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Eric Silvershore

Magisch Verbond
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Eric Silvershore last won the day on January 11

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About Eric Silvershore

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    Aan elke kust zit een zilveren randje.

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  • IC Burgerlijke Staat
    Getting blackmailed by the Russians before it was cool
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    An in-depth analysis of the law from both sides

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  1. [1836/1837][EN] In my head I do everything right

    Eric chuckled. “Pretty sure you’ve seen me do few things I’m supposed to do, dear.” At least in private, at least when they were ‘they’ and not ‘him and her’. And he didn’t mind leaving her with his wand. Was that because he trusted her more than she trusted him? No, not really. That was no reflection on her, it was merely a reflection on him: he would not be alive right now if he had trusted easily. But first of all, he could do quite a lot of magic without a wand – one of the benefits of weekly duelling sessions with his top notch colleagues from the Auror department – and secondly… well, maybe he did trust her a little. Or maybe he wanted to trust her, in any case. Wanted to take that leap of faith and if he had to, then he would do so with her. He was tired of always being on his guard. Actually, he was just really tired right now, but those were details he didn’t want to go into. “Yes, he was,” he admitted. “Git.” He sat on the couch armrest, wondering how she knew Merlin, and wondering how she’d noticed, how much she noticed still: whether it was an aspect of his training that had stuck, that now even at her mother’s funeral she was always watching people, always concentrating on a million things at once. That wouldn’t be so bad, he was quite the same. But on the other hand, that was perhaps what had him so fatigued right now. “And they’ll probably write a short piece. Notoriety is virtually equal to fame.” He sighed, nodded. “Yes, a glass sounds good. Two sound better.” He put an arm round her. “How are you holding up?”
  2. [1836/1837][EN] In my head I do everything right

    “Of course,” Eric agreed, happy and surprised perhaps a little to be able to aid her in such a simple, concrete and achievable way: he Summoned the menu for her with a wave of his hand, kissed her again and then sat down, legs folded, on his bed. They had a suite, so there was a sofa and there were chairs and really a lot more seating options than any two people could ever need but hey the hotel preferred to show that you got what you paid for and if you paid for a suite they felt like making that luxurious. Eric supposed that made sense. You paid, after all, for the luxury and the show for other than that there were really no fundamental differences. And well, he was a Silvershore. So he was quite used to the notion. He glanced at Felicia with the menu and realised what she’d be lacking if she needed to actually order anything. “Oh, here, borrow my wand –“ He chucked it to her with a slight misgiving in his subconscious, in part for leaving himself wandless, in part for the wand itself, but though his wand had its eccentricities he doubted very much that they’d come out in the business of selecting a dinner menu. “You tap the ones you want and then they’ll appear on the table over there. Just get anything you feel like, I haven’t eaten, either.” Because he’d had no time. The two jobs were difficult enough at times without combining them with babysitting duty. Not that he would have it any other way, really. He lay back on the bed, head on his crossed arms, and stared at the ceiling. “Did you recognise any of the guests just now?”
  3. [1836/1837][EN] In my head I do everything right

    Eric did not attempt to chat with Felicia as they were leaving the funeral. There were few things he could say, that he had not already said; he had seen her cry during his speech but understood, perhaps better than he ought to, what she had been crying for. That it wasn’t so much for who Beatrice had been, as for what she hadn’t been, for what Felicia had had to miss all her life, the love and the forgiveness and the support, but crucially also the sense of safety, the knowledge that there was someone to protect her, someone who would give anything to do so. (In that light, perhaps it was not so strange that Felicia kept missing how much he cared for her. How he wished to be all of that for her. She couldn’t recognise it: recognition was based on what you knew.) That someone, that Beatrice hadn’t been, could still easily be mourned here, at the memorial for her demise. For the life she hadn’t lived. The person she hadn’t been. And the daughter she had given to the world, without giving her anything else. Anyway, yes, he didn’t think she was crying because he had murdered her mother and that was reinforced when once they were in the hotel room she stepped into his arms, consciously seeking the touch that she had previously avoided. He drew his arms round her carefully, pulled her a little closer, relished the feeling of her cold hand against his cheek. “That’s all right,” he said smilingly. “I’m not a bad interpreter.” He kissed her back, ran a hand through her hair, magically taking out the pins and clips along the way. “So… with that over, the holiday’s commencing.” He ran his hand softly over her back, kissed her again. “What would you like to do? ‘Immediately to bed and sleep’ is an entirely viable option, by the way.” He blinked. “And incidentally… I love you, too.”
  4. [1836/1837][EN] In my head I do everything right

