and our paths will cross again,

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

It was nearing eleven in the morning when Vincent’s mother came bursting through the door to his office, asking what he was still doing sitting at his desk – they had a charity luncheon event to attend at one o’clock, their family would be showing up together and she wouldn’t be late because of him again. Annoyed, Vincent shoved the articles he had been revising to the side and told her he would be ready to go in time – but he couldn’t do that with her hovering over him. To that she simply looked annoyed and gave him one last “You better not be late,” before leaving with the slamming of his office door – definitely loud enough to grab most people on that floor’s attention. He rolled his eyes – his mother, always the drama queen.

Vincent leaned back in his office chair and let out a long, slow, breath – he had been holding it since his mother had slammed the door – and then went back to editing the article he had been working on, finishing it up before he went anywhere. By eleven thirty he had finished up, organized his mess for when he could finally come back to it; and then he found himself eyeing an article from another publication – written by Ophelia Vane, someone he knew well and tried his best not to think about. Yet he found himself following her work still, years after they had last spoken kind words to one another. For now, he set the paper aside and apparated back to his apartment to get cleaned up for yet another one of his mother’s ridiculous events.

Within half an hour he was showered and shaved, wearing only a pair of shorts as he wandered into his closet, only to pull out yet another black suit and tie – but attempting to change things up even in the slightest, he chose a crimson dress shirt, rather than the usual white requested by his mother. It would drive her crazy, allow him that satisfaction and still feel like something slightly different from every other black tie event his parents “required” or more or less demanded, his presence at. He got changed, set his suit jacket down on the bed and wandered back to the bathroom, combing back his hair and using a gel to keep it sleek and in place – after all, according to his mother, appearances were the most important part of these events – though he could really care less and only went to keep her happy.

Once he was satisfied both to his own standard and to that of which he knew his mother would hold him, he wandered back out to the bedroom and glanced at the clock. Twelve fifteen… He still had almost half an hour to kill, unless he really wanted to deal with his parents that much sooner. If he hadn’t been worried his mother would come back to his office to see if he had left yet, he wouldn’t have even bothered leaving when he did. Instead of leaving early, Vincent chose to sit back at his desk and edit a few pieces and go through all his mail from that morning that he had ignored – and one letter in particular caught his eye.

It was someone claiming to have information about corruption in the Ministry that they believe ties to multiple recent stories run in the Prophet. As happens a lot of times with these sorts of letters, the source failed to reveal their name or anything about them – they simply left a return address – that was likely to be a restaurant, pub or post office box of sorts rather than their actual residence. No one wants to be the whistleblower, but occasionally someone like this wanted their story to be heard. Lost in thought on how to handle this claim, this anonymous source, Vincent almost didn’t notice how much time had passed – he glanced over at the clock and it was quarter to one, he needed to leave now or otherwise he would be dealing with the wrath of his mother all afternoon.

Setting the letter aside on his desk for now he got up, grabbed his suit jacket and apparated to his parents’ home, where he found them waiting in the foyer as expected. Before his mother could open her mouth to say something he held a hand, a warning as he spoke, “I’m here, I’m on time – barely, but I am on time – so let’s just get this over with, shall we?” His mother looked angry, but he caught a smug look on his fathers’ face at his comments before he looked to his wife and told her it was fine and if they didn’t want to be late, it was time to go – then he took her hand and put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, apparating them to the place where the event was being held.

Upon arrival it was much like every other event, lots of shaking hands as they enter – small talk with ministry officials, people who run large businesses and all the highest class, purest of pure blood witches and wizards who attended these events entirely due to social status alone. The entire thing practically made him want to vomit – but he endured it time and time again simply because it was expected of him. He wasn’t exactly the social sort, yet he found himself pushed into at least one or two of these events a week these days it seemed. At one point, these events had almost seemed bearable – but lately more than ever it was becoming increasingly annoying and tiring to deal with; now that he had been dealing with it alone again for so long.

After the initial greetings, Vincent found himself sent off to talk with someone about featuring their business in the Prophet – his dad managed to find him work everywhere they went after all. It turned out a long and drawn out conversation that lasted almost an hour and two glasses of wine along with their lunch. Finally he found a point where he was able to give the man his business card, set up a time to meet in the future and excuse himself for some air.

The hall where the event was held had a balcony – and it was likely that few people would be up there considering most of them were steal eating and chatting away over drinks in the main hall. He managed to slip past his parents table without attracting any attention to himself, up a stair case and through a set of doors and finally he found himself taking in a deep breath of fresh air – a slight breeze and feeling much better now that he escaped the madness, at least for a few minutes.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Ophelia Vane was a thirty-year-old year woman with a very demanding job and a lot of independence, and yet she still found herself at pretentious events, not as occasionally as she would wish. Adèle Vane somehow managed to drag her children around, but her accomplished and high-profile journalist daughter served as the perfect companion when she could get her to go. It wasn't that Ophelia didn't care about charity work; it was more that being trapped at a benefit with her mother and many other members of the wizarding elite was not her preferred activity. So her mother had gotten her to accompany her to this charity luncheon - Ophelia wasn't even entirely sure who or what was being benefitted here - in between her daughter's meeting at the ministry and her necessary time at the office. She had a script to write and a staff meeting to run this afternoon and pieces to edit, and yet she was standing around in a crowd of mingling rich people.

