mask of many faces

Arabella Figg, always | Ophelia Hopkins, only sometimes

[arabellafiggaf]

untamedmeadowes​:

Salve For Sore Spirits

Dorcas bristled. It was more instinct than personal, the automatic response to someone maligning or doubting any of her friends. “Yes, actually,” she retorted hotly. “Mum and dad took me to St. Mungo’s, where Benjy also works, remember?” She folded her arms, now more sulky than angry as she lamented, “I’ve been looked at by so many Healers.” She deflated still more and added with a sigh, “So many.”

That was one benefit to her very public fight with Voldemort: as opposed to most injuries obtained in activities on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix, there was no need for – nor, indeed, any chance of – trying to keep these a secret or come up with some other excuse for them. Everyone knew she had fought Voldemort. Everyone knew she had gotten hurt. The Daily Prophet had interviewed her twice, and probably would have interviewed her again if she had given them answers more along the lines of what they wanted to hear (and had been less distracted looking around as though Ainsley Abbott were going to pop out of hiding and challenge her to a duel mid-quote).

Sulking, while something Dorcas was admittedly good at, was not something she could maintain for long so while she tried to act grudging about her interest, the moment Arabella said that she wanted to listen to her, Dorcas perked-up. “You do?” she asked, her tone a mixture of skepticism and hope. “How can you fix it? You’re not in the Inner Circle. You’re not even a witch.” It wasn’t spoken as an insult, and it never occurred to Dorcas that Arabella might take it that way – although if asked, she would have readily admitted that being called a Squib very much would feel like an insult. That didn’t stop her from hoping that Arabella would somehow be able to offer a miracle solution…not that Dorcas was doing herself any favors towards that end right now.

While Arabella understood that it must’ve been frustrating to be looked at by so many Healers, as Dorcas herself had put it, she still thought it was a small price to pay for surviving an encounter with Voldemort. In fact, Dorcas didn’t seem any more aware of her own mortality, as Arabella had perhaps hoped; instead, she just seemed to have decided to be petulant. Although Arabella supposed that was where she came in. “That’s good,” she nodded, almost comically impassive in contrast to Dorcas’ tone. It wasn’t a result of indifference, but she also had no intention of squabbling over something like this. “I thought as much but it’s best to not assume, isn’t it? In any case, I really am relieved you’re feeling better. These attacks...” she trailed off for a moment, trying to find the words. In the end, the best she could offer was another small smile. “So many people getting hurt, it doesn’t get easier to watch.”

Because that was what she did for the most part. For all she tried to be useful, in battle she was a spectator at best, a hindrance at worst -- she didn’t kid herself about that. However, helplessness itself didn’t do much. So she’d learnt to channel it into action instead. And now taking action meant trying to prevent Dorcas from going back to those Healers so soon again. She didn’t need to be a witch to do that, though, and the insinuation that she did had a light frown settle on her face. “I’m not offering to cast a spell, am I? I’m offering to listen.” As for the Inner Circle, in Arabella’s opinion Order members often tended to forget that it wasn’t some exclusive club but instead just a means to facilitate decision-making and enforce at least some level of security. She certainly didn’t need to be in it for her words to be heard, and she knew that the reason for Dorcas’ not to be heard wasn’t that she wasn’t in the circle either. “In the end, we all have the same goal. If your ideas help reach that then of course I want to help. And if I can’t, then we find someone who can. It’s very simple, really.”

[arabellafiggaf]

untamedmeadowes​:

Salve for Sore Spirits

Dorcas Meadowes had never been the sort of witch to stand on her dignity, so she made no effort to pretend to be anything but eager for the distraction that Arabella offered her. “Please!” she said, waving the woman to a seat nearby, “Absolutely I’ve got time for a quick word! Or a dozen, even!” Given the speed at which Dorcas generally spoke, she had time for a great deal more than that, but she didn’t think Arabella was the sort to measure them out literally. (Severus probably would have, just to be contrary.) Dorcas hoped not, anyway; if Arabella was going to offer her a distraction on which to focus, it would be better if it was one that would consume more than a few seconds of this interminable recovery time.

But of course, that was exactly what Arabella wanted to talk about: Dorcas’s recovery. One would think she was the first person who’d ever had Voldemort’s wand turned on them personally! That was very much not the case, yet everybody still fussed.

Dorcas made a face, but nodded obediently. “Yeah, definitely better, Benjy knows what he’s doing, I’m almost all better again really.” That was a lie, but one that for once Dorcas didn’t balk at telling. It was more like wishful thinking than lying, anyway. And with luck it would be convincing enough to satisfy Arabella’s curiosity. From the way she had phrased her request for a word, Dorcas didn’t think her injuries were the only think Arabella wanted to talk about, so the sooner they could get through the requisite exclamations of sympathy and concern and horror, the sooner they could move onto something more interesting.

There was something very endearing and at the same time melancholic about Dorcas’ fire. It was just so present, even now, even in a casual conversation, and for a short moment, Arabella didn’t know what to do with it. She blinked at Dorcas, once, twice. Then the moment passed, and at least for now, she chose to put the melancholy aside. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said as she finally moved to sit down. Her smile was faint but true, and it didn’t falter when faced with Dorcas’ unenthused response; Arabella had heard other people talk about her recovery, but it was always different hearing it straight from the person themself. “Has anyone other than Beny had a look at you? I know Emmeline has… other issues and I don’t doubt Benjy’s skills, but one can never be too careful, can they?”

Perhaps not a sentiment Dorcas agreed with, she realised as soon as the words had left her lips. It did bring her to the next point rather neatly, though. “I’m not here to lecture you,” she felt the need to clarify. “It’s the opposite, actually -- I know you have opinions and ideas and I realise that we haven’t been the best at listening. I want to try to fix that.” She wondered how much of their talk Benjy had shared with Dorcas. Not that it mattered terribly much, either way; the same things she’d said to him she also intended to say to Dorcas.

[arabellafiggaf]

untamedmeadowes​:

Salve for Sore Spirits

LOCATION: House of Bones DATE: March 23, 1982 @arabellafiggaf

Dorcas did not much like sitting still. It was one of her least favorite things in the world, in fact. But Benjy had insisted in no uncertain terms that she should do as much of it as possible as she recuperated from her injuries in her battle against Voldemort. As much as Dorcas adored her friend and trusted his medical know-how, she would have found it a difficult instruction to follow if not for the pain.

