#but yeah lane is partially based of my favorite aunt who is a genealogist so it was fun to channel that side of lane's personality <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[carewyncromwell]

"I would heal what's broken -- Show this family something new! Who I am inside, so what can I do? I'm sick of waiting on a miracle, so here I go...!"

~"Waiting on a Miracle (cover) by Scott Shattuck

x~x~x~x

featuring Asa Butterfield as Tristan Cromwell and Dierdre Hall as Lane Cromwell (also Errol Flynn, Judy Garland, Colin Firth, Ioan Gruffudd and Jeremy Irons as Angus, Isabelle, Henry, Francis, and Charles Cromwell) // see the full Cromwell family tree here! // listen to Tristan's playlist!

x~x~x~x

The Cromwell Clan had lived in Scotland for many generations. It's unknown exactly when the very first magical Cromwells arrived in the Isles, though the first notable Cromwell on record was Pendragon Cromwell, back in the 14th century. Among his descendants, Pendragon was renowned for his talent in both Occlumency and Legilimency, as well as for being the first member to possess the distinctive "Cromwell blue eyes" that his family became associated with, despite many of them not inheriting them. To most everyone else, he was best known for wholeheartedly defending Nicholas Malfoy before the Wizard Council, after the man was accused of killing his Muggle tenants and blaming it on the Black Death. And this sort of dramatic split between public perception and familial perception of the Cromwell legacy is typical for many of its prominent members throughout history.

One of the most dramatic splits, of course, was the legacy of Charles Cromwell -- once leader of the magical terrorist organization R, which had terrorized the students of Hogwarts and certain family members in particular in the pursuit of the treasure inside the infamous Cursed Vaults. Charles Cromwell ended up dying in Azkaban only a few short years after entering it: a fate that his son and replacement, Blaise Cromwell, was quick to lament, but just about no one outside of the Clan did. In fact, for his estranged daughter Lane and her children Jacob and Carewyn Cromwell, it was a relief -- Jacob even expressed cold satisfaction upon learning that (in his words) "that old minger is three-feet under, getting eaten up by microbes and fungi, as is proper." After Charles's death, Blaise as Head of the Clan tried multiple times to heal the divide between the Clan and Lane's side of the family, to no avail, in large part because of his refusal to acknowledge the truth of Charles's cruelty.

One can therefore imagine that when Blaise's only son and heir, Tristan, reached out to his cousin Carewyn at work one day in the spring of 2008, it was a bit of a surprise. The request he made was even more of one.

"I need a historian -- a well-regarded one," said Tristan. "And from what I understand, Aunt Lane is one of those. I require her contact information, immediately."

He held out a hand expectantly. Cocking her eyebrows, Carewyn sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Tristan," she said seriously, "Mum has made it very clear that she wants no contact with the Clan. If I give you her address, then I know full well that it could end up in Blaise's hands -- "

"I don't intend to give anything to Father!" said Tristan impatiently. "I wish to go there to speak with Aunt Lane, at once -- as soon as work is over, time permitting..."

"What?! No!" Carewyn's almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed. "You most certainly will not."

Tristan looked incredibly offended. "Excuse me? She's my aunt! She's my family too -- I'm more than within my rights to see her -- "

"My mother is not the sort to take visitors at home, in large part because of the suffering she underwent at the hands of our family, which Blaise still fails to acknowledge," Carewyn shot back. "If you or any member of the Clan wishes to make contact with my mother, then you will speak through me."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do!" Tristan barked. "I'm to be Head of the Clan, and I require an audience with your mother -- you cannot deny me -- "

"Watch me," Carewyn hissed dangerously.

She got to her feet, her hands both spread defensively across her desk. Her height was not at all intimidating in comparison to Tristan's -- he was such a bony, lanky sort that he towered over her, as well as the remainder of the Cromwell Clan, even at just 23 years old. Even so, Tristan seemed to recoil ever-so-slightly, knowing at once that he'd overstepped. His lips coming together, he bit the inside of his cheek and recollected himself. He sighed very loudly. Then at long last, he finally spoke again, much more quietly.