She had come directly from a meeting for work, so she was wearing a elegant grey dress that was fashionable but didn't quite fit in with the luncheon wear of pastel colors and florals. Still, she looked nice with the dress and her classic black heels and her blonde hair sleek and shiny. She simply always fit in, graceful and intelligent and charming, finding it easy to slip back into this world whenever she was dragged out of her office and her newsroom. Although Ophelia didn't exactly mind these kinds of events - she was too familiar and comfortable with them, thanks to her parents, and she did quite well in them - she did not particularly enjoy being there right then. At the very least, though, she was being productive by charming people. This luncheon had drawn plenty of important people she would need an interview or quote or favor from soon.

Her mother was in full socialite force just then, something that always grated on her. "Maman, I am going to leave soon," she murmured in French. "I have work to do." Her mother would have looked more outraged if they were alone, but she could still see the overdone indignation there in her face. "No, no, you should stay!" she insisted, responding in French as well. "We're having such a lovely time." Ophelia had to take a calm sip of her drink and try to not get into an argument with her mother at charity luncheon. "I have a story to work on," she hissed back, though.

As she spoke to someone who might be useful for a story next week, armed with champagne and a too-small dessert in hand, she heard her mother call out, "Oh, Harper!" and Ophelia nearly froze. Of course his mother was here. Of course her mother had to find her; they were still friends, apparently ignoring the terrible breakup that had happened two years previously. His father was probably still furious with her, his star foreign news reporter who had protested him enough that he had been driven to almost fire her before she quit, but the business side of the family didn't touch his mother, who still had a great deal of affection for Ophelia. She had charmed his mother before they had even started dating, and she still loved Ophelia now, as her mother always reminded her and she realized in the occasions she had run into Mrs. Lancaster. As her mother moved over to see Mrs. Lancaster, Ophelia slipped away to hide behind another group of people; she had thought she had gotten away with it, until she spotted her mother looking around for her about ten minutes later. Suddenly overwhelmed with handling her difficult mother and the prospect of seeing her ex-boyfriend's family, who she now knew were here, Ophelia slipped away again, this time leaving the hall. 

She knew the venue well, having been here for benefits and parties and work events throughout her life, so she made her way to a spot she knew she could momentarily retreat to. The first spot for some air was closed off; she frowned, but continued past it and set off for the next one. Sighing, she pointlessly smoothed out her dress and opened up her bag. She generally didn’t smoke, but she was French, after all, and between her mother and thirty years of going back and forth to Paris, she had picked up a number of very French habits…including smoking. Occasionally. She occasionally smoked, generally when there was a combination of stress and her mother’s presence. Her father’s added presence only made it worse. Adèle had smoked when arguing with him, which Ophelia had long suspected was partially a move to further infuriate him, and somehow had passed the habit along to her daughter (Ophelia knew she had certainly passed it along to Mathias, who sat in the back garden with her and smoked all day while complaining about his father).

She was pulling a cigarette out of its hidden spot in her bag when she stepped out onto the balcony. Halfway to lighting it, she paused momentarily, hands in mid air, when she realized she wasn’t alone. Immediately composing herself and smoothly lighting the cigarette, she said icily, ”Vincent.” She took a long drag and blew the smoke out, cleanly away from him; she wasn’t that rude. But, of course, she didn't stay away entirely from being rude, as she said, raising her cigarette with that stereotypical elegant hold, "I see you're taking a break from suppressing journalistic integrity and keeping truth out of your paper to be a charitable person." She said it lightly enough, that icy and sharp evenness that she had mastered from a childhood of watching her complicated family life and now used to both vaguely intimidate people into talking to her and to irritate Vincent whenever she saw him. It was a marginal improvement upon the absolutely brutal way she used to begin, though; at least this more civil (somewhat). But she was still bitter and acrimonious, even if she put on that mask of complete composure that she always had. It was still hard to see him, two years on, and that feeling still unsettled her. It had been a couple of months since the last time she had run into him, and now she critically swept her eyes over him before looking back over grounds beyond the balcony and the hall.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

It was a breezy day, the wind blowing through his hair and past his face as he leaned on the balcony railing, looking out at the city below, thinking about how much he would rather be anywhere but back inside with all the stuffy, pompous witches and wizards. Vincent would hide out here as long as possible – then make his way back into the event not too long before it ended, leaving just enough time to make a final round of annoying small talk with his parents and their many acquaintances and once that was over he would be free to go back to his office and get back to work where he could at least try to relax.

Suddenly, Vincent heard footsteps at the entrance to the balcony and he let a quick sigh escape him – his private oasis was being invaded. That sigh was followed by a horrible wrenching of his stomach when he realized who it was. “Vincent.” A voice that would have once said his name happily, with excitement, now sounded cold and nearly sent a chill through him – it had been less heated between the two of them the last few times they ran into one another, but it never got easier having to see her. It was a mixture of emotions that he didn’t even want to identify, so he instead packed them away – turning around to face her as she spoke again after exhaling a cloud of smoke that the wind carried away.

"I see you're taking a break from suppressing journalistic integrity and keeping truth out of your paper to be a charitable person." To this Vincent rolled his eyes, leaning back on his arms against the railing now, observing her as she stood there, the way she held herself, confident and composed as always – where he found himself suppressing a rather annoyed look at her comment. “Are you confusing me for my father? Last time I checked, it wasn’t my paper – and if it was, such things wouldn’t be an issue.” It was moments like this when he remembered why they had broken up in the first place – his inability to put an end to his father’s horrible censoring of the news in the Prophet and his unwillingness to try had certainly put him on her bad side as well.