    For heaven’s sakes, when would Felicia realise that yes, Eric loved her? He loved her as much as he was able and perhaps a good deal more than he should: and his every waking hour lately had been devoted to that love, to taking care of her, of the things she needed, of the things he needed to ensure that his love did not land her in more trouble than he could ever again get her out of; and he could see that she was suffering, and he could see that she was losing weight, and that the light had gone from her normally shining eyes, and it hurt him even though he had expected no less. He was not disappointed in her for how badly she was feeling or how pale she was looking. Azkaban was a horrible place. If he were to spend any significant amount of time there, he wouldn’t be faring much better. He wouldn’t want to be faring much better, because even a serial killer wanted to stay human after a fashion, and as a human there, you were not supposed to have a good time. That wasn’t fragile. That was sanity. And he didn’t think she was dumb. But personally, as the author, I think that her not realising the extent to which he loved her was particularly dim-witted. He smiled at her encouragingly, warmly, unable, here, in this public place, to do anything more than to squeeze her shoulder in a way that could only be seen as friendly and supportive, no matter how few members of the public there actually were. “Don’t worry – it’s me – I won’t,” he promised her quietly, and he helped her to a chair in the front, mostly for show; she could look fragile and weak, here, after all, she should, this was her mother, but not even he was heartless enough to want to instruct her to put on a show, not that he needed to: she was off her game plenty for it all to be covered by ‘grief affects everyone differently’. “I’ll be right with you.” He played with her fingers for the merest of moments, then left her and went to stand at the little lectern, looked at her with a quiet smile from said vantage point. And started. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.” Most of you are just here because I am and you’re looking to pass me a card over the mandatory cake and coffee. “Beatrice Harding was a singular woman.” Unique, thank Merlin. “She had a large impact on a lot of lives.” Ending a fair few of them, as it happens. “But on none more than her daughter. Courage in adversity… an innate sense of self-reliance and capacity for endurance… and a talent to see the beauty, where others could find none… Felicia learnt those from her mother,” much as he had learnt the value of hard work and clarity of thought from his dear dad, “and today she needs them more than ever.” To deal with something wholly unrelated to her mother’s death, actually, but this was a funeral and there was no need to say it. He lit the ceremonial fire that incinerated the chest in sparkling fiery flowers, as the music swelled and he remembered his very own wand extinguishing the life he was now commiserating, and felt that he meant every letter of his next words. “Thank you, Beatrice. Thank you for her. And we will take good care of her.” There was some goodbye saying and some drinks and when it became possible he made his excuses. “Unfortunately, as I think you’ll understand, I need to take Felicia home now… Please however help yourself to anything in memory of Mrs. Harding.” He had supported her throughout, smiled at her as soon as they were out the door. “You all right?”
  5. [1836/1837][EN] In my head I do everything right