Pain was something Dorcas was used to, of course; she was a rash and reckless with who didn’t so much look before she leaped as she did leap and never look at all, laughing-off the consequences after. But these consequences were no so easily laughed-off, and that was something to which Dorcas was very unused indeed. Magical healing could fix almost anything in a matter of minutes, maybe hours if it was particularly bad – but days? That was something so far beyond her scope of experience that it almost seemed like a joke.

Not a very good joke, mind.

Even when she’d exploded herself halfway across the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, it had been more a matter of aches and stings and headaches than actual deep-rooted pain. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all…but she couldn’t complain about it, either. Benjy was so busy, so strained. Whatever was wrong with Emmeline was eating away at him enough; Dorcas wasn’t about to make herself into another problem by whinging. Besides, Benjy’s fall off that broom and out of his Quidditch career was the kind that never went away. Dorcas couldn’t possibly whinge to him about her aches, now!

Instead she moped around, curling in first one chair and then another in the weird, creepy, wonderful House of Bones. (She’d made it home to tell her parents she was all right on the strength of some noxious brew that Severus had handed her, and told her she was under no circumstances to drink again; they thought she was crashing at Emma’s house to avoid the heartbreaking sight of Diagon Alley in tatters.) She tried to read – ordinarily a favorite pastime, and the only thing that could make her sit still – but it was hard to focus on the words. Red eyes and a high, cold laugh kept breaking in to her concentration.

Dorcas flung her book across the room in disgust, only noticing that she was no longer alone when it came to a stop inches from someone else’s feet. “Uh…sorry,” she croaked. “That wasn’t personal. I mean, it was, but it was directed at the book, not you.”

Whatever she might’ve thought about Dorcas’ methods and ideas, it certainly didn’t translate to anything personal against Dorcas herself; Arabella cared for her as much as she cared for anyone brave and honourable enough to join the fight. And so upon hearing about what Dorcas had had to face during that attack -- what, not who, because anyone capable of this much evil had given up on any humanity they might’ve had -- she’d been concerned. Still was. And for all the other agenda she had to want to speak with Dorcas, wanting to check up on her wasn’t just an excuse.

But while Arabella hadn’t expected enthusiasm, necessarily, she also hadn’t expected to have a book thrown at her. “That’s okay,” she said, bending down to pick up the book, throwing a quick look at the cover. “Was it not good or is this a bad time? Because I was actually hoping to have a quick word if you don’t mind.” She took a moment to also look at Dorcas, curled up in her chair, seeming anything but relaxed. Which wasn’t a surprise, all things considered.

And although Arabella doubted she’d appreciate hearing the same questions she probably already got on a daily basis, she had to ask. “Are you feeling better? I wanted to check up on you earlier, but I didn’t get the chance.”

[arabellafiggaf]

fletchermundungus​:

the luncheon

Mundungus doubted anyone had insisted for Arabella to attend this event, aside from Arabella herself. She proved once again to be annoyingly stubborn, and he was left with no way to contest her words. He could hardly say he knew her friend and what words the two had exchanged when he was not suppose to know her.

“She did? What an generous friend,” he said, not capable of completely concealing the sarcasm in his voice. He wanted a retort to that so badly, something about how a friend would prefer to suffer alone than be subject to Arabella’s presence, but words failed him to construct the perfect quip and he was left having to listen to her going on with her excuses for being here.  “Yes, truly terrible,” but he was thinking about Arabella’s presence and not what had happened in Diagon Alley. Certainly not what had happened at the Potter Estate, either. “But we are glad you are here to help us out finishing this cucumber sandwiches. Just careful not to choke on them… can be quite vicious.”

But the real blow was watching Furnifold offer one of his cards to Arabella and inviting her to his soiree. She had managed it in a matter of few minutes, while Mundungus had had to listen to this pig talk for over half an hour. 

“I find enthusiasm much more precious than skill,” Furnifold said, smiling at Arabella, with somewhat of a light flirt in the way he approached now,  “as it can hardly be taught, while I could always help with refining your skills.”

Mundungus’ lips twitched for a brief moment, a grimace of disgust showing up on his face soon to be replaced by a fake smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world,” he quickly replied, through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes meant to convey that he would gladly try to cast a silent wandless hex her way. Luckily, for her, he was not capable of it. “I’m sure it’d be hard for me to forget such a…,” nuisance, “charitable lady with an enthusiasm for,” messing with my plans, “cards. Let’s just hope your friend recovers by then, or that she will be as kind as she was today to spare your company. Oh,” he added, with barely any pause, “say, Mr Nadgett, isn’t that Wharton Wigglesworth?”

The name seemed enough to distract Furnifold from his attempt to woo Arabella, and his eyes quickly darted to look for the aforementioned Wharton Wigglesworth. “The gall that man has to show his face here,” he squealed in anger, “if you would excuse me. Dedlock. Miss Hopkins.” He gave barely a nod of acknowledgement to Mundungus, while he still took the time to look at Arabella and properly bow before going off to hunt down for Mr Wigglesworth.

As if Mundungus knew anything about generosity. Or about friends, for that matter; Arabella didn’t even want to consider what might’ve passed for friendship with him -- without a doubt something more to do with use and gain than any actual care, she would bet. “She certainly is,” she agreed, even though Vivian was most definitely not a paragon of generosity either. “One would be lucky to have friends like that.” ...Which very much did not include Mundungus himself, naturally. He’d be lucky to have friends at all.

And Arabella had half a mind to point out that if anyone had to be careful it was him, but she managed to stop herself just in time. She refused to sink to his level of pettiness and double meanings. “Thank you for the warning,” she said instead but wasn’t quite that good of an actress to also hide the fact she wasn’t grateful in the least. Be it for his comments or for his presence. “However, I’m sure I can handle a tiny sandwich. No matter how vicious.”

But it wasn’t any easier to pretend to enjoy Furnifold’s presence either. She had focus all her attention on trying not to scowl at his stupid chat-up lines. “Could you really? I should be so lucky, I’ve heard so much about your skills.” She couldn’t quite summon the enthusiasm her words required, but men like Furnifold often cared more about praise than they did the tone with which it was delivered. She expected he would too.

And while these events usually did come with a certain degree of frustration -- the kind that came hand-in-hand with joining a society of such absurdity and prejudice -- she hadn’t counted on how annoying Mundungus could be too. The way she saw it, he wasn’t even doing anything outside of being in her way and choking on food. So talented, he was.