After all, sitting back, doing nothing and allowing it to happen only enabled what was happening – but it wasn’t something he could do much about. Turning around now, looking back over the grounds and everything beyond it, Vincent debated about how to handle this. He was tired of the spats that seemed to happen whenever the two of them ran into each other – yes, it had gotten better, much more civil than it had been in the beginning, but it was still never comfortable. Hopefully she would finish her cigarette and then wander back inside – certainly she would be able to talk her way out of staying until the end of the event.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Across from her, Vincent leaned against the railing, looking back at her. His face was restrained; she knew he was withdrawing, not allowing an angry expression to cross his face even though she was sure he was feeling it. Vince wouldn't want to let Ophelia get to him, or at the very least, not let her know that her presence or anything she said had gotten to him. It was easy to forget how well they knew each other, despite the two years of absolutely no relationship, romantic or platonic or even civil and professional.

But she noted that he looked good - that dress shirt, clean cut outfit that undoubtably would please his mother, his dark hair messed up by the wind. Still, it wasn't easy to see him, even after all this time. There was a painful familiarity, reminding her of that long friendship and relationship that had been severed very quickly. Whenever she saw him there was a mix of dread and anger and guilt, somewhere deep down, and a thrill at the inevitable argument. They had become friends through intelligent arguments, carried on with their debates through their entire relationship, and continued to argue after the big personal fight of their relationship led to their break up. The arguments had never ended, only shifted from an avoidance of personal issues and a friendly focus on politics to fierce arguments about politics and ethics that were weighed down by their own person bitterness.

"How could I confuse you for him?" she said, rolling her eyes. "I know he's down there talking to all the people who are influencing him. You're just dragged along to this waste of time, and just following behind your father at the paper." Ophelia didn't have to explain what she meant by following behind his father. She hadn't followed his father, but he had and still did, which she had kept an eye on from her perch at the WWN. "Our mothers are talking," she noted, something that was almost an admission of this observation. It was probably the main part of why she had escaped the party for a minute, even if she would never directly admit to him that she dreaded having to talk to their mothers together, or his mother at all.

Her cigarette was half-forgotten in her right hand as her left hand smoothed her hair, slightly messed up by the wind, and she considered him with a sharp gaze, although he had turned away from her to look out past the balcony. Ophelia said, unable to keep quiet, "You know, as a journalist, I feel personally offended by that dreadful article your paper ran yesterday." She didn't have to specify it; she knew that at least he was smart enough to know how terrible that piece about a suspicious event in a wizarding town had been.

Fee was antagonizing him. She knew this, and knew it was unprofessional and a bit unnecessary, and knew that really she should just take the high road. She could finish her cigarette, say goodbye, and slip away. She could make her excuses and be out of the event in minutes. After this, Fee probably wouldn't see Vincent for a while again. She would simply complain about him and her former place of employment to the national news editor, who happened to be her closest friend in the newsroom and her partner in wide-ranging journalistic ranting, and probably anybody who would listen. From the distance of the WWN and her desk with its copy of the Daily Prophet on it each day, Ophelia would read and criticize and complain and rant until the next time she inevitably ran into him at somewhere random.

Ophelia knew all of this, and yet two years of these interactions and time removed from their relationship still hadn't convinced her to hold herself back from criticizing Vincent. There was still so much bitterness and complicated feelings they she had not worked through or even really acknowledged. So she continued, almost as if she couldn't help herself or realize that she was stepping too far by saying more, and said, "Truly, Vincent, I can't believe you let it happen." Waving the hand that held her cigarette, she indicated that she meant not just yesterday's article but all of it, all of those things she had problems with. In a moment where other people would look away, unable to keep up a direct gaze after a statement that pushed at him and had become rude and offensive, Fee was emboldened and stared back over at him. Instead, now there was a challenge in her voice, whether or not Vincent wanted to rise to it this time.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

Every time he ran into her, it was like a whirlwind of emotions that always left him feeling frustrated, a combination of anger, bitterness and a bit of sadness (though he would never admit that) and it never seemed to get easier to control. It had already been a long enough day dealing with his mother and being forced into this ridiculous event, but to have to run into Ophelia on top of it, it was just too much. The worst part? His mother, who often helped organize these events, always knew when her and her family have been invited to one of these events and she never once told him ahead of time if they were supposed to show up.

"How could I confuse you for him?" she said, rolling her eyes. "I know he's down there talking to all the people who are influencing him. You're just dragged along to this waste of time, and just following behind your father at the paper." That was about the point when he turned away from her, looking out over the picturesque view, rather than at her where he would be forced to restrain feelings of anger and maybe a little hurt? It was bad enough that he was already going against everything he actually cared about, loved and believed in having to work under his father, but to have her reminding him as if he weren’t aware was unnecessary and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to respond to it.

"Our mothers are talking," she noted shortly after, saving him from having to acknowledge her last remarks with anything but a roll of his eyes and a rather annoyed appearance – which didn’t fade with her most recent comment. “Of course they are, I’m sure my mother knew you were both going to be here, she always seems to.” Not that she ever bothers to let me in on this knowledge, he finished the thought to himself. “I’m sure she’s going to be disappointed if you disappear before she can suck you into an hour long conversation about some event she’s looking for extra coverage and publicity for.”

It wasn’t silent between the two of them for long before Ophelia suddenly came out with "You know, as a journalist, I feel personally offended by that dreadful article your paper ran yesterday." Vincent absolutely hated when she would bring things up like this – especially when he knew exactly which article she was speaking of and had actually made attempts to keep it out, but his father had stuck it back in before the final printing without so much as a word to him. That was how it had seemed to go quite a bit lately, Vince would try and have some control over what got printed, taking out stories that had very few facts to back them up or ones that were certainly telling half-truths and outright lies.