    “Oh.” Eric hummed, as he put first a new cloak and scarf and then his arm round her to escort her out of the room. “It’s not much of a milestone, I’m afraid.” See, that was the kind of thing he had decided he ought no longer say, the kind of humour that it would be best right now for her not to have to engage with (and that she would if he kept this up was beyond question, because one of the things he knew by now about Felicia was that she did not back down from anything that resembled a challenge on his part, that she acted the way she thought he wanted her to. It was a downside of being her instructor also, that she was always ready to learn from him, even in the areas where honestly he didn’t much care to share his expertise and would prefer her just to find her own way through it). On the other hand, he hadn’t had a lot of other options at his immediate disposal. ‘First of many’ seemed yet less inappropriate. He just wasn’t that good at consolation. Surprise. He had been to a lot of funerals. Even a fair few of people he’d killed. That wasn’t because he liked to show off (to whom? No one would ever know, that was sort of the point) or gloat privately or whatever, it was simple statistics. Your murderer tended to be someone you knew. Reversed, your murder victim – Eric’s murder victims – were almost invariably people he knew or at least decidedly knew of. Typically, they were also important enough to get in his way without him having the option of bribing them, or derailing their career, or threatening or blackmailing them all that much because when those options were open to you it usually wasn’t worth the fuss of resorting to murder instead. So… they were important, rich and successful and not coming to their funeral would often gain attention. Not that people would start looking into him for something criminal. Merlin’s beard, no. But they would disapprove. And the Silvershores didn’t like incurring societal disapprobation. They were civilised murderers, with an excellent name. Eric’s dad had occasionally given the eulogy for people his son had directly caused to require one. Beatrice, he could not even pretend to regret. Still… “I’ll be there the whole time,” he promised her daughter, making an effort. “It’s going to be a very small affair, might be just you and me, to be honest.” Her darling mother hadn’t made a lot of friends and acquaintances. She’d lived a full life murdering people on sight. If it hadn’t been for the Silvershores, no one would have paid for her funeral and Azkaban’s guards would have provided it, a small grave on the premises next to every other poor sucker who had succumbed there. In fact, the Silvershores were not invested whatsoever in Beatrice and might still have done that except that Eric wanted a. the day trip for Felicia and b. no strange questions if in the summer her father inexplicably kicked it and then they wanted to bury him to create Felicia’s escape option. Best to be consistent. This funeral was an investment in the future. Anyway, he kissed Felicia softly, then led her out of the hotel room and to the magical coach that stood waiting on the curb. “We can also walk it, it’s very nearby, but it will be snowy. What do you prefer?”
  6. [1836/1837][EN] In my head I do everything right

    “Certainly,” Eric said, somewhat brusquely, and he gestured to the ensuite bathroom. “We’re not leaving for another hour or so. One and a half, should you find yourself too inconsolable to join the service from the start – perfectly understandable, this is your late and mourned mother we’re talking about, after all.” Perhaps he oughtn’t be quite so sardonic. It was her mother, after all. And the simple fact that he had spared nothing but a thought for Beatrice Harding over the last couple of years, well, a thought and the time it had taken to kill her quietly, did not mean that the same could be said for her daughter. Sure, Felicia had not been close to her mother – understatement of the century – but that in a way could make all of this rougher and less easy to handle, because the memories were still there. And many of those memories, for Felicia, had been there every second of the last few days, because of Azkaban, because of the Dementors, and because the memories of her mother were by far her worst. "And never thank your attorney until he's gotten you out of jail. They're not used to it, it tends to bewilder and distract them." Yes, he realised, as she claimed the bathroom and he utterly failed to read a book at the desk next to the window. He should be nicer to her today. Kinder. Less… focused on the blacker parts of his sense of humour. She was going through a terrible ordeal, and her days had all been hard lately. Of course, it didn’t help for that intention that his days were not exactly easy. Vasilisa… he had not discussed it, could not discuss it. Not with his father – who could never know – not with Lissa who would… do something unpredictable and stupid much like what had gotten her into this mess in the first place – and not with Felicia. Not now. She had enough on her mind. And perhaps he had options, other options, but to be honest, he wasn’t typically the type to share in any case. So instead he’d booked her a ticket to Russia, given it to her yesterday as ‘an apology for New Year’s Eve’. She had left, gloatingly, to buy everything she’d need – hats, he presumed – happy in the victorious understanding that he had had to apologise for his behaviour that night. She had no idea what he was really apologising for. That that night had cost her her life: that he had not been quick enough to save her: and that now he was going to make the most of her death. “Oh, there you are,” he greeted Felicia, who interrupted his thoughts coming out of the bathroom. “I’ve brought you some new clothes, here,” they went drifting in her direction, a stylish understated black that would hide the fact that she was rapidly losing weight. “Feeling better?”
  7. [1836/1837][EN] Hear the wind calling me to leave this place

