Tisane Ⅱ

A quarter until four o'clock the flames turn emerald in the manor hearth. The Crowley couple emerge both dressed in dark colors. Mrs. Crowley's unpleasant face scrunches in dislike cleaning the ash from her person. She would rather be anywhere else but here.

Mr. Crowley tosses the invitation permitting them to enter Prince Manor via floo into the flames behind him. He courteously extends his arm for his wife to take while examining the hall with disinterest. His thick eyebrows arch in distaste at the simplicity of the hall.

Mrs. Crowley is the first to spot the approaching house elf wearing a clean dress and apron. Her lips curled into a sneer at seeing a house elf so spoiled. "Elf, come serve us!" She ordered.

Dawn's droopy ears move slightly as if irked. With a polite smile on Dawn's face, she politely curtsies. "Mr. and Mrs. Crowley, please follow me this way."

"Did you not hear what I said elf!" Mrs. Crowley's nostrils flared wildly at being ignored.

Dawn does not answer as these are not her master nor his family. She ignores the couple and opens the door to the side parlor. She pretends to step inside and easily vanishes before the arrogant witch can harm her.

Mrs. Crowley is practically frothing at the mouth of being ignored by a mere house elf. She storms into the parlor ready to give that miserable wretch a well-earned beating. Her hand is raised in the air but fails to strike anything.

Sitting down staring down at the nose of Mrs. Crowley is a tall, slender witch with raven-like hair, Georgine Prince. Georgine Prince sets down her golden-rimmed teacup. "How utterly mannerless, Mrs. Crowley. One does not simply barge in," she paused to direct her gaze at the portly, bald-haired Mr. Crowley standing behind his wife.

"Take your wife by the reins, Mr. Crowley," Georgine crisply said.

"Let's sit down, dear," Mr. Crowley hastily whispered grabbing his wife and sitting her down in the next open seat.

Mrs. Crowley's face is lobster red in utter humiliation. Her chest eaves in anger and mortification at being chastised in such a manner. Her piggy eyes scramble before landing upon her daughter, who sits next to a short, tanned boy with mousy brown hair and freckles.

"Aha!" Mrs. Crowley crowed triumphantly. "So, this is where you have been hiding you vile ingrate!"

"You are coming home this instant," Mrs. Crowley loomed over her daughter, but she is forcefully pushed back down into her seat.

Mrs. Crowley glances up in shock only to find a tall, slender girl with raven-colored hair and midnight indigo-colored eyes firmly restraining her in her seat.

"Have a seat, Madam," Rowan firmly pressed the older woman back into her chair.

"Why this ignorant chit!" Mrs. Crowley cursed only to be suddenly backhanded by her husband.

Mrs. Crowley's pig-like eyes widen in disbelief and shock. In all their years of marriage, her husband had never struck her! He had always highly respected her opinion and now he chose to embarrass her in public for some unknown chit!

"Hold your tongue!" Mr. Crowley hissed in warning, before bowing apologetically to them. "I apologize for the unwarranted actions of my wife. Please do not take them to heart."

"Yes, well, I will not take any chances," Georgine Prince responded. With a simple wave of her wand, she cast a silencing and partial binding spell upon Mrs. Crowley. "Now be a dear and sit back down Rowan."

Rowan releases Mrs. Crowley whose face is turning purple with rage. The witch's wide girth trembles violently like jello. Her pudgy fingers dig into her skirt trying to tear through the cloth. Yet despite her fury, she is unable to make a further scene.

Beads of sweat form on Mr. Crowley's mostly bald head. He pulls out a silk handkerchief to dry his head. He glances at his daughter, who does not look at him but rather at the younger girl who just sat down next to his daughter and her unknown companion.

"I thank the Prince household for the gracious invitation," Mr. Crowley politely said. "May I have the honor of knowing the reason for the invitation this afternoon?"

Georgine idly traces the golden rim of her teacup for a moment, before raising her dark eyes to meet the anxious eyes of Mr. Crowley. "My great-niece," she gestured at Rowan, "is especially fond of Mr. Pettigrew and by default your daughter."

"Quyen?" Mr. Crowley trembled in shock as he put two in and two together. He dreadfully blanches at recognizing the identity of the girl before him as Rowan Prince, the granddaughter of Reginald Prince.

Mr. Crowley hastily dabs at his glistening forehead again. "And if I may ask, why is that?"

Georgine takes a sip of her teacup ignoring the question. Sensing that Georgine Prince has no intention of answering, Mr. Crowley glances at his daughter.

Quyen raises her gaze to meet her father's. She reaches over and grabs the hand of Peter for comfort. "I wish to marry, Peter Pettigrew, father. He is the father of my child," she confessed without a single quiver in her voice.