But it never failed that by the time he got his copy of the Prophet in the morning that those stories would be center stage, as though to flaunt the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it and he had no real control over the paper; regardless of what his father might try to tell him. “I didn’t approve it for publication, so you can take that up with the guy who actually owns the paper.” he said bitterly, his anger toward the situation seeping into his tone, though he tried to control it. Before he could say anything further, she had spoken up again, saying "Truly, Vincent, I can't believe you let it happen."

As she spoke she waved her cigarette about and everything about her right now, her posture, her tone and her words especially, screamed for him to accept this challenge, this argument that they always seemed to come back to, all over again. Vincent turned to face her again, no longer leaning on the balcony, his arms now folded across his chest as he shook his head. “We’re going to do this again, are we?” he asked her – hoping to keep his own emotions in check and hopefully just diffuse this before the two of them both ended up angry, loud, possibly gaining the attention of those in the hall not far from them with their inevitable fight.

It was terribly difficult – to know that she was right about so many things, to know that he was trying to do what he could to keep the Prophet a reliable source of news and information but knowing it was also an impossible task so long as his father was running the show. However, he could never just up and leave like she had – he had a responsibility, an obligation, to take over the paper one day (at which point, he could restore it to the way it should be run), which meant working under his father until the point when it would finally be handed over to him.

If he left, he wouldn’t ever have that opportunity to restore the Prophet to its former glory of a paper that had been prided as the best in the U.K. If he left, he literally lost everything he had worked for, his father made it clear he would ensure that he never got hired by another paper again – as well as cutting him off from anything he was ever meant to inherit. Between that and the fact that it would destroy his mother to see her only child abandon them, it just wasn’t an option for him.

If he had siblings, someone, anyone, who could have taken his place, he probably would have left when Fee did years ago now – but that wasn’t the case; so he stuck it out and would continue to until the day came when he could finally take over and do the paper justice as his family had originally intended generations and generations ago at the start. However, doing so was increasingly difficult lately and seeing Fee, having her constantly reminding him of the reasons she left, both the paper and him, certainly didn’t make it any easier.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Vincent turned away from her again, and she knew him well enough - he hadn’t changed, and neither had she, if she would ever acknowledge it - to know that he was irritated with what she had said. By her very presence, probably, and the way she was continuing to stand there and smoke, stubborn instead of letting it go and moving on to find another spot to hide out at for a few minutes. Still, Ophelia knew she was pushing him hard already, but the thought of how she was being unfair and hurtful didn’t cross her mind, or rather, it didn’t bother her enough. She still wasn’t able to see through her own hurt feelings and lingering anger and that noble journalist mindset that she had cultivated somewhere along the way. She had gotten a little bit less obnoxious and terrible in more recent meetings. After all, Ophelia had started out even worse than she was being now. She had been brutally mean to him in the early months after their breakup, so really this seemed better by that standard. She had called him Lancaster and Alistair instead of Vincent for ages, purely to infuriate him, while he had switched from Fee to Ophelia because Fee was too familiar. She had gone out of her way to irritate him and call him out for the various things that enraged her. Now she was managing to be more civil, though she had never lost that cold composure that accompanied her fierce arguments, not as harsh or infuriated, but they were far from friends or even professional acquaintances. 

“Of course they are, I’m sure my mother knew you were both going to be here, she always seems to,” he said, rolling his eyes. “They've certainly been plotting their social schemes for today together,” Fee remarked, briefly targeting her derision away from Vincent. ”Did you see the way they’re working the room? Shameless, the pair of them.” Looking away, she drew back from the lighter teasing that was in sight, a relic of their years together that had just somehow surfaced; their mothers had known each other for years, and Vincent and Fee’s commentary on the pair and this ridiculous social scene was a staple, which had only turned harder and sharper when they could no longer share that as friendly commiseration. ”They always seem to be trying to bring us back together,” she said, some mockery in her voice, seeking comfort in the easy sharpness that crossed from their mothers back over to Vincent. Fee liked his mother well enough, though, so it was always awkward to see her now, especially with the threat of Vincent’s father nearby or Fee’s own mother teaming up with her to present a force of socialite mothers whose children had dated.

Ophelia continued to smoke while Vincent continued to talk, still looking annoyed. “I’m sure she’s going to be disappointed if you disappear before she can suck you into an hour long conversation about some event she’s looking for extra coverage and publicity for.” ”You could say I’m avoiding her,” she admitted, refusing to concede that she was also avoiding his father, and not daring to look at him in that moment. Her voice hadn’t lost its edge, but Vincent would know what it took for her to admit that, and what it meant, and she hated that. Almost hated him for that. Moving past that admission, she said, able to return to looking at him with that sharp gaze again and almost scoffing at the notion, ”Anyways, she should know I’m not going to provide coverage for her. That kind of event is not even remotely my area. She can attempt that with another editor.”

