Galdralag // Julia

[Altair]

Directly after this.

Every now and then something stubled into the shop that he had not expected. While it was not supposed to happen, it was a keen reminder that his magic wasn't foolproof and that it was time to re-do the wards (many of which were put in place to protect the outside from the things he had trapped in here).

Every time, however, it set off an alarm of eerie murmur, a choir of agitated low voices, undetectable by all but those with the keenest sense of Divination. And every time he hushed them quiet, as his feet fell into a steady rhythm, needing no light to lead him to the culprit.

This time, as he came to a stop behind a shelf by the entrance, he registered the presence of two, in addition to the others that were already there - which was nothing short of a crowd, for his standards.

One of them was a child.

Now, keeping children out of the shop had little to do with not being open for introducing the young to the more complicated sides of magic. Rather, it had to do with their teenage attitudes, the King-of-the-Castle attempt at pulling off the dark and for their friends following the logic of something cool.

(There was too much in here not meant for the unwisened, though most inspiring of any real danger was kept behind shut doors.)

This one was harmless, so Altair let him be. And since he'd rather not trap the child inside the shop, he let the defective child-repellant be. Then, passing the conversing pair on the way back to the counter, he registered the word Potions and decided to steer very much clear.

Altair, ever the alchemist, was rubbish at Potions.

When they, after another moment, arrived at the counter, he accepted the money, sending a gaze after the child running off with his grown-up books.

"That was a nice gesture," he commented, the deep line of a furrow visible between dark eyebrows, as he let the woman know that he'd registered parts of their conversation. He was silently thankful that the matter had been taken care of by someone who obviously had more skill than him at communicating with children.

He turned his eyes to her then, one a clear blue, the other a cloudy grey.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

[Julia Laurence]

The boy was a strange one, but sweet. As he all but rocketed his way out of the shop, Julia’s eyebrows raised in confusion and she gave a little shake of her head. Her honey-brown eyes met clear-blue and cloudy-gray, and she gave the shop owner a small smirk. “Least I could do, I suppose. Poor thing looked like he was a moment from fainting.” Her eyes went to the door again. Even if she chased after him, it was likely he was already long-gone.

Oh well. His parents could deal with him.

She turned back to the man and rested her hands on his counter. “Actually no. I’m here for something a little different.” She lowered her voice, but kept it soft and inquisitive. “I have it on decent authority that you might be in possession of an artifact that The British Museum would be interested in. A scroll in particular. Norse.”

The man didn’t seem a threat. Quite the opposite really, but she decided to remain on-guard in any case. As someone who enjoyed the darker aspects of magic, she had come to have a healthy respect for anyone else who did the same. People were unpredictable; wizards even more so.

She watched his face carefully and she cocked her head just slightly at him. “Sound familiar at all?”

[Altair]

A lot of information could be conveyed through a gaze, through a tone of voice, the touch of a hand. And he stored it silently in his mind, her formal arrangement of words, her fingers on the counter, and painted a picture.

She reeked pureblood, and money, and officiality, and knew that he should have been able to place her. Not the least because he'd also had a career meddling with artefacts, even as he'd since found more interest in the hidden incantations of books.

(A memory brushed by, of a hopelessly lost teenager with an amulet around his neck, caught in the heat of death and re-birth, once in a 1972 that had happened and unhappened, before.)

People like her were the trickiest, because they tended not to be people of the either/or - official institutions, particularly when run by the old and powerful, could be Ministry and yet unorthodox, in the most unsettling of ways.

He noted the way her voice dropped and caught a slight discrepancy.

The British Museum, was it?

A hand slowly rose to his face to stroke a clean-shaven chin, his eyes holding hers for a long time as he considered his options.

Then cocked his head slightly, as to match hers.

"That's a little unspecific," he said.

Which was not rejection, as made clear from the cup of coffee that suddenly materialised right next to her hand. Old Norse was a broad field that covered artefacts from all the Scandinavian countries, well into the middle ages (and beyond, in places like Iceland).

