Chapter 888 - Martial Alliance Ⅲ (1/2)
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 ȧssortment 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 ċhėst 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.”