She didn’t need to do this. Really, she should shut up and leave him alone and let their relationship - well, this bitter, unforgiving relationship, if it could even be called that - end. Of course, Vincent couldn’t resist responding either; she wasn’t entirely at fault here, as she would defend herself. ”I didn’t approve it for publication, so you can take that up with the guy who actually owns the paper,” he said, bitterness and anger seeping into his carefully controlled voice. Internally, she was doing something like gloating; she felt a perverse satisfaction out of pushing Vincent enough that she got a rise out of him. Throughout their friendship and relationship, Ophelia had been pushing him: pushing him out of his shell, out of his reserved and restrained nature, out to speak his mind. She still enjoyed pushing him, although now it was driven by her own bitterness and resentment. ”I’d love to,” she shot back blithely. Vincent of all people should know that she would gladly take it up with his father. Sadly, her boss would probably kill her for being as brutal as she would want to be, and it went against her own refined charm and extreme professionalism that she sought to maintain even as she certainly toed the line.

With some satisfaction, Fee noted that she had irritated him enough that he was fully facing her now, crossing his arms and shaking his head at her. “We’re going to do this again, are we?” he asked, clearly trying to keep the upper hand here, with his calm and control and commitment to not causing a scene. ”What is ‘this’?” she asked, somehow both composed and fierce at once. ”Well, we’ll stop doing ‘this’ whenever you stop lying to yourself and maybe actually fucking do something. Anything.” She waved her cigarette around again, a broad gesture; he knew what she wanted, because they had fought about it for long enough, back when they were still dating, though part of her would settle for him just admitting that he was wrong. But he never did that. It was so frustrating, because she knew he was capable and intelligent and passionate, underneath that controlled and reserved front he put on, but he just seemed unable to see what was so clearly in front of him, let alone do or say anything about it.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

It seemed that no matter what he did to try and keep his life as far away from Ophelia’s as possible that the two of them continued to be thrown into the mix together, generally with him being guilt-tripped, (more like given no choice) into attending one of these ridiculous events, occasionally at press conferences and the like – but each and every time it was more than he was really prepared to deal with. She pushed him constantly, trying to infuriate him even down to the way she said his name – although at least she had finally shied away from calling him by his first or sir names, both of which he found particularly annoying, but she certainly knew what she was doing and what to say and do to get under his skin – there’s nothing like opening up to someone only to have them use it all against you in the end.

Lately it had turned somewhat more civil, if they were in a room filled with people at least – but the two had not been together alone without coming out of it yelling at one another (and likely both going off to complain about the other for the remainder of the day). So far, it didn’t look like things were going to be much different this time around – however he almost thought so for a minute, as a glimmer of their days together at these events shone through when she spoke up again. “They've certainly been plotting their social schemes for today together,” Fee remarked, briefly targeting her derision away from Vincent. ”Did you see the way they’re working the room? Shameless, the pair of them.” Nodding, Vincent replied, “The worst part is the fact that everyone falls for the act – and then the pair of them gossip and talk trash about them all once the whole thing is over.”

A smile almost reached his lips at their commentary – something that was familiar and oddly comforting still, just knowing there was at least one other person who wanted to be here as little as he did – but that was short lived. ”They always seem to be trying to bring us back together,” she said, some mockery in her voice. For some reason this, her mocking tone, the fact that it was a joke to her, still got to him even through all the pent up anger he had towards her and the situation that had led to the end of their relationship. “They should know better by now, we’ve ruined enough of their parties. You would think they would’ve given up. My mother is relentless, though.” Vincent said with a sigh, knowing she was right – their mothers had clearly been happy about them being together and had been awkwardly forcing them together ever since they broke up – no matter how many times it seemed to blow up in their faces.


He went on to tell her that his mother had likely been looking for her, in hopes of getting additional coverage for some event or another she had been going on about. ”You could say I’m avoiding her,” she admitted, following up with ”Anyways, she should know I’m not going to provide coverage for her. That kind of event is not even remotely my area. She can attempt that with another editor.” To which Vincent quickly responded with, “Oh you know that doesn’t matter to her. You might be persuaded to help out – or at the very least be willing to put her in touch directly with someone who can, saving her the time and effort of finding someone on her own.” It was true – his mother spent so much time organizing these events down to every last tablecloth and napkin holder and somehow she always managed to find shortcuts – and when it came to press, she readily took advantage of the Prophet, along with any connections she may have, no matter how unrelated to the event they may be.

After what had felt like a brief intermission of their never ending feud, Ophelia had dove right in on him about an article that he had never intended to have published – again with the ability to push his anger, test his patience and probably just because she found it entertaining – but he tried to put an end to it, telling her to take it up with his father. ”I’d love to,” she came back with, quicker than he liked – after all he knew she was not afraid to do so, even here. “I know you would, you get the satisfaction of saying your bit, as loud and eccentric as you like, and even get to make my life hell in the process. I’m sure it would be the highlight of the day for you.”

What followed, was when she really started in on him – with how she couldn’t believe he let it happen – meaning everything that had fallen apart over the last several years; the deteriorating integrity of the Daily Prophet was certainly a big part of it – but not stepping away from it or doing something about it, instead standing by, watching it happen and fighting with her instead of the root of the problem, was definitely a much bigger part of the issue – even if neither of them was willing to admit it. ”What is ‘this’?” she asked, somehow both composed and fierce at once. ”Well, we’ll stop doing ‘this’ whenever you stop lying to yourself and maybe actually fucking do something. Anything.” As she spoke he felt his anger rising, his patience shortening and his ability to keep his mouth shut slowly slipping away – but he couldn’t let that happen, he wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction, not this time, he was tired of it.

