The parchment facing Alecto lay bare, save for a few, large ink blots. Blots, where ghosts of words had momentarily brushed her mind; and then left, in the same second. How could she write this? It was to seem as a more civil, courteous alternative to a personal visit.
Alecto could not take pride in saying she had escaped - If she dared to call it escaping. She wasn’t in the position where she should have to escape, no; she should not have attended at all. Instead, should have observed by side of her Lord. It took all her strength not to curse the witless man, childish in his impatience, if only he had waited. Alas, in a vain attempt, the child had risked spilling important blood in the foolish idea of, of… Alecto could not even point a purpose. Words had not only failed her, thoughts had yet to return.
Bitterness tasted in her mouth like venom, pressing her quill down to form another stain of emerald ink. The word 'Dear' had been hastily scrawled, a basic etiquette to address other Death Eaters, rather than familiarity.
Another five copies of the same parchment and ink lay scrunched up in the bin – Each and every one addressed differently.
The sixth one, however, remained nameless. In the thin trickle of thoughts she produced, a name formed clearly. Immediately, a face followed - One which lured men, and women alike, to unfortunate ends. Inanna.
Alecto had apparated before the ink had set, leaving the quill balanced atop of the pot. Amycus would wake soon, but not before she had returned; this was to be quick, and with haste. To her fortune, he had not suffered many wounds, yet had refused to return with the elder Carrow twin. Words could not place how the witch had felt, but it hadn’t been the time to argue; not while heads were rolling, and bodies were flung.
Of course, the address was unfamiliar to Alecto – But, one glance at the home told her it belonged to no other. Elegancy refined the details, down to the last paving of stone. For, where writing failed the Carrow, a fine visit would not. The opinion was diminished by a stammering house elf, – The poor thing sent reminders of a stuttering someone – only slightly disappointing. Alecto had brushed past, practically silencing the creature with one glance.
"Inanna," Alecto cooed, her voice honeying as if the name were a sweet. “It would be fair to say, we both know exactly why I am here.”
Inanna knew of Alecto Carrow – of course she did, how could she not? A puellaris witch who had broken free? Who had defeated the ancient magic that kept her in thrall to men and society alike? Who had effortlessly taken charge of not only her brother’s life, her family’s status, but Voldemort’s army as well? Of bloody course Inanna was aware and interested in the comings and goings of Alecto Carrow.
The woman said her name like a sweet, like it was a drip of honey that fell from the honeycombs onto her tongue and she was savoring the overwhelming softness of it all. Inanna wondered just how much of the woman’s considerable rage had fell on her poor house elf’s ears – especially with Winnie’s tendency to stutter much like the Carrow boy. Inanna made a mental note to tend to the elf later, ensure her absolutely loyalty and love – there was, after all, no better tie to someone than that of love, a fact Inanna knew intimately.
“Do we?” Inanna purred, waving a hand behind her to her sitting room, “What a novel idea – that we are both fully aware of the goings on of the times – when we were so blindsided by the man who claims status as our champion.”
The room was decidedly masculine – a choice Inanna had made consciously. The only room in the house she had kept decorated to her husband’s tastes was this one. After his death she had moved from room to room, ripping his idols and decorations to shreds, throwing out anything that reminded her of him, and placed her own tastes in their place.
But this room? This was where her negotiations happened. This was where the men of the world would need to be reminded of Inanna’s status, of her protection. She kept her poor dead husband’s things, kept his pictures and his furniture, because the men who would use her as a lonely woman, as a bumbling fool on her own, would see the reminder of the men she had torn down and fear her.
She settled in an armchair, and snapped her fingers – the fire roaring to life at the sound, “I am very pleased to see you alive, Ms. Carrow,” she told the woman, her own wound twinging yet again.