“That’s a relief,” she said, matching his tone exactly without quite realising. “It would be such a shame if our paths never crossed again.” But thankfully the mention of Wigglesworth seemed to distract Furnifold enough that perhaps she would soon get the chance to tell Mundungus just how much she wouldn’t mind if their paths didn’t cross again. She would very much encourage such a thing, actually.

“It was a pleasure, Mr Nadgett,” she managed one last smile. It dropped immediately the second he left, of course, and Arabella turned to Mundungus, fully scowling now. “What are you doing here? You’re in my way.” She spoke quickly, voice hushed but hard. “Go away.”

[arabellafiggaf]

mauricecreevey​:

He hadn’t expected praise, even the short ‘well done’ caught him by surprise. Was he doing something right? It didn’t feel like it. But he supposed in this situation, anything that didn’t get them killed was a good move. It was oddly calming to realise the bar was so low.

But he hardly had time to linger on the praise because they had to get right back to action. Arabella seemed abuzz with ideas, conflicting ideas, so Maurice stayed mostly quiet, considering everything she was saying as carefully as his frazzled mind would allow.

“No, no you’re right we should stay here.” He reassured her. “If Death Eaters come from the ground floor, we can act as bait from up here. They try to climb the stairs and slip. If they come from this level, we hide, they see their fallen comrades down there and slip trying to get to them.” He reasoned. In theory, it was very neat, though he was sure the reality would be much messier. “Maybe soap to make things slippy? Is there a bathroom nearby?” The geography of the house had completely left his mind in his panic. “There should be one on this corridor right?” They only needed a little slip, if that, Maurice could always give them a little push down the stairs with a spell, or Arabella could throw another cocktail, but the slipperiness would help.

Dropping the heavy machinery on their unsuspecting foes seemed simple enough, but Maurice realised that if he just held the items with a levitation spell he wouldn’t be able to do anything else with his magic whilst keeping them aloft. He looked around for ideas, and then ripped some curtains down. He quickly transfigured them into ropes and tied the various equipment up. It wasn’t neat, but it would work. Then he levitated the roped up machinery over the puddle. There were some light fixtures right above luckily that he could dangle the weights from. He spent a frustrating minute or so trying to knot the rope around with careful wand work (not aided at all by his shaking hands) when he realised he could just transfigure the rope into a loop. He cursed himself for wasting time, but eventually he had a few pieces of equipment hanging, high enough that they wouldn’t be noticed until it was too late, and ready to be cut down to squash the enemy at any time. A quick spell would have them falling in a jiffy.

When it was done he turned back to find Arabella, he’d been so focused on his task he’d lost track of what she’d been up to. “Ready? Good?” Good, none of this was good, but he wanted to know, relatively speaking. “We should find a good spot to stake out the trap.” Stake out and not hide, it sounded much less cowardly.

They had a solid plan, which was good, but that didn’t automatically mean it would work. In fact, it was as though with every passing second, Arabella became aware of more and more things that could go wrong. What if they stumbled into the water by accident? What if they missed when they dropped the machinery? Much worse, what if they didn’t miss but got one of their own instead? The what if’s didn’t end and at this point, Arabella had to make the conscious choice to ignore them; they’d cross that bridge when they came to it, she had to repeat to herself.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” she nodded quickly. “And we can try to draw their attention, if we hear someone nearby. Or even lead them here.” She turned to face the corridor they’d just come from, the one she’d suggested to make slippery, and frowned in thought. “There is a bathroom, yes, but on second thought it might be better to just leave it. I don’t like the idea of boxing ourselves into a corner.”

And while Maurice set to work, she racked her brain for a way to be useful. Slowly, carefully, she crept down the hallway once again. She didn’t go too far; she knew that’d likely do more harm than good. But she did listen in on some of the closed doors and even dared to briefly slip into some of the rooms where the doors were already ajar. She tried to gather up some items and materials she thought might come in handy, but there wasn’t a wide variety of those to begin with -- for all intents and purposes, almost everything was either just harmless household items or already destroyed by the battle.

Still, she didn’t return empty-handed. “I don’t think anyone’s around just yet, but we should still be careful.” Another glance over her shoulder, habitual by now, before looking back at Maurice. She wasn’t feeling nearly as confident as she wished she would’ve been, but she’d found in situations like this, bravery was even just refusing to die. And that much she certainly did. “Ready.”

[END]

[arabellafiggaf]

bristlybranwen​:

Bran felt tricked. At Arabella’s question, she opened her mouth almost immediately, only to realise a second later that all this might’ve been Arabella’s plan. This long winded way of getting Bran too proud about her mission, about wanting to prove a point, all this just to have her admit it after all. Rejoice, we have a pillock for a daughter. Bran shut her mouth. Her jaws clenched and pulled her arms far away from Arabella, hands clutching the belt of her bag instead. “Mission,” she said, simply.  “Research. Can’t tell.”

But I doubt you’d listen to me anyway. “What was that? You recommend I try that with your cats? Cheers, that’s nice of you, love.” She snorted. “So uptight. I wasn’t about to make you. Nothing’s more embarrassing than giving in to peer pressure, and what little respect I have for you, I’d rather not waste it on peer pressuring you into accepting a drink.” Though she did feel bad for not leaving a tip now. “What else d’you want then? What’s more your style? Hot cocoa?” As to the question what type of drunk she was, she just grinned and shook her head. “I’d tell you, but then you might change your mind about paying, and I can’t have that.” Even of course, one shot had never gotten a Yaxley drunk, but oh well. Who knew, maybe if Bran made just good enough conversation, there’d be a second round on the house eventually. “Have you never been shitfaced then?”

She couldn’t quite hide the roll of her eyes this time around. All this defensiveness and then when given the chance to actually prove Arabella wrong, now Branwen shut up. She hadn’t expected it to be this easy, granted, but she was still irritated. “How convenient,” she said finally. Not because she disbelieved Bran -- though she definitely didn’t believe her either -- but as one last attempt to wrangle out some information.

Meanwhile Reynard seemed just as unimpressed with all the quips as Arabella herself felt. With a hiss that was more dismissive than aggressive, he jumped up on the barstool next to Bran as she spoke about trying to squash him, but Arabella chose to ignore the comment altogether. “And God forbid I ever do anything to lose your respect,” she said instead. ‘Little respect’ Branwen had said, sure, but she very much doubted even that. “I don’t need you to buy me a drink. Though the offer is… appreciated." Her dry tone surely let on the fact that maybe just 'noted' would be better, and it didn't change even as she answered the original question. "I do like hot cocoa, yes. Along with coffee. And lemonade. Does that help?”