“‘This’, the same thing that we keep doing – you come at me over something I didn’t actually have published, then tell me how I should have done more to stop it, to stop all of it. Normally, I tell you something along the lines of “I don’t know what you want me to do about it”, you continue to rant, we get loud and eventually the whole room is watching us– then we don’t see each other for months until our mothers push us together or something, effectively bringing ‘this’ full circle.” Unintentionally, he had gone on longer than he intended, his annoyance showing as he rambled about the situation he wished would just come to an end already – he was tired of dealing with this sort of frustration – and it didn’t seem the two of them were ever going to come to any sort of understanding.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Ophelia knew exactly how to irritate and anger Vincent, things she had learned over the many years they had been friends and then in a relationship, but she had never used them against him. These days, though, she used them to target him with criticism and mockery and angry arguments that would rile him up. It was hard to get him to open up, but it was also hard to get him to lose his composure, and Fee held the distinction of managing to do both. But somehow they slipped into polite conversation, united by their shared experience of their mothers and the frustrating situation they were in with them. To anyone who didn’t know them or their history, Vincent and Ophelia sounded civil and like they got along fine, perhaps even friendly and just commiserating together. He nodded back as she made fun of their mothers, and said, “The worst part is the fact that everyone falls for the act – and then the pair of them gossip and talk trash about them all once the whole thing is over.” She almost laughed at that. Instead, she said dryly, ”I am so looking forward to having to sit through my mother’s recap of all the gossip and her important thoughts about everyone and everything.” Her mother would do it immediately, so Fee would have to escape before she had the chance, but she had a feeling her mother would show up at her apartment that evening or guilt her into coming over to her parents’ home for dinner with some casual gossip and criticism on the side.

This polite, almost casual tone was only temporary, of course, as Ophelia Vane could never help herself, not when it came to an argument and not when it came to Vincent. She was soon back to her mockery and sharp criticism, hardening again, with her comment about their own relationship that pushed it back away from their long history of making fun of their families together. Vincent seemed to be trying to remain composed and detached and not let Fee make him angry, but he was still clearly irritated as he replied, “They should know better by now, we’ve ruined enough of their parties. You would think they would’ve given up. My mother is relentless, though.” Fee got away with a lot at these events and everywhere else, because even when she got too passionate or frustrated or aggressive, she still seemed polite and intelligent and well-spoken. When she and Vincent got into fights in public, though, she tended to get too personal and take things too far, and her classiness barely saved her. They certainly horrified their mothers, though, and anyone around them would stare as if looking at a car crash.

Ophelia didn’t comment on the ruining part - she, of course, would maintain that she didn’t ruin anything - but did say, rolling her eyes while her voice grew pointed again, ”I suppose I got my relentlessness from my mother, in some way.” Speaking of her relentless mother, she was sure her mother would try to get her to speak to Mrs. Lancaster before she could escape, and would bring up Vincent the next time she saw her. She was still commenting upon their relationship and break up, two years later. Her mother was quite talented at drawing out and picking up on exactly what she didn’t want to talk about or do, and promptly bringing it up, even pestering her with it. It was yet another thing she seemed to have gotten from her parents, both of whom were argumentative, persistent, judgmental people.

Vincent was quick to say, “Oh you know that doesn’t matter to her. You might be persuaded to help out – or at the very least be willing to put her in touch directly with someone who can, saving her the time and effort of finding someone on her own.” Ophelia leaned her side against the railing, probably closer to him than he was comfortable with, while finishing her cigarette. Already considering fishing a second one out of her bag, part of Fee’s mind was on the alcohol back in the event. She would be back at work soon though, where she had a whole day ahead of her; copy to write, a foreign news meeting to lead, a report to give on air that night. ”What a thrilling conversation with your mother that will be,” she replied tonelessly. ”Does she realize that her family owns the biggest newspaper in the country? She has a whole paper at her disposal,” she added without a beat, drawing back to that aggressive, hostile stance that she had lost without realizing it. ”Nevermind, I’ve been watching her take advantage of that family privilege and for years. My network, meanwhile, won’t allow her to do anything unfair.”

“I know you would, you get the satisfaction of saying your bit, as loud and eccentric as you like, and even get to make my life hell in the process. I’m sure it would be the highlight of the day for you,” he replied, some of his composure slipping. “Both parts would certainly be highlights of my day,” she snapped, almost nastily. “Though the highlight of my day is probably getting to do my job well.” Well, Ophelia was not someone who had even had much of a filter. She knew how to sound nice, respectable, and sophisticated as she did it, even when she was swearing or aggressive or tearing apart someone’s argument, but when it came to Vincent Lancaster, she lost some - or all - of that nice veneer that coated even her most angry and hostile words. Then again, she generally didn’t get angry or hostile with people, and had never been that way with Vincent until things fell apart two years ago.

Ophelia could just detect that Vincent was losing patience and his ability to stay composed and detached with her just then. He just seemed frustrated and simply done with her more than anything right then though, as he tried to not rise to her bait. He did go into a rant, though, as he started and then didn’t stop, “‘This’, the same thing that we keep doing – you come at me over something I didn’t actually have published, then tell me how I should have done more to stop it, to stop all of it. Normally, I tell you something along the lines of “I don’t know what you want me to do about it”, you continue to rant, we get loud and eventually the whole room is watching us– then we don’t see each other for months until our mothers push us together or something, effectively bringing ‘this’ full circle.” Vincent usually didn’t say much, and certainly not as much as she did; he was far more reserved and careful in his words than she was, whereas she talked and talked. She meant everything she said, but he was more sparse in what he said usually. She had been one of the only people he really talked to, but when they broke up he had retreated back into not talking much with her… until the rare occasion that she pushed and pushed and he exploded. ”Some of the things have been published by you,” she pointed out first. ”Your section, your paper, just walked over by your father and the rest of them.”