    His pain and bewilderment didn’t last. They were gone from his face in a fleeting moment of humanity, and they left his mind not much later. Or, well, no, they didn’t leave. They moved: were compartmentalised with every other feeling he had wished never to have, to come to him, indubitably, in the early mornings when she was asleep, in that instant where the day went to night and the world was excruciatingly pretty no matter where you were, or during some random act, reading the paper, living a life. Eric did not mind those feelings – no, he minded, but he did not hate them. They were the price. The price of the lives he had taken, the price of the horrors he had seen fit to impose, was that the memory would stay with him, and that occasionally it’d remind him to feel. It kept him sane: and if the price had been too high, he would have stopped long ago. Right? Not that this he could have avoided. This he had actually tried. And that made it harder: but the fact was, that for the first time in her life Lissa had made his easier. If he was careful. If he was clever. If he thought it through. Her contribution to his life would be the perfectly planned ending of hers. But for now… For now, it helped that she still was snarling. To remind him of who he had to be. “Suit yourself,” he said, coolly. “But you will go to your room. I am so done with you.” The words were more apt than he’d wanted them to be, and he cut the knowledge of that by taking her, with little force but unrelenting, to her bedroom and shutting the door on her. Then he went out, to watch the stars head into the new year and wonder how many more people were now starting it but would thanks to him never ride it out.
  8. [1836/1837][EN] Hear the wind calling me to leave this place

    That moment, when putting your wife in a mental headlock through an Unforgivable Curse would actually have been the humane option: yeah, that was probably the moment to know beyond a doubt that indeed your marriage had been doomed from the start and this whole thing had just made it, well, pretty much official. He was too slow to react to her actions in time, could never have foreseen this, something so stupid, so reckless, so incredibly brainless not even from her, he knew her to be scheming, what ends could this achieve? He’d thought she’d break it if he showed that it was important and he’d calculated that in, he wouldn’t have minded so much. He’d never thought she would drink it. It wasn’t that he thought she didn’t hate him that much… it was more that he thought she would not risk herself over it. The thought was wrong. And he was wrong. And now this was wrong. He was with her in an instant, but an instant too late, restraining her arms as the bottle smashed to the floor. “Lissa!” There was real pain in the syllable, real pain in his features, for the briefest of timespans, as he processed the events without wanting to, as the knowledge of what had occurred, of what it meant, seeped in; but the next moment, he was calm again or calmer. “Well.” He sighed, cleaned up the shards of glass with a wave of his wand. “I hope you’re happy.” Was he? Strangely, no. “I believe the standard New Year’s drink is somewhat more conventional, but, ah, I suppose this was a good starter. Why don’t you… go to the room, I’ll get us some champagne to chase it down with.” He held on to her wrist for a second more. “You are the stupidest person I know. Never – never – do something like that again, Lissa, or we are going to have a less than fortuitous marriage.”
  9. [1836/1837][EN] Hear the wind calling me to leave this place