"...Father's not doing well."

Carewyn's brows furrowed.

"He tries to act like everything's fine -- can't let anyone see him as vulnerable, you know...but the Healers told him he has several polyps growing near his colon. They were caught early and the Healers plan to remove them this weekend..." Tristan swallowed. "...but I know there's a 'but' there that Father didn't tell me. I've studied the colon in about a dozen creatures, humans included -- colorectal polyps like that aren't just one and done. More than half of them can grow back in the span of three years...especially if you're the sort of person, like my father, to drink brandy at supper on the regular."

Carewyn considered this.

"...Then you think Blaise...?"

"Runs the risk of contracting colon cancer for the foreseeable future," Tristan said quietly. His blue eyes were downcast as he turned away.

Carewyn's expression lost some of its edge. However much she would never forgive Blaise for all the suffering he'd thrown at her and Jacob over the years and his consistent defense of Charles, she knew Tristan loved his father like no one else in the world.

"Tristan, I'm sorry," she murmured.

Tristan folded his arms behind his back, straightening his posture again as he looked at her out the side of his eye.

"I want Father to step down from his place as Head of our family early," he explained. "He needs to take care of his health, and he can't do that if he's still representing and looking after us in all matters. And I don't know how I'll succeed -- hell, if I could ever succeed in this -- if I have to take over completely on my own, after Father's dead, without him there to help me when things get tough."

Part of Carewyn wanted to reassure Tristan that he would be able to rise to the challenge if he had to. At the same time, though, she also had to admit, it was good that he was thinking ahead and planning for the future, not just waiting for things to happen. It was a rather mature and responsible thought process for someone who often came across as an insensitive, entitled brat.

"But if I'm going to convince Father I'm ready to take over," said Tristan, "I must have a vision for our family going forward. To do that, I need Aunt Lane's insight, as a historian and as one of our Clan's former members."

He reached into his high-necked Gothic Victorian dress robes and took out a healthy-sized red velvet coin purse.

"You may tell your mother that I will pay her upfront for her services, and that I shall treat her like any paying client. All I need is a consultation on our family history, with as much detail as possible. I've done all the research I can internally -- but I need a complete picture from the outside as well, if I'm going to conjure any sort of unifying vision for all of us going forward."

Carewyn considered Tristan carefully. She could see a memory of his long-fingered white hand trailing over an old tapestry of a family tree pass over the back of his eyes.

"You really want an outside perspective?" she asked skeptically. "I doubt Blaise or Pearl would much approve of that."

Especially if it involves anything outside of Charles's pureblood supremacist ideology.

Tristan scoffed. "Well, I kind of need to know what the stupid people say, if I have any chance of mending our family's reputation in the Wizarding World."

His own almond-shaped blue eyes then grew a bit sharper and more serious again.

"...Besides...if I'm going to do what Father hasn't been able to do and mend the rift between my side of the family and yours, I need to know what you lot think as well as what we think."

Carewyn slowly settled herself back into her chair, her lips pursed.

"What we think comes from lived experience and historical proof, not family dogma repeated ad nauseum."

Tristan scowled. After a moment, Carewyn gave a heavy sigh.

"I shall forward your request tonight," she said quietly.

Tristan's pale face lit up with both boyish glee and faint arrogance -- it was this that made Carewyn add sharply.

"I will not convince her in any way to agree, Tristan -- if Mum doesn't want to accept your money, you will have to go find another historian, and that's that."

Tristan didn't looked dampened by this at all. Instead he only seemed to smirk more happily than ever as he shrugged.

"Fine by me."

He turned with a movement that made his dress ropes sweep like a cape. He only paused briefly in the door frame so he could look back over his shoulder.

"Winnie -- "

"That's not my name," Carewyn reminded him curtly.