Because that was what they were doing now, apparently. Talking about drinks. “I very much doubt that whatever it is will make me change my mind. I’ve had to deal with too many drunk people to be surprised by most things.” She could believe Branwen was an aggressive drunk or a sloppy drunk, but honestly, she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she was an affectionate drunk either; sometimes it was the ones you’d least expect. Which with time became entirely expected, of course. “That’s not what I said,” Arabella clarified finally. "I have been drunk before and this may be surprising to you but it's not generally something I enjoy."

[arabellafiggaf]

benjyfenwiick​:

Benjy nodded and took a bite of the cake, which was much easier to enjoy now that he knew he wasn’t going to be chewed out anymore than he already had. But, when Arabella mentioned talking to Dorcas, Benjy froze and looked up. “Why do I gotta tell her?” he asked. It was almost enough to make him nervous. Not because saying something to Dorcas was the problem - but he also didn’t want her thinking they were just talking about her being her back. “I mean… I can mention it, I guess. But don’t you think it would be just as good comin’ from you?”

For some reason, Arabella found his surprise terribly amusing and for a moment, she struggled to hide her wry smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just assumed you’d tell her about this anyway. And since you’ll probably see her before I do, I thought it might be quicker that way.” Not that she minded talking to Dorcas herself; in fact, she very much intended to do so. But she also thought it might be better if Dorcas already knew what to expect when Arabella approached her. She didn’t want her to be as apprehensive as Benjy had been about this little meeting, for example. “You don’t have to. I’ll be sure to talk to her either way. And I don’t want you to think I only care about her point of view too, so if there’s any other thoughts or concerns you yourself have about the Order I’m all ears.”

[arabellafiggaf]

a-glasshalfempty​:

He didn’t laugh, not because Arabella’s impression wasn’t hilarious. His voice just seemed to be stuck behind his wide open-mouthed grin, trapped somewhere between surprise and mock offense. “Arabella Figg!” He huffed in amusement. “I would ask that you respect my dedication to the colour red, and therefore, my abstinence from logical thought. Please.”

The amusement ebbed away at her next words. He hummed, thoughtfully, to show that he’d heard, but he didn’t reply. Didn’t he care about himself? He took relatively good care of himself, didn’t he? He’d spent all that time getting better. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t all out of self-interest. If he existed in a void, he would have drunk himself to death. No, his sobriety was for the people around him as much as himself. His worth was what he could do for others. And taking risks, like back in the forest with the thestral, or in battle, well they were all justifiable, somehow. Arabella was right. His own safety was not his top priority.

“You spoil me.” He teased about the marshmallows. Simple joys, simple pleasures. They were worth much more these days than actual treasures. And he did chuckle at her reprimand about safety protocols. “Where’s your sense of adventure hm? You never get any good stories if nothing ever goes wrong.” But even this didn’t have the same energy it might once have had. Fabian had had enough ‘adventure’ to last him a lifetime by this point, still, it was nice to pretend sometimes. Especially when the adventure in question was only sledging. He didn’t think their little adventure in the forest with the creature would be a tale he’d be telling very often.

“I’ll wait here, you go on,” he nodded, knowing exactly why he was being kept away and appreciating it all the same. “Don’t trouble Sandy, let them stay in the warm.” A few minutes alone wouldn’t hurt. Much. “Thank you, Arabella.” He said, genuinely, deeply thanking her, for more than just the hot chocolate.

In a way, it was good to see him brighten up again, at least somewhat, after that unpleasant encounter. But a part of Arabella also worried; she wasn’t sure she liked how quickly, how easily Fabian seemed to be brushing off the very real danger they’d been in. “Very admirable,” she agreed dryly. “But if you ever decide you want to try logical thought I’ll wholeheartedly support that too. Just as a note.”

And that was at least something she could offer, a more sensible point of view and a handful of marshmallows. It was far from enough, but it would have to do. “I have a wonderful sense of adventure,” Arabella defended, although she knew that was very much not true. She was hardly what people would call adventurous or even exciting, and she was okay with that. “Safe, thought-out adventures make for great stories. And best of all, you’re alive to tell them.”

She then gave him a smile, small but genuine. “You’re welcome.” And although she nodded along in agreement, she fully did intend to send Sandy to him too. She was biased, of course, but in her opinion, there was nothing like spending time with those darling little souls to lift people’s spirits up and God knew Fabian deserved that. “Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone. I know that’s asking for a lot, but consider it a favour to me.” And with that, she gave his shoulder one last squeeze before hurrying towards the Hog’s Head, towards hot chocolate and warm sandwiches.

[END]

[arabellafiggaf]

mauricecreevey​:

Maurice agreed, luring Death Eaters to the trap was probably their best option. Active but cautious, a good balance between running around like headless chickens, and cowering in the corner doing nothing. 

“I can make a puddle, don’t worry about the vase.” He gripped his wand a little tighter. He very often opted to do things the muggle way, but opted was the critical word there. Arabella didn’t have a choice and it made him anxious.

Arabella pointed in the direction of the stairs and he nodded, appearing more resolute than he was. “Let’s go.” He levitated one of the heavier machines in front of him as they walked, cautiously, through the house. As long as he had these actions to focus on, these tasks, he was okay. Or at least, he could function. If he wasn’t with Arabella, if they didn’t have these goals, things would be much worse right now. 

They were approaching the stairs when Arabella stopped. His heart clenched as he flattened against the wall. The object he was levitating faltered with his fear, before he remembered it and carefully, quietly, lowered it to the ground. Two more Death Eaters. All the planning and plotting left his head in a frenzy of despair. Fuck, they really were going to die today.

But Arabella didn’t experience the same kind of freezing. She acted instantly, almost calmly. He watched her as she pulled out the bottle and lighter and lit it. Watched as she chucked it, presumably in the direction of the Death Eaters. Some kind of instinct made Maurice reach out and pull her back behind the corner, just after she threw the bottle, right before the blast. 

It was loud and messy and then there was a sudden blast of heat. And screams. Not his, not Arabella’s thank god.