    Eric was not a violent man. Okay, haha. Sure he was. But he was not typically violent towards his wife, and only he was in a position to appreciate how ironic that was: that he, who would solve his every professional problem swiftly and irrevocably, would continue to let her stand so much in his way. But it was exactly because of his professional attitude that he would not, could not, resort to those same measures in his personal life. Then, where did it end? Who would he become? He’d always seen what he did somewhat separate from who he was. It was the only way to stay sane, at least for someone like him, someone who was not yet so far gone that he didn’t mind doing what he did. It wasn’t a perfect division. What he did affected who he was and who he was was someone who liked, by and large, what he did. But it was a division, a compartmentalisation, and as such it was helpful. Husband to Lissa Eric was put upon, annoyed, courteous and occasionally viciously sarcastic. Eric at work… Was generally courteous, actually. Businesslike. With Lissa he was that only because he knew it drove her mental. Anyway… that division was there, he maintained it rigourously, but the moment she snuck into his office she was treading in dangerous waters. Because she was crossing it. His work, his office, his professional life, started where the door separated his stuff from hers, her carefully measured out home, and there was nothing she could find here, nothing she could do, but he did not want her here. Oh, and perhaps there was something she could do here. “Vasilisa. Put the bottle down,” he said, acerbically, having followed her in, holding open the door. It was all right, he told himself. He had samples, this was just one. She could break it in a fury and he might need to refurbish, but he wouldn’t lose much else. That was good, he supposed. It was the only reason he continued to talk, rather than force her away with an Imperius Curse; he didn’t want to, but she had crossed the line. They were not playing, here. “You indefatigably stupid woman. I could tell you what it was, but your little blond existence could never comprehend it." A little mean? Why, yes he was. But she was driving him crazy. And she considered him too forgiving. She thought that he would leave her alone because he didn't want a big fight: in fact he'd just left her alone because he didn't care what she did, one way or another, but if she wanted a fight she could certainly have one. Tomorrow. "Get out of my office, and maybe the New Year will see you back in Russia again.”
  10. [1836/1837][EN] Hear the wind calling me to leave this place

    Eric was not preternaturally fond of people lurking outside his door in the dark. Call it old-fashioned. And yes, he was distracted; which was why, when he opened the door to get a book he’d left downstairs (Summoning did not work very well in his office, because there were lots of things he did not want other people to Summon in his office, and he preferred that to seem like a quirk of the old magical city home in which they lived, which unfortunately meant it had a tendency to affect him also) he suffered that familiar sense of his stomach plummeting that for most people would indicate having missed a step on the stairs and for him was more associated with having come within an inch of having accidentally killed an innocent bystander. In this case, his wife. This was unlikely to improve his mood. “Vasilisa! You startled me,” he said, blinking, forcing himself to focus but already growing annoyed with the fact that this looked to be a Discussion, a Discussion he had neither time nor energy for, but he knew that expression with the weary familiarity of their years of marriage and Discussion was inbound. Possibly cursing in Russian – which he kind of approved of. It was virtually the only thing about her he didn’t mind all that much. Well, right now, he minded everything. He’d always tried to be too busy for Vasilisa but he’d also always tried not to be worse than he had to be. But he was tired, he was stressed, and his mind was with another girl in an actual prison and Vasilisa’s long-suffering expression was not gaining his sympathy – not that he had much of that to distribute. Right now, he had none for her and most prominently he had no time, which was why he’d been stuck in his study and why they’d left the party early. Ah yes, the party. Hence, Discussion. “Look, I don’t have time to hold your hand right now,” he snapped, stepping out to Summon his book in annoyance. “Or pick out your dress for tomorrow. Or comment on your friends’ new hairstyles. So for once in your life, can you just stay out of mine?”
  11. [1836/1837][EN] Nothing to lose

    Surprise surprise, but even in this, Eric and his wife were radically divergent. Lissa loved parties: Eric mainly didn’t mind them. Oh, he enjoyed company; he was much more sociable, always had been, than his occupation or stature would in fact suggest, or for that matter his parentage, both of whom could be typically described as ‘aloof’ or ‘haughty’ or ‘elegant’ but not when they were within earshot. But parties weren’t really company, they provided little opportunity for talking and experiencing, though they were a fine place for business: no one but an amateur would think that only the quiet and the dark could tolerate Eric’s line of work. The more light, the more your general public would magnificently fail to see. In the shadows, everyone suddenly started peering and became much more tense. At a party, people were drinking, people were ogling, and people really weren’t paying attention. So... they were useful, parties, and he went to plenty. But he did not love them. And that had been fine back when there hadn’t been many things he loved, but nowadays, they were a little more tedious than before. But he’d gone, because he usually did, and he would play nice because he always did. And he was even a bit more motivated than ordinarily the case, because Vasilisa was with him. Oh, he didn’t like her nearly as much as he liked parties, but they were making an effort of sorts and he wasn’t going to be the first one to back down on their bargain. Blackmail was a bargain of sorts. Especially in his relationship with Lissa where it was a bit of a back and forth theme. “Thank you, darling,” he said with a smile, then indeed went to introduce him to his immediate supervisor, Mr. Wydecroft. It always was a bit awkward with him, because although Wydecroft was Eric’s boss, he answered to Thomas, and the Silvershores were kind of the real power in that equation. Nevertheless, they were British, so they would never say anything so uncouth and Eric observed all the pleasantries the others did with possible some less fear and disdain. Whereas Wydecroft was always polite to the extreme and even more so now: greeting Vasilisa in Russian, he asked her a few questions about her home and her interests - or was it passions - and... ice skating? Or ice fishing? Eric’s Russian wasn’t that good yet - before getting called away somewhat urgently but making his excuses to such an overwhelming degree that anything that would need to be dealt with urgently would be once again too late. Eric smiled at Lissa. “Wydecroft has been to Russia often, way back when. I think his wife’s from there, actually.” Like she cared. But, you know. Making the effort.
  12. [1836/1837][EN] Hidden intentions, all day, every day