" -- thanks," Tristan finished without shame, smirking more broadly than ever. Then he cheekily jaunted out the door.

x~x~x~x

Lane took her time considering Tristan's offer when Carewyn contacted her via Floo about it. She took so long, in fact, that she ended up asking Carewyn to come over and sit with her over a cup of tea that evening so she could talk the matter out with her daughter. After an in-depth 2-hour discussion, Lane finally decided to accept Tristan's request.

And so the following day, Carewyn followed up with Tristan at his new corner cubicle at the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau on Level 4 of the Ministry. She found him hunched over his desk, his black bottle-neck table lamp casting dark shadows over his scrunched, pale face as he laboriously drew muscles and bones in white and red pencil over what looked like a beautifully detailed anatomical sketch of a dragon and muttered irritably under his breath.

"That complete ninny Farid -- giving me all this extra work to do hypothesizing the damn thing's wing structure, just because he's too bloody gutless to do some proper dissections..."

"Perhaps your friend thought that ripping a Welsh Green open just to get an inside look at its wing would rightly be considered 'overkill.'"

Tristan looked up to see his red-haired cousin standing beside his cubicle, her arms crossed. His pale, pointed face twisted into a smug smirk as he slouched back in his chair.

"Sikander is not my friend," he said arrogantly. "And I never said kill the specimen -- I'm sure there are plenty of dragon carcasses lying around any stomping ground people aren't determined to mess with. Female dragons kill their mates all the time, after laying their eggs...plenty of dragons get their wings ripped off too, in fights..."

"Charming," said Carewyn drolly.

Rather than pursue this line of discussion further, she leaned her arm on his cubicle to speak to him a little more quietly.

"Mum has agreed to meet with you."

Tristan's smugness faded, to be replaced with complete shock and (despite himself) relief.

"Really?"

"Yes," said Carewyn. "Meet me in the Atrium at 5 o'clock, and I'll Side-Along-Apparate you there."

Tristan blinked. "You're coming along?"

"Only to drop you off inside Mum's house," Carewyn said as she turned to go. "She doesn't want you knowing her address."

"Because she thinks I'll tell Father?" Carewyn could practically hear the resentful, sulky posture in Tristan's voice. "Honestly -- I already told you, I'm not telling him anything! Or do you think I'm lying? You know you can sense my thoughts, right?"

"I do," said Carewyn, "and yes, I know you're not lying. But Mum has become a recluse for a reason: she doesn't want anyone knowing her address, except for Judy, Jacob, and me. You should be glad Mum's all right with you visiting her home in the first place."

She smiled a bit wryly over her shoulder before walking off.

"Piece of advice: shut up and let her talk, and you might actually learn something. It's something your father has never learned how to do."

x~x~x~x

After work, Tristan met Carewyn in the Atrium, whereupon she Side-Along-Apparated him to Lane Cromwell's new, secluded cottage in Tintagel, Cornwall.

Tintagel was a quaint locale near the far western shore of southern Britain, best known for its castle being identified by Geoffrey of Monmouth as the residence of the legendary King Arthur. Although the village itself was prone to the predictable amounts of tourism, Lane herself had chosen a small cottage in the outskirts of town, hidden from view both by the bounding hills and some strategically placed enchantments, for optimal privacy.

It was certainly the smallest home Tristan had ever visited. He felt like the whole place probably could've fit inside the grand dining hall at Cromwell Manor with no difficulty. He was also startled by the strange smells that greeted his nose when he and Carewyn arrived.

"Mum, we're here," called Carewyn.

Tristan heard the quietest shred of a voice answer from the kitchen, but couldn't make out what it said. Carewyn, however, seemed to have no trouble making it out, for she turned to Tristan with her hands on her hips.

"All right, then, I'm off -- Orion's expecting me at home," she said in a business-like voice. "Behave yourself, Tristan."

Tristan scowled. "Don't treat me like a child -- I'm to be Head of all the Cromwells, soon enough..."