A second later he stepped out from behind the wall, water gushing from his wand. Because that was the instinct drilled into him: you see fire, you put it out. There were fewer flames than he expected, and there were two people in robes stumbling back down the stairs. His torrent of water hit them, and they crashed further down, yells of anger and confusion erupting. 

Once all the flames were gone Maurice stopped the aguamenti spell. Unfortunately, this gave the Death Eaters a reprieve, a chance to turn and see their attacker. Maurice sent two stunners before they had a chance to see him through the smoke and the steam. At least what he lacked in natural fighting ability he could make up for with good aim. There were two thuds as they fell to the floor. Maurice’s hand was shaking. “Well we needed a puddle.” He mumbled.

Arabella wasn’t one to actively look for a silver lining, usually -- she preferred to keep her feet, along with her hopes, firmly on the ground. But she had to admit, now that Maurice seemed to have gotten a grip of himself and to have resolutely focused on the task at hand, it brought her a sense of confidence. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t been alone when the attack happened; she knew she would’ve already been dead had that been the case. Unfortunately, that thought was as terrifying as it was comforting. After all, it was a lot easier to make peace with death when you weren’t staring it in the face -- something she was keenly aware of, especially now that Maurice pulled her back behind the wall just in time for her to avoid being burnt to a crisp. Or something less dramatic but none the less painful, she imagined. The details didn’t matter.

For a moment, she couldn’t move, could only watch as Maurice stepped out and set to putting the fire out. Good. Smart. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, that they would need to deal with the fire afterwards, and in retrospect, it’d been very stupid of her to overlook that. Fortunately, Maurice hadn’t. And that, in turn, gave her the chance and strength to step out as well, although she still hung back. She had no illusions that she could be of any great help right about now.

“Well done,” she finally said once she got her breath back, once the Death Eaters had been taken care of. It felt like an understatement, but praise could wait. She glanced at the puddle. “Now we have to decide on which side of it we want to stay. If only we could know where most of them are...” But those two had come from the lower floors, hadn’t they? And Arabella and Maurice had taken care of the group that’d been chasing the two of them initially; she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that was everyone on this floor, but with the limited information they had, that had to count for something. “Honestly, I think we should just stay.”

She glanced back at the hallway they’d come from. “Could we make the floor slippery somehow? At least from one direction? But then we’d also have to worry about our own coming this way, fuck.” She ran a hand through her hair, entirely forgetting she’d braided it, and when her hand got stuck, that was just another source of frustration. She let out a huff before forcing herself to take calming breaths. “Okay, nevermind, let’s just stick to the plan. Get the cables to the water and prepare to drop something at people from above.” And so she set off to do just that. The heavy-lifting, that bit she’d clearly have to leave to Maurice, but even a squib could drop the ends of the cables into the puddle -- only after making sure both she and Maurice were safely away from the water, of course.

[arabellafiggaf]

fletchermundungus​:

the luncheon

“Would we be so lucky if that was all that was needed,” Mundungus quipped back, trying not let on his own frustration at Arabella’s reply which was not what he had wanted from her. “Sometimes one my shove more than push.” He had to hold himself back from doing exactly that, because he had not missed Furnifold’s little step or how the man now seemed more interested in Arabella and her lame character Ophelia than Mundungus and his far superior Theophylaktos.

“Oh, how unfortunate, indeed,” he said, unable to completely erase the sarcasm from his voice, “maybe she needs a friend by her side right now,” he quickly suggested, hoping that maybe Arabella would go chase Vivian DeRogna and her incessant gossiping mouth. 

“Yes,” Mundungus replied, just as Furnifold said, “Never.“

“We were just talking about the next events in the seasons, idle chit chat,” Furnifold went on, while Mundungus’ face betrayed his annoyance with both of them, now, “but I can’t help but wonder if you’d do me the honour of attending my little soiree, next month? There will be food, music, and the finest conversation,” he said, offering her a card he conjured in his hand with an elegant sleight of hand. “Also a bit of game. Do you like cards, dear?”

For one brief, blissful moment Arabella imagined just that -- giving Fletcher the shove he was so clearly asking for. Even in Ophelia’s body she was much taller than him, it would be no issue. And she imagined it would be immensely satisfying too. But the moment passed and unfortunately, she had no time for indulgences. Instead, she could only scowl at him and at his continued dedication to trying to get her to leave.

“Oh, she insisted that I still attend,” Arabella explained, forcing the scowl into a tight smile, even as the words were spoken through clenched teeth. Vivian had done no such thing, naturally, but she’d hardly expected Arabella to stay with her either. Their friendship didn’t really exist outside of these events, unsurprisingly. But while Mundungus could probably figure as much, his character had no way of knowing and neither did Furnifold. So she let the smile to fall into something more sweet and composed and continued, “We were both very shocked and saddened by what happened -- as is everyone else, I’m sure. What a truly terrible thing.” She shook her head. “How could I miss out on the chance to help?”

Once again, the smile slipped at Mundungus’ response. He was so frustratingly irritating and it was making it hard for Arabella to keep up her charade -- clearly they need to have a chat. Away from this Furnifold person. “The honour would be all mine,” she said quickly, turning to him once again. Normally, she’d take this chance to find out more about this soiree of his, like who else was invited and such, but with Mundungus here, she couldn’t find the patience to bother with that. All she could do was let out a laugh of pleased surprise as he offered her the card and reach out to take it, making sure to look appropriately impressed. “I do like cards! Although I’m afraid my skill doesn’t quite match my enthusiasm.” Which would probably be like catnip to this silly man, she thought and wished she could roll her eyes. “And I assume I can expect to see you there as well, Mr Dedlock? I do hope you’ll recognise me this time.”

[arabellafiggaf]

artemthevictorious​:

It was just easier at this point to focus on the cats, especially when he and Arabella could talk some on shared experiences but not much. They’d both been hurt by the average wix but in such different ways. No, talking of cats and paying attention to them seemed a better bet.

“Well, I can’t deny the girl that likes me,” Artem said, glancing up almost guiltily at Arabella has he offered up the treat in his hand to Sandy. He didn’t want to offend her after all. “But just that one,” he told her as it disappeared off his hand, her little pink tongue scratching against his palm. “The next one is for Tabitha.” He looked back up at Arabella. “Can I have another to coax her with. She didn’t seem like she planned on walking over, but given how closely she’d watched her sister gobble the other, Artem hoped she might be swayed.