Folding her arms across her chest, she continued, no longer being nasty and mean but instead just being forceful. ”You know what I think you should do, so don’t even try that ‘I don’t know what you want’ with me anymore,” she shot back. ”Once again, Vincent, ‘this thing' you hate will end if you would just stop fucking pretending that everything is fine over at the illustrious Daily Prophet. I’m not doing this for fun, you know. I’m making a point here.” That, of course, was not entirely true; she was indeed making a point, or several points, that she considered extremely important, but her argument and sarcasm and harshness was not only grounded in her beliefs. Ophelia would tell herself that was all it was about, but it was far more complicated that that. She wouldn’t even touch or acknowledge the feelings that had been left after their breakup, all those feelings of anger and disappointment and disbelief - and somewhere, buried even deeper than those, betrayal and bitterness and sadness - because it was far easier for her to focus on the argument itself.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

The calm before the storm – that’s what Vincent decided that it was when he and Ophelia had what some would consider a perfectly normal conversation, for the very brief time that it lasted. Distaste for attending these events merely to please their socialite mothers had always been a common ground for the two and it seemed to remain the only thing that they saw eye to eye on. After his remark about how later their mothers would be entirely two faced, gossiping about the people they had been cozying up to only hours before she said, sounding non to thrilled, that she would end up listening to her mothers recap at some point later in the day. “I’ll be avoiding such activities by claiming this took too much out of the work day,” he admitted – though he wasn’t entirely sure why he had told her, perhaps it was a brief moment of becoming comfortable with their casual banter – and he regretted his short window of openness as their conversation started to go south as she brought up their mothers trying to stick them together again and again.

Vincent’s tone had turned from relatively level, calm, relatively unemotional, with the exception of the comments made about their mothers, to bitter, cold and annoyed as he mentioned how they should have just given up given the number of events that the two of them had caused a scene at. ”I suppose I got my relentlessness from my mother, in some way,” she said as she rolled her eyes. He could certainly agree with her – he didn’t know her parents nearly as well as she had gotten to know his, but the two certainly had an odd way about them and he wouldn’t doubt that much of her attitude and persistence, among other traits, absolutely came from growing up with her mother. This time, he simply kept his mouth shut – he could have said so many things, but he restrained himself.

Mentioning that his mother would be looking for her, almost definitely in hopes of finding additional press coverage for something, caused her clear annoyance at the thought alone. ”What a thrilling conversation with your mother that will be,” she replied tonelessly. ”Does she realize that her family owns the biggest newspaper in the country? She has a whole paper at her disposal,” she added without a beat, drawing back to that aggressive, hostile stance that she had lost without realizing it. ”Nevermind, I’ve been watching her take advantage of that family privilege and for years. My network, meanwhile, won’t allow her to do anything unfair.” She wasn’t wrong by any means – his mother certainly got her way with the family business when it came to taking out pages upon pages of promotion if she needed to; but she wasn’t above searching elsewhere to add to exposure. “You know that won’t stop her from trying.” he mused without much else to the thought – at least if she got stuck talking to his mother he could laugh about it to himself for a little while.

For a moment, he had hoped that she would finish her cigarette and move on, leaving this the most civil run in they would have had in years. Unfortunately he wasn’t so lucky as they quickly ended up on the topic of the Prophet once again – and he almost groaned with a long sigh, an exaggerated display of his annoyance with these conversations between the two of them – but that would have been childish (as much as he really wanted to have done it). Instead, he simply tried to diffuse things – the usual reminder that it was not his paper, at least not yet – and that if it was then they wouldn’t have been having this argument. It was such a repetitive thing for them anymore and he just couldn’t stand it – he was halfway debating just walking away right now, in the middle of her rant – what would so do about it? She would probably follow him, continue the argument back into the hall and as far as she had to follow him until he finally gave her a reaction.

”Some of the things have been published by you,” she pointed out first. ”Your section, your paper, just walked over by your father and the rest of them.” Of course, this had already gone further than he had wanted – she pushed and pushed, knowing just how to get under his skin. How could he ever convince someone like her that he really didn’t have the control he was supposed to? That even though he spent hours and hours each night preparing things to provide the best possible issue of the paper that things were changed behind his back the moment he sent things off to be published – and it was happening more and more frequently still. He went on to complain about how they always ended up in “this” same exact situation – and he had gone on longer than he wanted, she got what she wanted, or at least part of it, she had gotten him riled up, he was irritated and he was showing it – all things he hated.

”You know what I think you should do, so don’t even try that ‘I don’t know what you want’ with me anymore,” she shot back. ”Once again, Vincent, ‘this thing' you hate will end if you would just stop fucking pretending that everything is fine over at the illustrious Daily Prophet. I’m not doing this for fun, you know. I’m making a point here.” Vincent would admit that she was partially in the right, when it came to the integrity of the publication and the fact that for the most part, the staff over there constantly overlooking it, mostly in hopes of keeping their jobs or because they were too oblivious to actually notice – or at least he would admit it if she didn’t constantly act as though it were his fault that things were not different. However, her last statement, about how she wasn’t doing this for fun, he knew was only a half-truth, if that – she certainly got entertainment about this, she enjoyed watching him get more and more angry, losing control – and he knew that, yet somehow he was incapable of just ignoring her and dropping the issue.