"Not of me, nor of Mum," Carewyn reminded him. Nonetheless she gave him a muted pat to his back. "Remember what I said before -- listen to her."

As she turned to go, she called over her shoulder.

"I'm going now, Mum! Love you!"

Once again, there was the very slightest quiet call back that Tristan could only partially make out as including "love you too," before Carewyn disappeared with a crack.

Tristan looked around the small cottage, his blue eyes narrowed.

What an absolute hovel, he couldn't help but think.

It was clean, he supposed, and it wasn't cluttered, but everything just looked so...worn. Not even old and historical, like the kind of grand tables and armchairs back at the Cromwell Manor -- just tired, used, and lived-in. The furniture was very slightly outdated, the couches had minor stains and were frayed at the corners, and there were claw marks and fur on just about everything. Every window was wide open and framed with white plastic blinds and wooden shutters instead of curtains, and rather than portraits, there were countless personal photographs on the walls that -- rather bizarrely -- didn't move.

It was weird how a space could be so quiet while still so full of sounds: muted steps on tiles, birds singing outside the window, wind rustling a wind chime, a muffled radio broadcast...nothing so unpolished and quaint ever echoed through the grand, endless halls of the Cromwell Manor.

"Mrrow."

Tristan looked down to see a skinny ginger tabby cat walking around near his legs, blinking up at him with bright orange eyes. The Cromwell heir stared blankly down at him.

"What do you want?"

The cat rubbed up against his legs, leaving fur all over Tristan's black trousers. Tristan couldn't help but smirk.

"Spreading pheromones, then?" he asked. "Reckon I'm in your space, so you've got to make sure you're asserting your dominance."

The ginger cat purred.

Tristan hesitated, glancing around furtively. Then, bending down, he actually reached out and tentatively ran his hand over the cat's head.

As much as Tristan had always enjoyed studying animal anatomy, he wasn't used to having any animals around, especially furry ones. The closest thing to a pet that Tristan had growing up was a fake dog skeleton that he'd dressed in a collar and an ugly Christmas sweater and called "Funny Bone."

"His name is Tigger."

Tristan only just barely made out the soft voice of Lane Cromwell that time, and it turned out to be because she'd silently ended up right behind him. He jumped back up to his feet, straightening up at once, as his still-blond, way-too-Muggle-dressed 63-year-old aunt put down a tea tray on the side table by the window.

Tristan cleared his throat, putting on his most detached affect.

"...Don't you mean 'Tiger?'"

"No -- he's named after a stuffed tiger from a Muggle children's book," Lane said amusedly.

Tristan's nose wrinkled at the word "Muggle." Although he'd been forced to work with people from less magical backgrounds through the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, he'd still, true to all members of the Cromwell Clan, retained a distinct wariness of Muggles.

Tigger almost immediately wound around Lane's legs, and she stroked his back several times in return before she settled down in one of the armchairs (the one closest to the window) and indicated the other.

"Now then," she said, her voice as quiet as ever. "My Winnie told me that you had some questions about our family."

"Winnie" was Lane's nickname exclusively for Carewyn, same as "Blue Jay" or "Jay" was for Jacob. Lane's siblings Blaise, Pearl, and Claire, however, had co-opted her nickname for Carewyn without permission -- something that even now irked Carewyn to no end.

Tristan inclined his head respectfully before taking a seat. He eyed the chair confusedly when it compressed under him -- he was used to much stiffer chairs at home.

"...Yes. I aim to chart a direction for the Clan, as future Head. Unfortunately there are difficulties in our family that Father has had trouble addressing -- therefore I can't follow his example. And I can't go back a generation, or else I would be following Grandfather's example."

Lane's expression darkened visibly.

"Anyone foolish enough to follow Charles Cromwell's example in anything would deserve the unhappiness they'd receive for it," she said quietly.