His guilty look had Arabella struggling to hold back a smile. She knew she was often biased to think the best of her kittens, but how could she not when they inspired such adorable exchanges? Although she didn’t want them to think she was encouraging them to mess with her guests either; God knew they didn’t need the encouragement in the first place. Thus the attempt to somewhat hide her amusement. “She sure does. Especially when you give into her demands.” There was no judgement whatsoever to her tone. Sandy was very adorable and at times it was even hard for Arabella herself to resist spoiling her. Which meant Artem was all the more likely to indulge her some more and so just in case, Arabella handed him two pieces this time.

“You’re earning a lot of points right now,” she informed him with another small smile. “Treat time isn’t until later, usually.” At the subtle reminder that she wouldn’t get any treats until much later if she didn’t take advantage of the opportunity right now, Tabitha seemed to resign herself to swallowing some of her pride. With one graceful move she leapt up to the couch and while she still kept some distance from Artem, it appeared she’d graciously decided to let him feed her a treat. Arabella took advantage to move and pick Reynard up; just because he was grumpy that didn’t mean he should go without snuggles. With him in her arms, she moved back towards Artem and the other two. “Have you had any pets before? You’re doing very well.”

[arabellafiggaf]

bristlybranwen​:

Bran tsked. Everyone was always so willing to hear prejudice in everything a Pureblood said, but then completely ignoring whatever other prejudice were coming out of their own mouths. But Bran tsked along with giving Arabella a grin and pretended that what she’s said was but a shitty joke. “Punching people in the face, facing problems head-on, that’s what I’m talking about,” she said, rolling her eyes. Bran knew she was anything but a subtle speaker, but she thought she’d been rather clear the first time she’d answered her question. “I’ma repeat it for you, but just because I’m nice: maybe me sneaking around has nothing to do with punching people in the face.” She over-enunciated each word. “Maybe what I’m doing is not a problem that you can face head-on. No bloody solution you can just tackle.” She rubbed her nose. “Or differently said: maybe the sneaking around part is the facing the problem head-on part..”

“Yeah,” she returned, non-chalantly. It wasn’t true. Bran loved animals of all sorts. In fact, her quip with the hound hadn’t been out of character for her at all. She loved conversing and playing with all sorts of magical creatures, taking care of them and making sure they were happy. But Arabella had no business knowing about this. “I love the squeak they let out when they feel the weight of my foot.” She kept her eyes – slightly widened – fixed on Arabella a moment longer, almost curious how she’d react, then shrugged and sipped her whisky. “Why not? Are you a messy drunk?”

It was like talking in circles, and Arabella could absolutely not fathom how people had conversations with Branwen. Maybe they didn’t; it would explain a lot. She wouldn’t get caught up in the frustration of it, though. She wouldn’t. And although it took great effort to ignore the way Branwen spoke to her like she was the problem, she managed. “What are you doing then? Explain it to me if I’m so daft.”

She didn’t bother to hold back the roll of her eyes at Branwen’s quip, though. Granted, she wouldn’t have been thrilled by any response; a ‘no’ would’ve made her think Branwen was just being overly-defensive. The ‘yes’, in contrast, would’ve almost been funny coming from anyone else, but since it was Bran who’d said it, Arabella had to be mindful not to show amusement. “Good to know. I’d say I’d recommend not trying that with my cats, but I doubt you’d listen to me anyway.” Besides, they could take care of themselves -- Arabella just wasn’t interested in gushing about them to Branwen of all people. “Do I need a reason? I just don’t like it.” She paused, then gave the drink a pointed look. “But I hope you aren’t a messy drunk because you’ll be clearing after yourself.”

[arabellafiggaf]

spellnbone​:

Oh, Edgar had always loved other people’s laughs so much. Even when he’d been but an angry teenager, spiteful against the world and everyone inhabiting it, he’d never been able to not perk up when he’d heard someone laugh. For just a moment this feeling of fondness and, well, pride, made him look like a well-petted, purring cat, then he dissolved into his own little laugh. “I’ll take the advice into consideration. Though I fear that if I do start practising walking in heels and any of my older brothers catch sight of that, a lot of money will be passed under the table.” Which was a reference to the fact that both Dell and Rigby had always suspected some queerness in Edgar, and its extent had often been a talking point over family dinners, including lists, charts and entire betting polls. “Oh, my raven friend, why are you so against me being humble? Don’t you know that my head is big enough without you giving your best to inflate it?” A pause. “I still return the sentiment, though.”

Edgar was surprised to hear Arabella already had plans to talk about one part of the … Chaos Trio, and his eyebrows rose, curious. “Why Benjy?” he asked. The questions about Dorcas brought an inevitable smirk to his lips. “Oh dear,” he sighed and took a sip from his cup first. “Dorcas and I … have spoken, yes. It went well, as always. I think her preferred insult of that day was, what was it? Ah yes, Caradoc’s short-hand lackey. It was charming, really.” He did, in fact, have to hide a chuckle now and thus took another sip. Dorcas and his relationship had always been rocky, to say the least. Contrary to what she believed, he found her energies more than refreshing and needed, wanting to use them for good, but Dorcas was rather set on believing him nothing but Caradoc’s secretary, who, if given the chance, would only try to stop her from taking action. He couldn’t fully blame her, of course, seeing how if he did ever get his hands on her plans, he’d first sound-check them for holes and dangers, but still. He’d eventually stopped trying to collaborate with her, simply to save both of them time.  “And in all honesty, Arabella, I think that even if she did let me in on her plans, I’d not be better than you at guiding it towards the right direction. “

Boys were just a different breed, Arabella decided without questioning too much the kind of stupid bets they made. Not that girls were immune to stupid; God knew the kind of shenanigans she and Josie had gotten into, years ago. But boy stupid was special. “You can tell yourself it’s for the greater good,” she offered, though not really in consolation; clearly, she was saving that one for Edgar’s supposedly big head. She gave him a look. “Because you’re very charming and very smart and you deserve to buy bigger hats. And I won’t stop reminding you of that until you can’t possibly walk through doors anymore.” Even the confidence of the most arrogant of men could be shaken, and it seemed especially easy now to doubt everything and everyone, including one’s self. It seemed like a silly thing to fixate on, she realised, but in the end, those reminders cost her nothing. And so she would keep giving them.