Also, it was a topic which just happened to be of his particular interest.

[Julia Laurence]

Of course it was unspecific. Did he have many artifacts of the sort just laying around that he'd need to sort through? A small smirk rose in the corner of her mouth and she gave a little sigh. He was going to play hardball it seemed.

A cup of coffee appeared next to her hand and she looked at it briefly. Seemed they were going to be here for a moment. Perhaps the man was more interested in discussing this in depth before he decided if he was going to help her. Fair enough. She could play his game.

"Coffee?" she asked and she gave a nod of thanks. "Now you're speaking my language." Her voice was soft and sweet, as it always was when she was attempting to sway someone to her cause. "Specifically, a scroll that is supposedly written in the hand of Jafnhár Dahl." There would be no mistaking now what it was she was looking for, but if the man wanted to continue the back and forth, then she would. She could tell by the look on his face he was at least interested in what she was inquiring about.

"I'd be interested to know, if you do have it, how you came to acquire it in the first place and what you know about it?" She brought the cup of coffee into her hands and to her lips, taking a small sip, never taking her eyes from his.

[Altair]

He received a thanks, but he wasn't sure if he could feel it.

"No problem," he said, and raised his hand - in which there was also a cup - to his lips for a sip. He made a gesture with his hand motioning toward a pair of chairs to one of the sides, with a small, wooden coffee table inbetween them. Feeling no need to rush the conversation, he made himself comfortable, leaning back and placing one leg on top of the other.

"I'd be interested to know, if you do have it, how you came to acquire it in the first place and what you know about it?"

"I do not have it," he said. "But I might be able to aquire it."

The edges of his lips were slighly upturned.

There was something of an attitude, even audacity, to walking into Knockturn and demand from those there the entire history of an artefact's retrieval, not witheld the retriever's private thoughts on the object's matter. It spoke either of stupidity, or of true boldness.

Either way, she didn't seem much used to the ways of Knockturn.

"Well, I know Jafnhár is just one of several aliases attributed to the legends of Ragnar Lothbrok," he said. And when he did, his accent changed - the names were articulated in a way that indicated someone with practice in at least one of the Scandinavian languages.

"For what do you intend to use it?" he questioned back, holding on to an expression of genuine interest.

[Julia Laurence]

He beckoned her towards a chair to make herself comfortable, and she did. She was happy to spend as much time as the man wanted if it was the means to her end. She crossed her left leg over her right, and sat back in her chair, holding her cup carefully in her hands as she studied him.

"Well if you don't have it, but have the means to acquire it, that must mean you have it on good authority that it exists." She rose an eyebrow at him and a small smirk appeared at the corner of her own lips. One that would tell him that she would chase his slippery words with her own until she got what she wanted.

She noticed the change to his accent as he spoke the true name of her subject, and she nodded, slowly but expectantly. This was starting to look promising. "Yes, Ragnar. The King of the Northmen. Father of Many Sons. Descendent of Odin." Take his pick, truly.

"Only knowledge," Julia replied honestly, "I'm leading a team that's currently exploring the potential differences between myth and reality regarding his animagus status. It's my job as curator and researcher to either prove or disprove the legitimacy of these claims and how they potentially impacted the magical world as we know it." She paused to take a small sip of the coffee.

"As you may or may not know, the legend surrounding his ability to transmute himself into a raven has been one that the academic world has contested for centuries." If it could be proved that Ragnar Lothbrok had the ability to change himself into a raven, it would confirm him to be one of the earliest known recorded animagi. If not the earliest known.

"I want to analyze the scroll. Verify it's authenticity. And reveal it to the world." Was that too much to ask?

[Altair]

He had not been certain of her answer.

Not certain that there'd be one.

Now that there was, it pulled him in.

Leaning back, his gaze stayed with hers, and his tension disappeared. Although he did not necessarily agree with her, nor like the institution with which she found herself associated - The British Museum - the story was believable and her work interesting.