Tristan frowned uncomfortably. "Yeah, I reckoned your side of the family would think so. And truthfully, however well Father speaks of Grandfather, I don't have any interest in ending up in Azkaban for the rest of my life. So I need to go back further, if I'm to find any example of leadership for me to take inspiration from."

He fetched something shiny and gold out of the inside of his robes and held it out for Lane to take.

"I wanted to ask about Grandfather's parents, to start with. These are them, aren't they?"

Lane looked at the pair of linked, enchanted photographs -- one of an older gentleman with a thin mustache trying and failing to make eye contact and smile at the other portrait, that of a much younger and more glamorous woman who kept looking out of frame.

"Yes," said Lane, as she considered the portraits. "That's Angus Cromwell, on the left -- and his wife, Isabelle Selwyn-Cromwell, on the right."

"And Angus was head of the family before Grandfather?" presumed Tristan as he looked down at Angus's portrait. "What was his leadership like? Did Grandfather take after him? He -- "

It was only when Tristan noticed Lane was holding up a hand that he realized she'd been trying to talk.

"No," she reiterated for the third time, even if it was the first time Tristan had heard her. "Your great-grandfather was never Head of the Cromwell Clan."

Tristan's brows furrowed. "What? But how can that be, all of the eldest Cromwell men have been -- !"

He halted mid-word. Carewyn's words from before returned to his mind.

"Shut up and let her talk, and you might actually learn something."

Tristan quickly closed his mouth. Then, inclining his head respectfully, he held out a hand to Lane as if giving her silent permission to explain. Lane's expression seemed to relax ever-so-slightly, and she set about pouring out a cup of tea by hand, rather than with her wand.

"Your grandfather Charles," she said stiffly, "was not the eldest Cromwell son, in his generation. He was the youngest. Yet despite all odds, he convinced his grandfather -- Angus's father, Sinclair Cromwell -- to choose him as his successor...bypassing not only Sinclair's own son, but his older two grandsons as well."

Tristan's brows knit together tightly over his eyes. "I didn't know Grandfather had any brothers..."

Lane smiled a bit cynically. "That's unsurprising. Both of them died before I was born, so your father certainly never met them. He and I never even met Angus -- he passed away the year Claire was born. And Isabelle...well, she was an immature sort. I suppose she saw us more like china dolls my father was collecting than grandchildren she could share stories with."

She poured out a second cup of tea for Tristan.

"It's funny -- Isabelle was just as 'style over substance' as your grandmother Marilyn...and yet the two always detested each other. Perhaps that's a statement unto itself, though. Milk or sugar?"

"Oh, ah...both!" said Tristan. Tea was always prepared without either sugar or milk back at the Cromwell Manor, so the thought of having both was actually a rare treat that made Tristan grin mischievously despite himself.

Lane mixed both milk and sugar into Tristan's tea before handing the cup to him.

"Sounds like Great-Grandfather wasn't anything that impressive, then," said Tristan scornfully, "if he got passed over in favor of his own son."

Lane frowned slightly. "Mm, well, Angus had gotten a bit complacent. He'd ended up with a beautiful young wife and three exceptional sons without much effort...so I daresay he did what many men from wealthy households do: they got too comfortable and started to take things for granted. The eldest Cromwell son had always inherited the role of Head of the Clan before, so Angus expected he would as well."

"Hn..." Tristan said with a frown. Considering he himself had assumed the same thing before, he supposed it made sense that Angus had too. Even so, the boy still scoffed. "Whatever. Great-Grandfather still sounds like an idiot."

"He wasn't an idiot -- just privileged," Lane said mildly. "And admittedly there were a few unpleasant rumors surrounding his young wife and her many male admirers that Angus might've been a little more focused on squashing than on actively catering to his father."

Tristan's blue eyes flashed angrily. "That's a dirty, rotten lie! Father told me that people were just jealous of Grandfather and his talents, and that's why they tried to call him a bastard."