“I’m not pretending, or ignoring anything – I know what the hell is happening, if I could do more about it don’t you think I would have by now?” he said, his composure clearly breaking. “And I don’t believe for a second that this is all about you making a point. Admit it, you’re enjoying this. You like the chaos. You like calling me out. You like pissing me off.” Though he didn’t raise his voice, his tone had an edge to it that hadn’t been there before – and rarely surfaced, except for each and every time the two of them ended up in “this” situation again.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Continuing to scrutinize him, Ophelia smoothed back a flyaway strand of hair while noting the expression on his face, his body language, the outfit he had probably been pushed into wearing. He was a little less tense now, perhaps because they weren’t screaming at each other - yet. “I’ll be avoiding such activities by claiming this took too much out of the work day,” he admitted. In another time, Fee might say that he had learned from the best; she was so skilled at charming and talking her way out of doing things she had no desire for, which definitely included talking to their mothers about this. Still, she knew her mother’s habits, and knew she would probably drag her daughter into this somehow. “You’re well aware how persistent Adèle Vane is. Sometimes you just have to give in when it comes to her,” she said, not sure why or how she was letting herself talk like this. It was like a slip up for her, a mistake, a crack in that armor of criticism and hard and angry words that she used pretty much just for him. It wasn’t their comfortable and casual conversation, built out of their quick and easy rapport of years ago, but it was something closer to it than they had gotten to in two years. The last few times she had seen him, they had been more civil than before, but quite distant and restrained. They were both slipping up a bit, which just confused her. It was something she would probably shove away to the back of her mind and ignore, and promptly get rude again. In fact, she would probably be angry and mean again before this ended.

Vincent pointed out, “You know that won’t stop her from trying.” Ophelia leaned back against the railing and said, “Lucky for me, I’m a master at talking my way out of things like that.” Her response still had a bit of an edge to it, but it was more of a general sharpness than a targeted attack at him. Somehow she had lost the anger and bitterness in her voice, but of course that didn’t last for long. He was obviously frustrated with her now, and she got a mean satisfaction out of seeing him losing his cool at last. Vincent was always so carefully restrained and controlled, which he had brought back to his interactions with her for the first time since they had met, years and years ago. She had gotten him to let down his guard with her and stop preserving that front he put on for everyone else. It had all come back when they broke up, so now she enjoyed any moment she got him to break a bit again. And he did, finally snapping back, “I’m not pretending, or ignoring anything – I know what the hell is happening, if I could do more about it don’t you think I would have by now?”

Fee pounced on that admission immediately. ”Oh, so you finally admit that there is something happening? Took you long enough,” she shot back. ”You are pretending! And I do think you can do something about it.” Then he was trying to call her out, saying, “And I don’t believe for a second that this is all about you making a point. Admit it, you’re enjoying this. You like the chaos. You like calling me out. You like pissing me off.” Vincent’s voice, usually detached and calm, had an edge to match her own now. She was almost smirking as she replied, ”I don’t dislike it.” It was a bit childish, but she was angry again. That almost casual conversation from before was long forgotten at this point.

Shifting into a stance that was undeniably challenging, she said, “I don’t understand how you can just sit there and not say or do anything.” Ophelia was getting close to really exploding now, feeling the anger and arguments build up in her. Just when she was about to launch into a full attack on him, something he had heard before and wouldn’t want to deal with again, she heard footsteps echoing through the hall, audible clicks from heels. Seconds later, they both heard, ”Vincent? a moment before she stepped into their line of vision, and they both froze immediately. It was his mother, immaculately dressed and frowning, interrupting them at the worst moment. Hovering in the doorway, Mrs. Lancaster stopped, her gaze landing on Ophelia. Mrs. Lancaster was clearly delighted to have finally found her in addition to locating her son, while Fee - and, she assumed, Vincent - was far less enthused. ”Ophelia, dear,” she began, and Ophelia seamlessly turned her charm back on.

”Oh, hello, Mrs. Lancaster. It is so lovely to see you,” she said, smiling beatifically, the perfect image of charm and grace. “I’ll leave you alone with Vincent.” Eyeing escape from both Vincent and his mother, albeit for different reasons, Ophelia continued to smile while saying as parting words, in a voice that was perfectly composed and even and likable, ”Think about what I said, Vincent.” Moving to slip around his mother and escape down the hall, she said, ”Bye, Vincent, Mrs. Lancaster. I hope to see both of you again soon.” There was a bite to her voice that Vincent would catch, the obvious underlying message that of course she didn’t hope to see him soon. And she liked his mother well enough, but she’d prefer to not deal with her; things were awkward, naturally, given Fee’s nasty breakup with Vincent, her feud with his father, and her personal desire to avoid getting caught in irritating conversations about press coverage with Mrs. Lancaster. Even worse, Fee’s own mother was usually hovering nearby with watchful eyes, ready to attack her daughter about this later, or even joining the conversation herself.

Then she was gone, perfectly kind and graceful while Mrs. Lancaster unable to even begin whatever conversation she wanted to have with Ophelia. Back in the event hall, Ophelia grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and drank it quickly while locating her mother with some dread. Finding Adele in the midst of a group conversation, Ophelia smiled at them all, lovely and polite, before leaning over to murmur in rapid French to her mother. She was leaving, had to go to work on a story, she explained to the group with that smile and all her likability, making her excuses and apologies and wishes that oh, if only she could stay longer. Like she had said to Vincent, she was the master of talking her way out of things; she was soon out of the event, before Vincent even reluctantly returned with his mother. Ophelia finally headed to work, trying to shake the encounter with Vincent from her mind.