"Thank you," he said, and his words rang true.

Through his residence in Knockturn, Altair dealt with a lot of beings. A lot of whom held neither the morals nor knowledge that he found sufficient for dealing with some of the things that they requested.

What he liked best about living in a place like this was that he could turn people down simply for not liking them.

He could always lock his doors.

Now, this case came accross as plain innocent in comparison.

"History tends to be written by the winners, huh?" he commented, thinking that would be a particular challenge to verifying the work, especially considering that many historical texts seemed to exist for the sheer purpose of bragging.

Then --

"It would surprises me though - if he is the first - considering the vast mention of shapeshifters accross worldy myth and legend". In that sense it was typical for a European to focus hard on Scandinavia rather than, for instance, the African stories.

"Alas, evidence cannot be easy to get by."

[Julia Laurence]

His gratitude brought a smile to her lips as he accepted her answer without hesitation. It was, after all, the truth. Julia had never seen the point in lying to get what she wanted. In her experience, being direct and honest usually worked better—people were far more likely to give her what she sought when she was upfront from the start. Trust, she’d learned, was the foundation of any successful business relationship.

He held her gaze, but she noticed a new softness on his face, where before suspicion had been. Good, they were moving in the right direction then.

The beautiful thing about someone with ambition was that places like Knockturn Alley and the sort weren't an obstacle to be overcome. Rather, they and its occupants, were simply navigated. Whether it was through conventional or unconventional means all laid at the feet of the person being solicited. This man, while not as dodgy as some other characters she had come across in her line of work, was stoic and not easily ready to give up his secrets.

Julia wasn't discouraged. She had persuaded less persuasive men. This man however, who still hadn't offered her his name was slightly different. Inquisitive, naturally, for having owned a bookstore such as this. But he also didn't seem hardened or cold. He was rather warm actually, inviting. Someone who wanted nothing to do with her or her questions would have never offered her a chair, much less a cup of coffee. She thought to herself, after this meeting, maybe she'd return now and then. See if there were more to her new friend than what met the eye.

"History tends to be written by the winners, huh?"

Julia cocked her head slightly. An interesting answer to her explanation. "True," she offered slowly. It always was. The losers were always dead. And dead was a tough place to be when writing history. Her eyes narrowed in curiosity and she gave him an inquisitive smile. Where was he going with this?

"It would surprises me though - if he is the first - considering the vast mention of shapeshifters across worldly myth and legend."

"Hmm," she murmured thoughtfully, taking another sip of her coffee, but holding the man's gaze. "Quite true. Shapeshifters have been theorized throughout history. I suppose you have to take into account though whether those shapeshifters were actually people who lived or if they're just mythological beings." She thought for a beat. "Of course Ragnar Lothbrok's historical existence is difficult to decipher from his legend. And I suppose if he wrote the scroll in his own hand, he could say whatever he liked."

She tipped her cup to him, "Hence history being written by the victors." She tapped her foot idlly as she leaned forward towards him. "What sort of evidence would you be able to come by?"

If any. Perhaps he didn't want her to have the evidence. Perhaps he did and he just wanted to feel her out.

[Altair]

The air changed, and perhaps it was him that had changed it. For good or bad, Altair had tended to be a person of frank conversations and, the truth was, contrary to what some people thought, he was not all that good of a liar.

(Unless his life depended on it).

It was how he'd ended here, balancing on the edge of what other defined as good, and what they defined as bad.

"Of course Ragnar Lothbrok's historical existence is difficult to decipher from his legend. And I suppose if he wrote the scroll in his own hand, he could say whatever he liked. - What sort of evidence would you be able to come by?"

The corners of his lips tipped up.

"I thought that was your work," he said, not unkindly.

"Mine's just distributing the stories."

There was something darker there though, underlying the humour. Something concealed, more sticky, complicated.