"Oh, I wouldn't doubt if people were leery of your grandfather's talent, especially for Legilimency and Occlumency," said Lane lightly. "But the rumors wouldn't have taken off the way they did, had your grandfather not looked so dramatically different from both his parents and his brothers. He remains the only one of them to have inherited the 'Cromwell blue eyes' that all of us have...a genetic oddity, for every single descendant of one man to inherit such a rare recessive trait."

Tristan crossed his arms. He didn't like this line of discussion at all. Yes, obviously the Cromwell blue eyes would have to be a recessive trait, biologically speaking, but no matter how odd it was that every single member of the Cromwell family starting with Charles all seemed to have the same eyes, it was sickening to consider his grandfather could've been a bastard, given those eyes via enchantment in an attempt to obscure that truth. It made Tristan feel illegitimate himself, in a way -- as if he hadn't been born and raised to take on the responsibility that he knew had to fall to him. That he was determined to take on, for the sake of his father and family...

Lane paused before she spoke again.

"...Would you like to see your grandfather's brothers? I have pictures of them."

Tristan blinked, but nodded. Once Lane had eased herself out of her chair, she crossed the room, Tigger at her heels. She took several framed photographs off of the library shelf and brought them over for Tristan to see.

"This here," she said, handing him the second-largest, "is your great-uncle Henry. He was the eldest son. He would've likely been your great-grandfather Angus's choice to succeed him, had Angus become head of the Clan. He was a Gryffindor alumnus, like your great-grandmother Isabelle -- athletic, broad-shouldered, and stoic...enamored with his family's history, honor, and the ideal of noblesse oblige."

"Sounds like he had a real stick up his arse," Tristan muttered sardonically against the rim of his cup.

Surprisingly, though, this actually seemed to amuse Lane.

"Most accounts I've read of Henry remind me of your aunt Pearl, growing up," she said with a tiny wry smile.

Tristan couldn't help it -- he snorted with laughter into his tea.

"Oh, Merlin," he said smugly, wiping his face on his sleeve, "if he's like Aunt Pearl, then he must've been insufferable!"

Lane smiled a bit more fully. "He was considered to be rather difficult to befriend."

She served out another saucer with just milk and put it down on the carpet at her feet for Tigger to lap at. Tristan considered Henry's detached, uncomfortably stiff posture. He did indeed look nothing like Charles -- his face was square like Angus's and he had very tiny eyes.

"Guess I can see why Great-Grandfather didn't pick him," Tristan said coolly. "Who'd want someone that uptight calling the shots?"

Lane's face grew more serious.

"Oh, that wasn't the reason Sinclair didn't pick Henry," she said with a sigh. "No, he wasn't picked because he was disowned."

Tristan was taken aback.

"Henry fell in love with a Muggle woman and secretly married her after she became pregnant. He wanted to provide for her, but he knew that if his family learned the truth, it would both put her in danger and give him no means to financially provide for her and their son." Lane's lips came together as she sipped some of her own tea. "Not that he ended up keeping it secret very long...your grandfather made sure of that."

Tristan frowned uncomfortably.

"...Well, it wasn't right that he did it, you know," he said defensively, "Uncle Henry, I mean. He never should've disgraced himself, saddling himself with a filthy Mug -- "

"He chose to financially support the woman and son that he loved," Lane said in such a quiet, cold voice that it was akin to ice. "However 'uptight' he might've been, that is worth applauding."

Tristan scowled. "I suppose you'd have to think so, given that you also married below yourself."

Lane raised her eyebrows very coolly before withdrawing to the kitchen, Tigger following promptly behind her.

Knowing he'd offended his aunt but way too proud to out-right apologize for it, Tristan tried to change the subject.

"...So Grandfather told the rest of the Clan about Uncle Henry marrying a Muggle, and that's why he wasn't picked as heir?"

"That," said Lane, "and the fact that he was dead, soon after."

