28th May, 1889 — Padmore Park

Porphyria had left her bag on a patch of grass, and gone to investigate a strange carving on a tree. She hadn’t plans until later, so had spent an idle half-hour in the park on her way through Hogsmeade, watching the clouds cross the sky with empty threats of rain.

Eventually, she returned to where she had abandoned her things and swept up her bag onto her arm, progressing down the park path at an impressive clip. The tree-carving had proven as mysterious and interesting as she imagined, so with one hand, she rummaged in her bag as she went, looking again for the notebook she had with her at all times, crammed full of drafts of poetry and half-grasped thoughts.

She couldn’t find it, and, almost out of the park now, glanced down at her bag. It was a plain enough thing, easily missed and easily mistaken, and -

This was not her bag.

She stopped short and dug around in it, looking for something that might prove her wrong.

Never mind the coins littering the bottom of the bag, or her favourite dipping pen with the bone-handle or even the folding knife; she wasn’t worried about the dog-eared anthology, the slightly-squished plum, a loose fork, or the odd-looking mushrooms she had tipped in there earlier. The case of calling cards - well, not actual calling cards, just card after card of the Ten of Swords in the tarot deck (much more fun to press into the possession of unsuspecting acquaintances than anything as devastatingly plain as her name and address) - was a pity to lose, but she could always have more printed.

None of that was in there, and none of that mattered.

But the notebook. The notebook was weeks, months, years of scribbled, vital work. She needed that notebook.

She paced back to the place she had left her bag, if not the place where she had picked up this one, but there was no sign of hers now either. With a darkening countenance, she rifled through the bag she had, this sorry impostor, searching for some sign of whose it was.

Porphyria pulled something out, making a face. What the hell was this?

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Some bloody catso had gone and stolen his sister’s bag and Enoch was determined that the rapscallion would rue the day he had attempted his malversation upon her – even if it was Jemima she was still a Rosier. She might have been an embarrassment most of the time but blood was blood and he would not allow anybody to prey upon her ridiculously infuriating good nature.

Griselda would have taken one look at the catspaw and known what he was about instantly but no, his foolish little sister had actually believed the man’s plea for alms and had been retrieving her coin purse when he had snatched it and ran. Were it just the bag Enoch might not have bothered but the glowsy fuckwit had gone and pushed his sister to the ground too and that he couldn’t ignore – to bruise her was to bruise him.

Even if she was an idiot who could be shigged out of her purse so easily.

He sprinted in the direction Jemima had indicated through the park, lion-drunk intentions forming in his mind for when he caught up with the deviant, and put on a burst of speed when he spotted a clear skid in the grass where a boot had hurriedly ran by the side of the lake. Enoch looked around him and immediately stopped in his tracks, staring dumbfounded.

“You!”

  

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She had been on the verge of tossing aside the whole useless bag and the stupid starched handkerchief she'd found inside it, back to the floor from where she had snatched it, when a resounding voice stopped her in her tracks.

She looked towards them.

She had half-expected it to be the owner of this worthless bag (no amount of galleons were worth the price of her notebook, please) accosting her with an accusation of theft, but the accusation from him felt like a great deal more than that. It couldn't even be his bag - it was probably a lady's purse - but for a suspended moment Porphyria's mind went blank, her predicament forgotten, beyond the fact that she was in the midst of a crisis and now he had the gall to be here to witness it!

"Ugh," Porphyria groaned aloud, too irked by the sight of him to feign icy impassivity. "Just what I needed," she muttered, gritting her teeth and clutching bitterly at not-her-bag, sure that he was a harbinger of her bad fortune. Of course wretched happenings couldn't be counted upon to come alone; of course he was always lurking in the park like it was his corner of the underworld. "What the hell do you want?"

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   Elladora Black

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

“This for one thing,” Enoch replied archly, striding forward to yank the bag from her hands. He didn’t especially want it and had been quite prepared to tell Jemima it was lost and to let that be a lesson to her about being such a trusting child when it came to strangers, but that certainly didn’t mean he wanted her to have it. Jemima rarely carried money – largely because she had a tendency to give it away and thus couldn’t be trusted with such responsibility – but there were sure to be things in there that this banshee would somehow use against the family.

Merlin, how was it possible that she somehow belonged to a half-decent family? Not a proper family, not the sort he would ever be seen dead with outside of work, but certainly nothing as bleak as the MacFustys or whatever savage clan of druids Connolly hailed from. It really did beggar belief and it was still irritating that she held the finest features of any woman he had ever seen; a sort of belle dame sans merci that would lead him to doom. Assuming she didn’t simply kill him first.

“Who stole it? Did you see?” He demanded, looking around, sure despite everything that she wasn’t the culprit.

  

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For a protracted moment, Porphyria was adamant she wouldn’t give the bag to him, would cling onto it until the end of the earth just to be inconvenient. But it wasn’t even hers, and she was too preoccupied still with that fact that she let go, and gave it up without further protest. (Not without a scowl, obviously, but.)