Strangely, it lied at the core of his being, of his style of teaching, back when he'd been the professor - he could provide the means, make himself a channel, but he'd never plainly be the vessel for executing someone elses work. Not without harnessing something for his own.

"I tend to deal with the in-betweens, and the unknown," he explained. "I tend to not think that things can be so easily divided into black or white, good or bad, myth or legend. I think we might miss a great deal if we try doing so."

He saw categories as just concepts, a great deal of them leading back to wholly modern ways of dividing the world.

"On Lothbrok, I think that his legends pinning him to times spanning hundreds of years speaks in favour of him being a wizard. But the texts - at least those not in his hand - having been written hundreds of years after his death could be a problem. But you probably know more about this than me," he continued.

"On evidence - if there's something specific, for example the idea of an existing artefact, I can use my channels to try to find out if such a thing exists."

He took a small sip from his cup.

"-- but I do not deal in forgeries," he clarified, although he did not think this was what she had implied.

[Julia Laurence]

The idea of what and who was 'good' and 'bad' was funny, wasn't it? Categorizing flawed, complicated human beings into one extreme or the other was as pointless as wondering why water was wet. It served no one, especially not Julia. Placing people, spells, potions, or even actions into such stiff, strict boxes left no room for compromise.

Julia preferred to work in the gray and embrace whatever came with that. Whether that was in her personal life, or work life. Everything, every interaction was subject to her own interpretation, and she rarely wrote anything or anyone off if it could serve a purpose or open up a wider scope of understanding.

"I thought that was your work,"

She returned his wry smile with her own. "Indeed," she agreed, drumming her fingers patiently on the arm of her chair and she thought carefully as he continued. It seemed they thought similarly, her new friend also not willing to dismiss things so easily into 'black or white'.

She leaned casually in her chair, studying the man for a moment, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully and still warm. "But wouldn't you agree that if we're not categorizing aspects of an individual or event into boxes such as myth and reality, we're really resolving little, leaving these stories subjective to further interpretation?" Deciphering evidence and fact from fiction was the one exception to Julia's rule of 'living within the gray'. These were important distinctions in her mind, especially if she was attempting to prove something one way or another.

How she obtained those facts mattered little in the grand scheme of things. "Of course there's probably some fabrication mixed in with the truth. It's a matter of sorting them and reconciling them to the pieces we already know to be factual."

He was an interesting sort. He seemed more inclined to challenge her thoughts and ideas rather than offering help straight away, and Julia found this rather refreshing. It wasn't often she came across someone as cerebral as she preferred to be. Most people, she found, were much easier led by the nose with blatant flirtations and charm. This man seemed to have every intention of leading her, wherever that was, to find the answer he intended for her.

"I'd be rather disappointed if you offered forgeries," Julia grinned earnestly. She too had no interest in them. In fact, his statement caused a rush of adrenaline to surge through her. This meant whatever he could find, would be the real deal. She'd still have to verify it and run it through her research team. But this was an exciting prospect.

"And what could I offer you then?" she asked politely, knowing that every favor required payment. Julia always paid what she owed, one way or another. "If you were to use your channels to find out about this for me, surely there's something you'd want in return?"

[Altair]

It was hard to judge a character, and she was an example of it, for there had been a change, indeed. She'd arrived with an air of demand, of a certain efficiency, but time had slowed down.

Sometimes those that came on the strongest turned out to have the most to hide. That it was a mask they pulled over their faces to deflect attention from something else.

Other times, those that seemed meek, hesitant, had the hardest of heads, observing the situation and walking in with expert, calculated confidence.

Usually though, humans were just messy heaps of contradiction.

"But wouldn't you agree that if we're not categorizing aspects of an individual or event into boxes such as myth and reality, we're really resolving little, leaving these stories subjective to further interpretation?"

An individual or event, he thought, and took a slow breath, trying to arrive at an angle at which to attack this. Myth and reality.

He understood from where she was coming - he'd been there once, he supposed. But there was something to be said about them possibly having radically different worldviews.