“He seems a lot more… open, doesn’t he?” she said in regards to Benjy. “I think if any of them are going to let something about the Prophet slip, it’d be him.” Which only seemed to be further confirmed by Edgar’s own words about Dorcas. And while he seemed almost amused by her insults, Arabella frowned. It wasn’t the insult itself, not really; Edgar was his own person and Arabella had no delusions she was protecting his honour or anything of the sort -- although she couldn’t also pretend she appreciated people talking bad about her friends either. But it was exactly this combative nature of Dorcas’ that worried her. “I think you overestimate me. I don’t… She clearly doesn’t want to be guided -- I’m not saying I won’t try, just that maybe you should lower your expectations.” But she would try, of course. In fact, she was already thinking of how this talk with Benjy might go and how it might actually help her get to Dorcas. She glanced at Edgar, a tiny smile growing on her lips. “You say you’ve come to visit me and then you give me all these tasks. I see how it is.”

[arabellafiggaf]

a-glasshalfempty​:

He took the slap graciously, with only a little ‘ow’ as he rubbed the back of his neck. “So far you’ve done more damage than it has.” It was teasing, but not as easy as before. He probably wouldn’t be fully relaxed until they were out of the forest, but he also wanted to put Arabella at ease as quickly as possible. 

“It makes a useful paperweight at times.” He said, referring to the head which he was clearly not using. This was not the first time he’d been called a fool and it would not be the last, and if he could use some foolishness to make Arabella smile again then at least it was good for something.

He flinched, just a little, at Voldemort’s name, though he couldn’t have said exactly why. But it was the sentiment of Arabella’s words that hit him more than anything else. His smile was pressed to his face, as if to keep the sadness in his eyes from sinking down and changing it. He squeezed her a little as they walked. “I care about you too Figg.” Because that’s what she was saying, really, and he appreciated it. Even if the immediate meaning destroyed him, the thought that his recklessness could harm Arabella in such a way. Even if he knew it to be true. If anything ever happened to Arabella, it would be an end for Fabian too, perhaps not the end, though he really couldn’t guarantee it. 

The mention of hot chocolate and sandwiches thawed him. The heartache left his eyes, and his sad smile became less pinned in place. “I won’t refuse hot chocolate if you’re offering.” He chuckled, though he was reluctant to linger on the subject of the creature for much longer. “Perhaps we give the forest a wide berth in the future.” He suggested, without much fear that Arabella would resist. “I’d rather avoid finding any more grey hairs any time soon.”

Good to know he was at least feeling well enough to crack jokes again. Arabella rolled her eyes, but he managed to get a smile out of her regardless. A small, entirely exasperated smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Is this more Gryffindor nonsense? Well, you see, Arabella,” she lowered her voice, a purposefully terrible impression of Fabian. “I wore red for seven years in school that obviously means my head should only be for decoration. I would use it, I would, but how could I betray my beloved house like that?”

She softened at his next words and this time her squeeze was much more gentle. “If only you would care about yourself a little more too.” And until then, she would just have to care enough for two. It was hardly a burden, not at all, but she did wish Fabian would be kinder to himself.

“I’ll even add marshmallows,” she promised. “And no more forest walks. We’ll just have to find somewhere else to sledge. Maybe that’s a good thing, actually. Gives me the chance to remind you of the safety protocol at length. I wasn’t going to, originally, but clearly you could use it.” And finally, finally they were out of the blasted forest. Arabella glanced towards the fence they’d been sat on before. “Do you want to wait here while I go grab the drinks and the sandwiches? I can send Sandy to keep you company.”

[arabellafiggaf]

mauricecreevey​:

He mentally ran over the equipment in the other room. Most of it was magical stuff, radio equipment that ran on magic rather than electricity, because it had been things he’d stolen borrowed from the WWN. But there were a few pieces of muggle technology he’d swapped in and bodged together with its magical counterparts. He was sure there must be a battery and some cables somewhere. “Yes, yes I think so. And some of it’s quite heavy as well. If it’s already-” He paused, just a second of mourning. “If it’s already all destroyed, the least we can do it use it to squash these bastards.”

It seemed there was no end of plans, but then another problem occurred to Maurice. “If we set them, we have to stick around, close enough to warn off any Order members who might unwittingly walk into them.” They couldn’t just set a trap and run off to the other side of the house. These traps could potentially do as much damage to Order members as they could to Death Eaters.

“I’m sure.” He confirmed, checking his explosive cocktails and then finally picking up his previously disregarded tape recorder and tucking it under his arm. He knew it wasn’t any use, but it was almost like a safety blanket at this point.

The corridor was eerily quiet not that the rushing of fear wasn’t buzzing at his eardrums. But distant commotion could be heard from other parts of the house. He tried not to jump every time he heard a noise, but it was tough.

Eventually, they made it back to the room. Maurice had prepared for something, but it hadn’t quite been this level of destruction. It seemed the Death Eaters had taken a few extra seconds to demolish the remaining recording equipment. Probably the few extra seconds that had allowed Maurice and Arabella to get to safety and prepare some kind of attack. But the sight of all his work destroyed hit him hard. He set his jaw and started scrabbling through what was left, looking for where he knew a battery should be.

“Here,” he said after a moment, pulling out the thankfully still intact and rather chunky power source, cables still attached and dangling. “You know how this works?” He asked, eager to distract himself now. “If we make a puddle of water or something, and dip the bare ends of the wires in, then anyone who touches the water should get a shock. Maybe we put the puddle after the stairs, so they have to fall into it, and their shoes won’t insulate them.” He turned back around and started to test levitating some of the bigger items. “I think some of this could make a dent too. Where’s the nearest staircase?”

Destroyed equipment was much preferable to destroyed people, but Arabella understood why it also wasn’t an easy loss to shake off. The less you had, the more valuable it all was, and she felt a pang of sympathy as Maurice spoke about using the remains. She didn’t disagree, though; there was no point in sentimentality right now. “Perfect. But we should try to move everything we need in one course. Going back and forth would be a waste of time and energy.” And they already needed more time than they had to set it all up.

He was right about warning other members too and Arabella hissed out a curse as they moved down the hallways. When this was over, she would have to talk to someone about improved methods of communication. If they had a way to talk to the others right now, they could not only warn them about the traps but also let them know to lead Death Eaters into them. So many magical inventions yet nothing quite like a phone; figures. “We can’t just sit around and wait either,” she said with a frown. She didn’t like what she was about to propose, and she didn’t like it one bit. “Our best bet might be drawing the attention of Death Eaters and leading them into the traps.”

