of sitting for one. Father had left a multitude of things he wanted restored too; there was plenty of work to keep one like Ms. Crawley occupied for months, and certainly in a better keep than this old dump.

(And if it hinted at the beginnings of what he might do to appease his guilty conscience to supply her with something better after everything he’d done, well, that was his own business.)

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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© the genius that is Lady <3