Tristan's brows furrowed. When Lane returned to the living room, Tigger once again at her heels, she was holding a plate of pikelets and jam, which she also put down on the side table.

"Henry was found in the local river a week after he was disowned by the Clan. His reputation had been destroyed with the whole of Wizarding society at that time, to the point that no one at the Ministry or otherwise would hire him. Without any means to support his family, Henry fell into such despair that he drowned himself. Or at least, that's what the common consensus was. The investigation was haphazard. It wasn't as bad as the one into Francis's accident, but still, it was far from detailed."

Tristan frowned. "Francis?"

Lane indicated the smallest picture.

"Francis Cromwell. He was your grandfather's second-eldest brother."

Tristan squinted. It was considerably blurrier than the others, since the subject kept moving, but his pale, smirking, dark-eyed face was framed by a mane of black hair.

"His hair's as almost as messed up as Jacob's," Tristan said cheekily.

Lane blinked in surprise and considered the picture. Then she actually laughed: it was a very hushed, stifled sound.

"Well, no, Jay's always most resembled his father -- but I suppose, yes, there is the slightest resemblance..."

Lane smiled down at the picture of Francis as she helped herself to a pikelet, spreading some jam onto it with a knife.

"Uncle Francis was my favorite to research," she admitted. Tigger jumped up beside her on the armchair, curling up against her leg. "He was a Hufflepuff alumnus, same as Angus, but he was the most interesting of the brothers. Certainly not academic by any means, but he was still widely considered to be resourceful, creative, talented -- a true jack of all trades. He was Vice President of the Gobstones Club and a capable cook. He captained the Hufflepuff Quidditch team for a term after their original captain fell ill of Dragon Pox, and he ended up winning his house the Quidditch Cup that year. He studied French, German...even Gobbledegook, so as to better haggle favorable loans with Gringotts' goblins. Not to mention he was a conductor for the Frog Choir his entire school career. He even briefly worked as a magical creature assistant for Newt Scamander while he worked at the Ministry of Magic."

Tristan's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yes," said Lane eagerly. "Oh, and his artwork. Francis was absolutely exceptional with a pencil."

She paused, her eyes drifting back to the side table.

"...In fact...this was one of his."

Lane finished off the pikelet before reaching out for the last, largest framed picture, which had been face-down on the table. When Tristan took it from her, he was surprised to find not a photograph like the others, but a framed and very detailed pencil sketch of a handsome young man with chiseled features, a dark mustache and beard, and incredibly piercing, light-colored, almond-shaped eyes.

"Do you recognize him?" asked Lane. "That's your grandfather."

Tristan was bowled over. "That's him?!"

He looked down at the sketch again. Even though it wasn't enchanted, it was amazing just how sharp the young Charles's eyes were -- almost as if they were looking right through Tristan, at that very moment. It made the Cromwell heir twitch a bit in his seat despite himself.

"He looks so...young," he said awkwardly. "All the pictures I've seen of Grandfather are of him when he was older."

Lane seemed to empathize with Tristan's discomfort. As she took the portrait back, she regarded the pencil sketch with notable detachment.

"I know. Your uncle Francis sketched that in the summer of 1940, when your grandfather Charles was freshly 22."

As old as I am, Tristan noted. That knowledge felt really weird.

"It was an engagement present," Lane continued as she put the portrait back down on the side table, "to commemorate his engagement to the newly graduated Slytherin Head Girl, Marilyn Bulstrode. Francis told Charles he also intended to draw one of Marilyn to complete the set, once he could convince her to model for him."

Lane's eyes grew a little smaller as her hand absently scratched at the side of Tigger's neck.

"Not that he got the chance. While working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Francis recruited Charles -- the best Legilimens he knew -- to help him deal with a wild Wampus cat he'd been asked to recapture from a Dark wizard who'd been collecting dangerous magical cats off the black market. With his younger brother's help, he succeeded -- but the Wampus cat, after seemingly being safely contained, went wild and not only got loose of its cage, but also let several other wild cats loose in the melee...including a Nundu."