He may be something of a nemesis of hers, but the man did not seem to think she had had anything to do with the theft of it. Porphyria hadn’t, of course - it was probably some poor beggar man - but she was almost a little put out that his disgruntlement was not directed towards her. Which made entirely no sense.

Phyri had plenty of room for a fit of pique about his presence, but even that was somewhat sidelined by the bigger issue here. “No,” she retorted, “but I expect he’s taken anything of value in it -” the sniff of disdain in her voice was a hunch that nothing in this bag could qualify as that, “because I found it dumped on the floor. And now mine’s gone!” She said heatedly, as though he could possibly have been responsible for this. Wasn’t he law enforcement, some flashy good-for-nothing auror? That meant thieves running rampant were rather his fault, more or less.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Enoch truly couldn’t imagine what Jemima might have had in her bag that was of any value, or indeed what she would consider something of worth. From a family of comfortable means or not she seemed the sort that put value on the most ludicrous things – he would bet any money that she painted nothing but watercolour scenes and owned far too many worthy novels.

“And suddenly I pity the poor thief that has to rummage through your dross to find anything of worth,” he snapped back, though in truth he had no intention whatsoever of letting the thief get away with anything less than a sound thrashing. Even if it might, if one squinted and ignored every word that came out of either of their mouths, be construed as him avenging the slight done to Miss Dempsey.

“Footprints,” Enoch said aloud, narrowing his eyes at the marks on the ground that were little more than scuffs really but definitely gave him a starting point. “This way,” he muttered, not to her, definitely not to her, because he did not want her to come with him. Even if it might be slightly more convenient to have her there so she could retrieve her bag and he would not feel obliged as a gentleman to return it to her even though she didn’t deserve the courtesy.

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   Porphyria Dempsey

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If Porphyria had learnt that anyone thought her liable to paint watercolours in her spare time, she would never have been so offended in her life.

As it was, Mr. Rosier’s words were a little harder to argue with. She had a lot of - loose matter in her bag to sift through, true. The mushrooms might even be poisonous, she didn’t know. Maybe the thief would find out, and pay his penance for taking her poetry notebook. The loss of it was profoundly plaguing her. It felt as though she’d lost her right hand. And possibly her head.

“Save your pity for when I find him, why don’t you,” she said darkly, the words accompanied by clenched fists which were, in truth, brought on just as much by upset as by the attempt to be threatening.

Mr. Rosier, she thought - if only to make herself feel better - ought to recall well enough that she was not just all talk.

In this vein, she supposed she might warn him that there was a knife in her bag that the thief might find of value in one way or another, but Porphyria was at this point distracted by his pointing out the footprints. Clearly it had never been in any question to her that she was coming along on this pursuit, so she propelled herself into motion as quickly as she could walk, not in the least inclined to be left behind. 

“I hope they teach you more than that at the Ministry,” she muttered with a scowl, scanning the rest of the park as they went but not entirely sure whether she should be relying on his ‘talents’ to rescue a year’s worth of poetry from the hands of some footpad. Not that she wanted to count on him, either, but if he could catch dark wizards he must be able to return a runaway bag.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

“Miss Dempsey, just because everybody else in this thrice-damned village is inadequate you ought not assume I am,” Enoch mumbled disagreeably as he deliberately paid more attention to the trail he was following. It was hardly a well-concealed one, so he needn’t have bothered to be too conscientious, but he was determined to make a good show of himself – the Ministry might have taught him some skills but it was a different teaching entirely that had made him simply superior to most in their society.

Of course it helped that most villains, contrary to popular opinion, were not all criminal masterminds who sat at the centre of a tangled web and actually most of them were just plain fucking thick. Enoch spotted two hurrying, muddy footprints, then a skid of grass and he followed this track directly into the lake where a swan boat was conspicuously empty from a distance but, low and behold, possessed a lump of blanket that appeared to be breathing rapidly.

“See there,” he pointed the ridiculous sight out to her, largely because she was the only person nearby to share it with. “The bitter proof, if ever it was needed, that the world is littered with halfwits.”

  

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“I’ll assume what I like,” she shot back churlishly, determined not to be any nicer to him simply because he was helping her.

And Mr. Rosier didn’t seem half as stupid as, in any other situation, she would have wanted him to be - but mercifully she didn’t have to acknowledge his adequacy, because, as he had just put it, they were up against a halfwit. She couldn’t help but snort. (The statement was true enough that she didn’t have it in her to disagree.)

Instead, Porphyria glowered out at the suspect boat. They had him well and truly trapped now, she supposed, her heart still racing just a little at the thought of all her poetry that was in his possession. But the moron of a thief probably hadn’t even learned to apparate!