At least it would be on their terms, she tried to reason with herself, but it didn’t really help the way her heart was pounding the entire walk. And it wasn’t any better when they finally made it to the room either; eerie silence was nerve-wracking, whether in a hallway or behind a door. She took a deep breath, tried to at least stop her hands from shaking.

“A puddle,” she repeated with a sharp nod. “Can you do that with magic or should we… look for a vase?” Not in this room, clearly. If there had been any vases here, they were long smashed. But surely in the other rooms there had to be at least one. And they would pass quite a few rooms on their way to the staircase. “That way,” she pointed at the direction opposite of the one they’d run in initially. Opposite of the clear path they’d managed to secure for themselves. Not ideal. “But it’s close. And it’s not considered a main staircase.”

Which would be either good or bad, depending on so many circumstances outside of their control that there was no use in trying to prepare for all. Another deep breath and Arabella reached out to pick up some of the equipment, carefully shifting it to one side so that she still had a free hand to throw a bottle if needed. And as they stepped back out into the hallway, followed it down towards the straicase, it turned out it really would be needed. Because just ahead, two Death Eaters were coming right up the stairs. Immediately, Arabella backed up behind the corner she’d just turned and prayed they hadn’t seen her.

She turned to Maurice, whispering frantically, “Two of them, right up ahead at the stairs.” She put the equipment she’d been carrying down and took a bottle in one hand, the lighter in the other. They couldn’t wait longer, though; if the Death Eaters got too close, the cocktails would do more harm than good. And so with one quick silent prayer, Arabella popped out from behind the corner again and lit up her Molotov. Then she chucked it at the Death Eaters who were now right at the top of the stairs.

[arabellafiggaf]

bristlybranwen​:

“Oh really? And here always I thought my face was just the type that belonged on the stage.” Romance especially, ha. Wooed by a man half her size. A comedy! “Yeah, I’m sorry, it’s just your voice? It’s at this frequency? Makes me block it out. It’s like, one ear in, the other out. Like the professors at Hogwarts, yapping on all day.” Her hand was so helpful to mimic a mouth yapping, in case it wasn’t clear what she meant. “So what do you mean? That because I like punching people in the face I should just … do what? Instead of sneaking around?”

“Fun, aye? Good beasts. Anything you can’t accidentally squish by stepping on is a good beast in my account.” Though, following the hound with her eyes, she wasn’t so sure if she’d dare stepping on that one either. “Cheers. And I know you’re paying but, one for you.” She hoped that at least up here in Hogsmeade people still knew the traditions of tipping…

“It’s not your face that’s the problem,” Arabella commented pointedly. And was immediately proven right, of course, when Branwen opened her mouth once again. Arabella wondered if she realised how much ‘yapping’ she herself did; she wouldn’t bet on it. “Face problems head-on,” she said, ignoring the insults altogether. “Do you understand now or should I simplify it some more?”

It was… illuminating to hear Branwen’s opinions on beasts, especially when Arabella had pretty much grown up around magical creatures -- which was how she knew that plenty of unassuming-looking creatures, for all they were rather small of frame, were plenty dangerous, for example. “Is that a habit you have, to step on magical creatures?” As if to provoke her, Reynard had decided to stop by her feet, out of Arabella’s view. “And I don’t drink. But thank you.” ...For offering Arabella a drink that she herself would pay for. It was in the right spirit, at least. But even though she was done behind the bar, Arabella didn’t move to join Branwen again on the other side. She liked the thought of keeping some distance between them, even with something as simple as this.

[arabellafiggaf]

spellnbone​:

“I couldn’t condemn you for it, even if I wanted to,” Edgar smiled. “I told Caradoc the other day, that I might’ve made it out from the party better, had I not been Elladora.” ‘Out from the Rosier Engagement party had I not been stuck in Elladora Rowle’s body’, was the full sentence he meant to say, and knew he neither shouldn’t in case someone was hearing in, nor needed to, as Arabella could probably easily guess what he meant anyway. “The corset was one thing, but the heels a very different one. This high,” he showed it with his fingers because he had no idea how much it was, “and this thin. Absurd, really, how anyone could walk in it.” But boy, did women’s legs look good in them… “Oh, please,” he chuckled, “if you dress up, I’ll have to dress up, and I’ll still look like shambles next to you. Really, the more ugly you can make yourself be, the more you’ll fit me.”

He hummed, nodding along to her words. “I believe Dorcas and her friends are … a little misguided.” He quickly raised a finger, because he knew this could come off wrong. “Her spirit is the right one. She’s right, we need to be more … aggressive. More forward in our endeavours, but I fear that, well, she doesn’t fully understand the scope of her actions. Calling out Ainsley like that, on the Daily Prophet wall, it was, honestly, not just inappropriate but also rather futile.” He made sure to keep the emotions out of his voice as he spoke of it, aware how there were too many of it. “Now, I thought about approaching Dorcas myself, redirect her energies towards more fruitful endeavours, but I don’t think she’d care to listen. To her, to many, I’m the one who keeps the process slow, and with being so close to Caradoc, I think she wouldn’t trust me enough to share her plans with me.” 

Edgar's detailed description of his struggles with heels got a surprised laugh out of her, especially when he decided a visual demonstration was needed too. "You have my sympathies," she nodded, both very sincerely and at the same time as part of the joke. "I've heard building up to it helps, if it matters. So if you ever decide to repeat the experience, maybe start out smaller." She reached out to push his fingers a lot closer together as a means to illustrate, as if it wasn't already perfectly clear what she'd meant. "And I don't want to hear any of that talk. You look wonderful, dressing up or not."

‘A little misguided’ was entirely accurate, if maybe a bit of a nice way to put it. Arabella didn't interrupt before he'd fully explained, and even after he had, she remained quiet for a moment. "I'm actually going to speak to Benjy soon," she said finally. "Hopefully about what happened at the Daily Prophet. And if that goes well… maybe we can really see about this redirection." She didn't know how hopeful she was that this plan of Edgar's would work, but it was worth a try either way. She also didn't add that she would let him know about the outcome of that conversation as soon as it was over; at this point, it went without saying. "Have you spoken to Dorcas recently? Or have you only assumed she wouldn't listen?" His reasons for assuming that were more than solid, of course, and it wouldn't surprise Arabella if he was right. She was still curious to hear his answer.