Tristan's eyes widened in shock.

"A Nundu's breath is poisonous enough to take out a whole town!" he said. "How did Grandfather -- ?"

"Oh, your grandfather reacted fast enough to Apparate to safety," Lane said very curtly. "Francis, for some reason, did not. There's still a lot of question about why. But your great-uncle was smarter than people gave him credit for -- he materialized a Bubble-Head Charm around his head, which saved his life. What he didn't predict, though, was just how noxious the Nundu's breath is at close proximity, even when it can't be breathed in through the nose and mouth. And most unfortunately, Francis had sustained several deep cuts on his arms and legs while trying to contain the Wampus. This resulted in the toxins in the Nundu's breath making it into Francis's blood stream...poisoning his limbs from the inside-out."

The anatomist in Tristan was macabrely fascinated, but he'd just taken one of the pikelets from the plate and spread some jam on it so he could try it. To his surprise, it was really tasty, and he got so distracted with spreading some more jam on it and gobbling it up that he neglected to articulate any of the demented questions going through his head.

"Your great-uncle was taken to St. Mungo's, but it was too late," said Lane. "He ended up paralyzed from the neck down -- unable to move and in excruciating pain."

Tristan winced. "Ooh. So that's why Great-Grandfather passed over him?"

Lane nodded grimly. "Your great-uncle languished in St. Mungo's for the next five years, after that. Your great-grandparents did visit occasionally, from what I understand...but after his accident, and especially after Charles took over, Francis was largely brushed aside by the Clan. He was seen as an embarrassment, rather than an asset. Regardless of his talents -- regardless of how well-liked he'd been at school by his classmates and how much potential he'd had...in St. Mungo's, he was seen solely as an invalid, and therefore not worth anyone's time."

Lane looked down at the blurry photograph of the smirking young man again grimly.

"In fact, that photograph is the only one I've ever been able to find of Francis. A witch who'd looked after him in St. Mungo's before her retirement sent it to me, when I reached out to her by owl. She said she'd retrieved it from a box of belongings he'd kept on his bedside table, after he passed away."

Tristan finished his second pikelet, licking the jam from his fingers. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly cleaned off his hands with his handkerchief before he reached out to take Francis's picture again.

He looked determined, actually. His black hair was messy and his shirt was ripped, and yet his collar was fully buttoned, his posture was straight, and his pale, pointed face was fearless. Almost as if he was ready to take on any challenge thrown his way.

Lane tilted her head slightly, watching her nephew look over his great-uncle's picture.

"You know..." she said thoughtfully with a slight smile, "...I don't think Francis looks very much like my Blue Jay at all. I really think he looks more like you."

Tristan looked up at her in surprise. He then looked back down at the photograph of Francis, which smirked up at him, and he saw his own smirking reflection in the glass of the frame.

"...Hm. Reckon he looked a lot uglier after his accident."

Lane cringed visibly at the off-color humor, but Tristan pressed on, undeterred.

"You said Uncle Francis worked at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, right? D'you reckon there might be some additional information about him in their files?"

"Possibly," granted Lane. "Or, at least, there may be files he worked on -- the Ministry wasn't as good at filing work under individual people back then, since such efforts were often collaborative. And since Francis was never Head of the Department, a lot of those such files might be filed under the men he worked under."

Tristan smirked. "Well, then, I shall require as much information as you can give me about the chain of command at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the 1930's, while Great-Uncle Francis worked there!"

Remembering himself, he then cleared his throat and added,

"...For pay, of course. Name your price."

Lane smiled wryly, her hand running over the purring Tigger at her side. "My standard rate is a Galleon an hour. To unearth a bit more about my favorite uncle, however...I may be willing to halve that -- provided I get first dibs on any photographs or sketches of Francis's that might be recovered?"

Tristan smirked broadly from ear to ear. "It's a deal!"