Relieved to find her wand tucked in a pocket and not languishing in the thief’s possession as well, Porphyria pulled it out and narrowed her eyes at the boat on the water. She supposed she might have waited to hear Mr. Rosier’s plan, or used accio in her bag’s recovery, but there would be less satisfaction in that than giving the thief himself a fright. With a swift carpe retractum, Phyri reeled the swan boat steadily in towards them.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

The baffled, panicky face that peeked out over the side of the boat gave Enoch a marvellous sense of schadenfreude and for perhaps the first time he was quite glad he had bumped into Miss Dempsey. She was a disagreeable chit in many respects but, as he had learned to his detriment, she was also not the sort of young woman who waited to be rescued: instead she seemed rather apt at taking matters into her own hands and especially when there was an opportunity for making somebody else suffer.

Enoch definitely approved.

“What do you think Miss Dempsey? Can this imbecile swim?”

With a flick of his own wand Enoch rocked the boat violently. The swan-shaped structure flailed from side to side until the thief, dislodged and making the terrible decision to stand up, lost his footing and plunged into the water, leaving his booty safe and mostly dry on the floor of the boat that picked up pace rapidly without the heavy body inside it and came to a stop only a few feet from Miss Dempsey.

  

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Now that her possessions were in reach again, there was at last a moment to indulge herself a little in the situation, which, at present, was proving more enjoyable than anything in the company of Mr. Rosier had any right to be.

Given that unfortunate truth, then, Porphyria didn’t manage to stifle her surprised laugh when Rosier took it upon himself to rock the boat. If she were a nicer person, she supposed she would have felt obligated to reproach him for that savagery - but she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself grinning as the petty thief got his just desserts, and began floundering. “Serves him right.”

She scrambled forwards and plucked her things out of the boat, shooting the thief a glare and a slightly more uncouth hand gesture when she thought no one was looking. He’d be fine, anyway; he was not so deep out that he would drown - and, indeed, if he were any smarter than he looked, he’d avoid hauling himself to the bank until there wasn’t an auror standing on it waiting for him.

But he’d learned his lesson - that much was clear - and she had her poetry book back, so Porphyria was no longer particularly interested in him.

As for Mr. Rosier... “I hope,” she said stiffly, surveying him in increasing reluctance as the gratitude swelled, too, “you don’t expect me to thank you for your help.” She hadn’t asked for it, as far as she recalled. It was probably within the parameters of his job, anyway, and he had caught the man with relative ease, besides. And he had been no more polite than she had, so.

Still, the sentiment came out with remarkably little enmity in it. Unfortunate. She did not want to give Mr. Rosier the impression that she was warming to him.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

“You wound me Miss Dempsey,” he replied with an exaggerated face of sorrow, placing one hand dramatically on his chest for emphasis while his other casually flicked his wand to wrap the man’s feet in bonds. He could paddle back well enough and then Enoch would hand him over to the Hit Wizards – true in the end he hadn’t managed to actually steal anything but attempted theft from one’s betters was still deserving of a short stint in a cell guarded by the foulest creatures in existence.

On the other hand it had given him the excuse to see Miss Dempsey as she bent forth to pick up her bag and that was certainly not an imposition on his senses. Merlin but she was fine, even if she was a terrible shrew. If only she wasn’t a wealthy woman he might have persuaded her to be his mistress – it was hard to come by women who looked like a wicked fae, had the same accent as several of his favourite whores, and laughed at the misfortunes of others.

“Perhaps one day I’ll get another kiss out of you?” He added with a sly grin. “But I’ll keep it on account for now. Hope springs eternal after all.”

  

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She barely resisted the urge to take a swing at him with her newly-rescued bag, but she did restrain herself, and merely let her face screw up in displeasure as he brought up the last time he had helped her. “Helped”. She sorely wished she might have forgotten that by now.

Of course, the thought that her grudge might subside over time - if he kept redeeming himself, inch by inch - and one day she would look back on that event without malice towards him was equally as horrifying. Better to hate him, then, and find some fun in it.

“Perhaps I’ll give a dementor your card,” she replied with narrowed eyes, her lips twitching, “and it can give you a kiss if you’re so desperate. And then we’ll see about your hope, won’t we?” Mr. Rosier should count himself lucky if he got nothing worse from her than a roll of her eyes.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Chuckling to himself Enoch determined to pay no notice to her ire – it was, after all, no less than he expected from her, even if it did render her unfortunately attractive. Her face was on the pale side even by the dictation of the current fashions he knew his sister was a slave to but in the midst of her anger there was the slightest hint of a flush and try though he might Enoch was irritatingly sure he would think on that flush later.

“My hope is resilient,” he flicked his wand towards the thief, levitating the protesting man into the air and drawing him closer, legs arms flailing wide as he tried to free himself without luck. “Just like me. Oh shut up!” He snapped at the man as he came close enough to the insults being hurled both at him and Miss Dempsey to be audible. “That is no way to speak to a-” he paused, smirked as he considered his words and returned his attention to her just long enough to say: “A lady.” before he apparated away with a crack, and the man.

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   Elias Grimstone

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