He wanted to use examples, but the two things that he was pretty sure that he had deciphered was that she was (1) pureblood and, (2) high class. So who was he to pull in his examples of politics and injustice - from her perspective he might very well come accross as both blood traitor (his true love had been muggleborn, after all) and middle class (which was, perhaps, less visible now that he'd built his little empire).

But, perhaps --

He shifted, moving forward in his seat.

"Say my student writes a review of my performance as a professor. What they write, is that myth or reality? True or untrue?"

"And what could I offer you then?"

"Just gold," he said, non-chalantly, shrugging. Even though he didn't always bother putting this much effort into the conversations, this was what he did professionally, after all.

[Julia Laurence]

There was a saying about assumptions. There was also a saying about judging a book by its cover. Everyone had one; to assume they didn't was foolish. Masks were what humans, over time had evolved into wearing as a survival tactic. There was the person they presented in public, in polite company, in professional settings. And then there was the real person they were, behind closed doors.

Julia and the Muspell owner were alone. Was this behind closed doors, or was this still considered a professional setting? Was the man showing his true self? Was Julia?

The funny thing about first impressions is that they were rarely accurate and seldom showed the real picture of who someone was, what their priorities were, and where their morals lay. Perhaps, with time, if the man was interested in furthering their conversations, he'd learn more about who Julia was at her core. And the sort of people she had loved in the past, compared to who she loved now.

"Say my student writes a review of my performance as a professor. What they write, is that myth or reality? True or untrue?"

"Perception is reality," Julia said simply and she gave a little shrug. "My father had a saying. 'Every head is a different world'. You and I could be sitting in on the same lecture and walk away with entirely different viewpoints. It doesn't make either of us wrong or right. It's just subjective." She could see what he was getting at, and it was an interesting point. But without a time-turner...ugh.

Julia found herself cornered. Which rarely happened, but she wasn't frustrated or angry. In fact, she rather liked that someone had met - and surpassed - her at her own little game.

"Gold's not a problem," Julia said quietly, as she figured he had already realized, "Name your price." Within reason of course. She was happy to subsidy The British Museum's budget with whatever he required, understanding that what he could present her would be worth the gold and the time and effort she'd spent here.

"You have an educator's mind," Julia quipped, finding herself curious about the man. "I feel like I should know who you are already." She smiled at him, interested to see if he'd finally introduce himself.

[Altair]

Softer, softer.

The surface had thawed, but it was mutual. The words were starting to flow more freely, and the conversation was no longer one with a customer.

"It's not a bad saying," he commented, though with her explanation, he found that he understood it differently.

"I like to use the term perspective rather than subjective and objective," he said. The underlying reason was that it did not hold the same value judgement. "I also do not like to use the term myth about things that are untrue. I've learnt, over time, that sometimes the myths of others appear more true than the things that I call real."

Sometimes, calling the knowledge of others unreal was causing direct damage to understanding the complex workings of the world.

Besides, finding the truth didn't necessarily mean there was an answer.

(On the topic of the British Museum - which was known for hoarding the artefacts of others for what often seemed pure entertainment.)

"But what I like and do not like to do isn't the truth either, it's just me," he said, similing in a strangely introverted way - as though at some stray thought that had suddenly appeared.

"You have an educator's mind. I feel like I should know who you are already."

What happened then was realisation. Realisation about how easy it was for him to slip into a role. Part of it had to do with having taught for years. Another part simply had to do with age. Combined, those made a powerful force. And, her closing inquiry hit him with a certain irony - when slipping into those roles, he could, at times, forget who he was.

"I usually just go by Altair," he said. Leaning forward, he offered his hand for a shake.

Then --

"Actually -," he said, for it pricked within him, and some feelings you'd just have to trust. "I'd be happy to do a discount if you would share your research with me, perhaps help interpret some of the stuff I've got lying around."

His knowledge was from other areas than hers, and he found that joined perspectives were the most useful of all.