Mrs. Crowley violently trembles but she cannot move nor speak. She can only claw at her skirt in rage with her nails. All the while swearing vilely at her daughter and the Prince's!

Mr. Crowley appears to be visibly shocked leaning back against his seat for strength. "You are expectant," he repeated.

"Yes, father," Quyen clasped Peter's hand that much tighter.

Mr. Crowley's words fail as he glances at Georgine Prince as if seeking further direction.

Georgine deems to finally bestow an answer to the speechless wizard. "Peter Pettigrew is the son of Maribel Rowle," Georgine explained. "Both Maribel Rowle and Peter Pettigrew are recognized as Rowle's. And thereby are considered legitimate descendants of one of the 28 sacred families."

"A half-blood," Mr. Crowley squawked ignoring the trembling of his wife, who looks as though she is about to have an aneurysm from her rage.

Ignoring the remark, Georgine continues, "Considering the accelerated nature of the relationship, young Pettigrew is willing for the child born from this union to take the Crowley or Rowle surname instead of Pettigrew."

Georgine paused to glance at Rowan, who begins to speak. "Mr. Crowley, I am Rowan Prince. I have a deep friendship with Peter and as such I have accepted the role of godmother. I trust there will be no impediments." Her last words rang as a threat.

Mr. Crowley is many things, but he is not stupid. He is overly lenient with his wife, but he was somewhat fond of his daughter. And most importantly, he knew a good deal when he saw one.

"However, there are several conditions that must be met," Mr. Crowley relented without too much protest. Firstly, the two of you must be immediately bound at the Ministry of Magic, I am certain that Georgine Prince will be a witness with myself as the other."

Georgine had been prepared to do so and as such merely nodded her head in acceptance of the request.

"Secondly, the child must be born a Rowle," Mr. Crowley pompously said making a dismissive gesture. "A distant cousin will inherit the Crowley namesake, there is no need for a female child to retain our good name."

Rowan's face must have twitched because Mr. Crowley hurriedly continued, "Naturally, the dowry will be immediately handed over to Quyen's husband. We shall stop by directly afterward at Gringotts." He paused to gaze at the two of them. "However, your abrupt union is a disgrace to our family, Quyen. I will disown you in all but name."

"Furthermore, Hogwarts does not permit pregnant students to attend," Mr. Crowley pointed out. "Quyen will naturally be unable to attend, but you, Mr. Pettigrew may continue to attend without any repercussions."

Peter's hand tightens painfully around Quyen's. He would have to abandon his friends or his love. It would be wholly his choice.

Peter looks at Quyen, who knows how much Hogwarts meant to Peter. It wasn't just his friends, but his love for quidditch. And now, Peter would have to give up everything for her.

A flash of bitterness flashed across both their faces, but a determined expression appeared on Peter's face. He knew what he had to do. "I-, no, we will leave Hogwarts," he bittersweetly replied.

There is some admiration on Rowan's face. She was not surprised by Peter's decision, but infinitely more respected him for it. It was not an easy choice to make for a teenage boy, who had suddenly been thrust into the world of adults.

"Then there is no reason to further wait," Georgine said rising to her feet while carrying a cup full of lukewarm tea. Before anyone can react, she had poured the entire contents of the teacup onto Mrs. Crowley.

Rowan's eyes widen, while Quyen openly gasped and Peter's eyes bulged in shock.

Mrs. Crowley is equally as shocked as Georgine forcefully tilts Mrs. Crowley's round face upward. "It would seem you needed your head cooled, no need to thank me." She gripped Mrs. Crowley's tighter in a warning. "You would do well to remember whose household this is."

For the first time, genuine fear begins to show in Mrs. Crowley's piggy eyes. "My brother is not as tolerant as I am," Georgine icily reminded, "He would take your tongue for daring to insult his granddaughter."

The blood drain from Mrs. Crowley's face. There were countless rumors about the old Prince. Yet none could deny the deadly prowess of Reginald Prince.

Seeing that her words have gotten through Mrs. Crowley's thick skull, Georgine releases Mrs. Crowley. With aversion, Georgine wipes her hand clean on a silk handkerchief as though she had touched something dirty. The dirtied handkerchief is pointedly trampled under Georgine's feet

Drenched Mrs. Crowley is released from the spells and almost slides out of her chair. She opens and closes her mouth, before wisely keeping her mouth shut. She did not know what she had been thinking! This was the home of bloodthirsty assassins!

Stumbling to her feet, Mrs. Crowley reaches for Mr. Crowley, who heroically catches his wife. He staggers under her weight, but he manages to hold up his wife. He quickly whispers for her to retire home, while he deals with the unprecedented situation.

For once Mrs. Crowley does not protest and even begins to view her husband in a new light. With a mumbled goodbye, she flees without so much as a glance at her daughter. Good riddance, she said! And with that last thought, Mrs. Crowley floo'd home.