Martial Alliance Ⅲ

Tadbey knocks on exquisite wooden doors and in a loud voice says, "Pardon for the intrusion, Master, but Mr. Potter has ungraciously without invitation nor warning invited himself at this ungodly hour to Prince Manor demanding to speak with the Master."

Fleamont almost chokes at the house elf words while Tadbey darkly smirks at the elderly wizard. A tinge of approval can be heard in the depths of Reginald's reply, "Thank you, Tadbey. Do come in, Fleamont, it isn't though as I was previously occupied."

With a loud pop, Tadbey vanishes as if saying, "Good riddance," leaving Fleamont alone in the hallway.

With some measure of trepidation, Fleamont pushes the door to the study opens revealing the interior of the study. A slender wizard with stern features and cold eyes pensively gazes at Fleamont from his seat behind the cherry wood desk. "Have a seat, Potter," Reginald gestured with his long fingers to the empty chair before his desk.

Closing the door behind him, Fleamont cautiously observes his surroundings. An enchanted bookcase brim with ancient magic including the scent of dark, powerful magical tomes. There are neatly empty worktables that suggest that an assortment of experiments had taken place there. The large fireplace burns quietly casting shadows across the room.

Reginald Prince's desk is rather neat except for several letters that are turned over having been recently read. A drying quill suggests that he interrupted Prince amid a reply. The Prince wax seal lays neatly on the desk, a wyvern curled around a pointed dagger.

"Your eyes are red, Fleamont," Reginald mused out loud. "Who? No." He paused and carefully observed the pallor of the older wizard's face. "Your wife," he solemnly concluded.

Fleamont stifles the threatening sob that rises from his chest and instead coughs. "Euphemia," he hoarsely said, "is gone."

A trace of rare empathy and understanding flashes across Reginald's face. "You have my sincerest condolences for your loss, Fleamont," he truthfully murmured in genuine understanding. Despite all this time, the sting and loss of his beloved wife still hurt even to this day.

"Thank you," Fleamont choked unable to be angry at the sincere comment. If anyone understood his grief, it was Reginald, whose own wife, Sirsa, had been just as abruptly stolen away.

"Well, I do say, this calls for a drink," Reginald murmured and reached into a hidden drawer before pulling an over one-hundred-year-old bottle of Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey, and to glasses. He pours the two of them drinks, before sliding the second glass towards Fleamont.

"To Life," Reginald drily said lifting his glass in irony.

"Too bloody life," Fleamont swore and lifted his own glass, before downing the entire drink in one single gulp.

Reginald does not remark on Fleamont's coarse words and instead merely pours the grieving wizard another glass of firewhiskey. Sipping at his drink, Reginald settles down back into his seat. "What transpired if I may ask?"

Fleamont winces and struggles to keep his voice even. He mostly succeeds, "Euphie-, Euphemia had been feeling ill all week, but she felt better during the evening, so she thought to visit Mould-on-the-Would."

Reginald nods his head in understanding as the village had been unexpectedly attacked by the giants in the second wave of attacks. The two sipped at their drinks in silence until the silence is broken. "I must admit, Fleamont, that I find myself curious. We are certainly not friends and yet you have come here before me to grieve."

The sound of Reginald setting down his glass of firewhiskey echoes in the study. "And whether you wish to acknowledge it or not, Fleamont, the Potter lineage is very much a pureblood lineage. Nor am I foolish enough to never believe that the son of Henry Potter would not be capable of subtly nor clever manipulations considering that we have no lasting friendship but are instead mere associates tied together for the continued betterment of our families."

Fleamont gulps down the remnants of his second glass of firewhiskey, before tactfully deciding to postpone the third glass for the time being. He takes a deep breath before straightening his back and resembling the younger and much more fierce young man he once was. Directly staring Reginald in the eye, he meekly bows his head causing Reginald's eyes to widen in shock.

"In ages past, an outstanding debt was forged and remains unsettled to this day. On this diurnal, the Head of the Potter family, Fleamont Potter repays the marriage owed to the Prince lineage with his blood and ties his only begotten son, James Potter to the vestal granddaughter of the Prince household, Rowan Prince," Fleamont pulls a blade from his hand and slits his hand in the ways of old. The blood drips to the ground but evaporates before reaching the rich carpeted floor.

"Under these duress times, the Potter household aligns with the Prince household to forge an unbreakable marital alliance between the two houses. Blood for blood by the ways of the magic of old, so mote be." A feeling of power emerges from Fleamont like a string and seemingly seems to tie to Reginald Prince, before fading away.

Reginald's face grows cold and thoughtful at Fleamont's actions. "Do you understand that there is no turning back, Fleamont. You have inadvertently tied your only son to my granddaughter in payment but in nearly an unbreakable marital alliance. Such an oath is nearly impossible to break except by the power of true love and should either one of them fail to do so, they will be forcibly compelled by the oath to fulfill their oath and wed."

"However, I must admit I am both genuinely surprised and astonished, Fleamont, I did not believe you be capable of such decisiveness even towards your own blood," Reginald murmured with a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Now let us speak plainly, Fleamont, what are your terms?"

"I am the last of my line," Fleamont confessed as he tiredly sat down and healed the wound on his hand with a wave of his wand. "Euphemia had no other kin either the last," his voice broke, "-and our son, James has no other kin to speak of." Raising his eyes firmly, he loudly says, "I will not leave our son an orphan and bereft of a guardian."

Pouring himself a glass of more firewhiskey, Fleamont continues, "I have never liked you, Reginald, but I have always admired your decisiveness. When I saw your wiliness to bow your head for your grandchildren, I understand that I could not do any less to protect my only child. And who better than the Prince's to protect and guard my son until he is fully grown."

Reginald loudly claps in genuine endorsement, before accepting the poured glass from Fleamont. "You understand that neither Rowan nor James will easily accept the martial alliance."

"I am vastly aware of my son's temperament," Fleamont drily muttered, before gulping loudly more whiskey. "We spoiled him far too much when he was young and James' got a right temper." He curiously pauses and glances at Reginald. "And what about your granddaughter?"

Reginald snorts and takes a large sip of whiskey, before replying, "Rowan will claim to accept the martial alliance while being devious enough to do everything in her power to sabotage the betrothal."

"Good luck with that," Fleamont mumbled feeling a bit tipsy at this point.

Seeing the somewhat drunken state of the older wizard, Reginald says, "I believe that is enough liquor, for now, Fleamont." He firmly removed the whiskey from the older wizard's grasp. "We shall discuss the finer marriage contract details later including a formal announcement of a martial alliance in the Daily Prophet. This should qualm the purebloods with the forging of a war betrothal with the passing of the old year to usher in a New Year."

Fleamont drunkenly sneers, "Inbred snobs the whole lot of them."

"As true as that may be, you are rather inbred yourself, Fleamont," Reginald pointedly arched a brow at the older wizard, who hiccupped quite loudly in reply.

Seeing that the older wizard is in no further state to talk, Reginald rises from his seat and aides the older out of his chair and out down the hall towards one of the guest rooms to sleep the drink off and become sober. There would be plenty of time to discuss the betrothal for now was the time to rest and properly mourn the dead.