    Felicia looked around with clear blue-eyed wonder, and Eric smiled, knowing that despite that look she was taking in everything, would recall all, and was simultaneously being cautious not to show that too much. Nevertheless, it wasn’t an act, either. She really was just enthusiastically looking around, as she had at nearly everything he’d ever shown her: because she hated this but loved it, because it was the only way she really knew how to live. They had that in common. She retained every insight in part because she had to, but also in part because she was well and truly interested, which made it easier. So much easier. And harder at the same time, for a little while, until you had accepted it, until you had learnt to sever the enjoyment of some aspects from the enjoyment of others. Until you knew exactly the kind of bad person you were - and weren’t. He smiled at her a little wanly, at her evident contentedness. Living in the moment and not thinking too much used to be a specialty of his before he met her, and before a couple of other things involving his dad and extended family, maybe he cared more, maybe he was just getting old; he knew enough not to ruin it for her. It was better, much better, than the alternative. “D’you know, I’ve never asked,” he admitted without embarrassment. “I figure it’s probably similar to the Hogwarts room of requirement, with, shall we say, a twist... but they might not be happy about either the comparison or someone trying to solve it. The magical underworld somewhat treasures their mystique.” And he usually let them have it, because it cost nothing. “This is the one. The Club occasionally has one, but mostly they just drink anywhere -this is a lot more high-level. Do you want to accept the offer? It sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?” He continued, finishing his drink. “Oh, and speaking of purchases, do you have everything you’ll need for the new year?”
  13. [1836/1837][EN] Hidden intentions, all day, every day

    “Perhaps I oughtn’t have,” Eric allowed, drawing her into his arms, briefly considering cancelling the tour, falling into the water with her, emerging only when breath or obligations mandated it – but he resisted, of course he resisted. His tendency to ignore his desires formed a key part of his character, honed over the years to the mitigation of those desires in fact, for wanting something meant you’d go for it, and Eric knew that he was confined to going where he must. The things he didn’t want had gotten him in enough trouble over the years without him adding positive longing to the list. Of course, Felicia was an exception to that rule in many ways: whether or not he spent the afternoon kissing her under a waterfall, she was something he wanted and something that thanks to that would get both him and her in immense amounts of trouble were it ever discovered. He knew. And she knew, and they’d discussed it at length. But here they were. He kissed her for as long as it took to get those irksome thoughts out of his mind again, then smirked. “But you do underestimate me, Miss Harding. Come on, let’s go get a drink.” He guided her out, sealed it again, and led her across the campus. As with any magical university worth its salt, Cambridge had an astronomy slash astrology department; as with any university in business longer than a year, it was locked, to prevent nefariousness of students ranging from petty theft to, whatever, flinging each other off the tower. With a slight hum, Eric unlocked the door of the tower, then went down rather than up, lifting a hatch that had been nearly invisible in the floor. He jumped down, caught Felicia as she followed, had the hatch close again, then led her along a dingy corridor to a sparkling crystal bar. The sense one got upon entering was mirrors, lights, and prominently dark. “Two, please,” he called: the bar was visible, but the barkeep was not, standing as he was in one of the spots of total darkness though all the bottles behind him nearly lit up in reflecting glass. “Never order a specific drink here,” he said, guiding Felicia to a table. “He’ll know what you want. Exactly what you want…” The drinks were set in front of them, along with two slips of parchment. “The trade’s anything esoteric, illegal, or both, and they’re pretty on top of things… they always select the thing they have on offer in which they think you’d be interested the most. Even though occasionally that’s just a hangover cure really. Or sometimes it’s a job that pays favours forward,” he held up his own slip, then stuffed it in a pocket. “What’d you get?”
  14. Well, where first Eric had been certain that something was up, now he was pretty much certain that he knew what it was; you didn’t get very far with his particular career path if you weren’t quick on the uptake. In fact, you usually didn’t even start on it. And if you did, you tended to end it quite suddenly and irrevocably. Intrigued, he looked at Esme. She and Lissa were friends, he’d thought; he hadn’t minded, both women could use a friend, even though it was always a distinctly unpleasant feeling for any member of the male subspecies to be the sole connecting factor between girls. More so when you were the husband of one and the… illicit safe house provider of the other. In any case, he would not have expected her to choose his side over Lissa’s in any kind of marital dispute they had, much less one that so much depended on. Didn’t mean that he wasn’t grateful, mind. He was. It was an odd feeling. “Don’t rub it in,” he said, wincing, but smiling a little bit, too. His pride was hurt, yes, but Eric was one of those people who considered that pride, when it came right down to it, bought very little in most any store, and while getting blackmailed by Lissa certainly had added just that little bit of insult to the very significant injury of having imperilled the life of a dear friend yet more than when he had set out to take it way back when it was now over. “I… she paid some kid to follow me. Didn’t think she’d have it in her, that level of creativity.” He shrugged. “It’d have made me appreciate her a shade more, if it had been anything else.” He blinked at Esme. “Thank you.”
  15. [1836/1837][EN] Hidden intentions, all day, every day

    For Eric, campus, too, was the coming back of a place he had long since left behind. It felt longer, actually, than it was. In general, people learned most during the first years of their lives; Eric had learnt more, almost everything that he would now consider paramount, in the last ones, and the boy who had gone to Hogwarts was different than the student who had gone on to Cambridge, wholly different again from the man he was now. And it would most likely be the same for Felicia, if she ever found herself returning here years later: although she already had experienced more than he had at Hogwarts, she still hadn’t fully grasped it. He knew however that she would. It was inevitable. In the sense that if she did not eventually grasp it, she would die. If she did grasp it, she still might. For now, however, in the sun of early fall... not having grasped it was a distinct advantage. It left you more to look forward to. “I did, too,” he admitted, quietly, smiling at her. “There’s more... room for creativity.” In many different fields. He chuckled at her question, which he really should have anticipated. Of course, showing Felicia round campus would never amount to telling her about the first stone ever laid or how many books were in the library. Which was fine, he wasn’t that up to date on well-known alumni as it was. “Hey, nothing against the library,” he said. “Isn’t that supposed to be your preferred place? I can promise you that that is still where the Ravenclaws gather. But... yeah, I can show you a couple of campus highlights.” Actually, they were more like dark spots. “Do you still need anything before the academic year starts? Are you looking forward to living here?” He was... not quite. He was not a fan of Daniella Adler by any means. She was one of the things Felicia still had to grasp. He hadn’t expressed that too explicitly, and he would prefer not to, but... he had expected them to grow apart after Hogwarts, because Daniella was a terrible friend to have. Instead, they were moving in together. “Ah, here we are,” he said with a smile, and ran a hand over the wall of the greenhouse. “In case you were worried about not finding a lake here..” The glass rippled, and they looked out from a rock overlooking a deep pool plus waterfall. “We used to turn up the heat in the greenhouse and after that do some diving here.”