| Details for Warning Given, Secret Kept |
| Summary: | After Morrow puts the idea into her head, Violet seeks out Anson to tell him of plots overheard. |
| Date: | 24 June 1941 |
| Location: | Entry Hall, Hogwarts |
| Related: | The Good Samaritan. |
| Characters |
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While the castle is always buzzing with activity, it seems it's been turned up to 11 on this last evening of the school term. Students are hurrying around, making plans with friends for tomorrow's ride on the Hogwarts Express back to London, talking about summer plans, helping each other with the finishing touches to look just so on this last feast of the year. One little Ravenclaw stands slightly off to the side, occasionally popping up onto her toes to be able to see a bit better over and around everyone, apparently looking for someone. When a friend stops to chat, Violet is unusually short with them, apologizing that she's got to talk to someone, she'll meet them in the Great Hall and they can chat before everything starts. And immediately she's back to searching the sea of student faces for a particular blonde target.
Anson makes his way through the crowd with his usual fluid ease, pausing to speak to a gaggle of Fourth-Year girls before continuing on, letting his swagger grow just a touch more exaggerated. He seems to be in incredibly high spirits, though rumor has it that he's been a touch less…well, himself, lately. He waves to another friend, a big Hufflepuff, and seems to be moving in that direction. However, it brings him right past Violet.
Violet's usual bright smile is temporarily absent, because she has 'very important business' to see to. She spies Anson as he talks to a group of girls in her year, and her eyes track his progress from there. Then widen as she notes his steps may bring him almost right to her! Blinking rapidly, she musters herself, and then steps up to intercept, the smile blooming, but tentatively, as she says, "Beg pardon, Mister Abbot, but… c'n I have a wee word?" Her voice is quieter than those around her, nearly lost in the din, but putting herself almost directly in his path might help make herself seen.
"Anson, please. Mister Abbott is my father." The tall blond smiles back at Violet, his cheeks dimpling. Absently reaching to sweep hair back off his forehead, Anson says "It's Violet, right? You're a friend of Morrow's." Or at least, they're in the same House. Presumably they speak to one another.
He reaches to take Violet's shoulder and, if she lets him, gently shift her toward a small recess in the wall, providing an oasis in the sea of students. "Is something the matter, Violet? What can I help you with?" Of course, he assumes she's coming to him for help. After all, he is the hero. In his own mind, at the very least.
The boy's smile seems to ease the younger girl a touch, and his pleasant manner. Until he mentions Morrow, and for a moment she isn't sure if she should deny ever having heard of the other girl. But they're housemates, that would be odd, certainly. "Yes, Violet Urquart. She's in my house, aye." There, that's neutral. As neutral as the easily read girl is able to be, anyway.
She moves easily with the gentle guidance, slipping past a few students until they have a small measure of quiet, and she turns to face Anson. Her face is earnest as she tips her head to look up at him. "There is, but it's not me needin' th'help, sir. Anson," she amends quickly. "Only I was mindin' my own t'other day, an' I overheard some talkin'." The girl's eyes dart around, and she even leans to look past him for a moment before she refocuses. "Some talkin' about you that fair troubled me."
Anson watches the emotions play over Violet's features with poorly-concealed amusement. A touch condescending, perhaps, but there is genuine kindness there too. He does a quick up-and-down of the girl, in the clumsy way of teenage boys, and his smile widens a touch. But then it fades as he listens to Violet, his features growing more somber and — it seems — somewhat older.
"Oh," he says quietly. "I see." There's a few beats of silence before he continues. "..It wasn't Morrow and Oberon, was it?" There's a plaintive edge to his voice, as though he's afraid of the answer. He swallows, glancing away. "No, she wouldn't go that far." It's a mutter, almost to himself, and he looks back. "Alright. I'm sorry. What did you hear?"
Violet catches that difference in Anson's tone, and looks even more anxious as she hurries to say, "Oh no, this is nothin' t'do with Morrow a'tall. Absolutely nothin'." So eager to stress that it's obvious that's not the entire truth. "It was somethin' another girl said, one of the Slytherins." There's only the briefest pause, she doesn't want to give him time to conclude anything further that might have to do with Morrow, and she goes on. "It wasn't all specific," she says, apologetically, "But she said somethin' about them havin' plans, an' it didn't sound like they was plannin' a party or some such, if ya gather."
"That'd be Walburga Black or Samira Prince, then." Anson seems to have an idea of who has cause to hate him, at least. His features are still grave, but he relaxes considerably — he doesn't hide it well at all, though he tries — when Violet reassures him. "I don't suppose you'll tell me which it was? And who they were speaking to?" He looks rather sheepish, running a hand through his hair. "You see, I've been quite busy making enemies lately." From the sounds of it, fighting enemies as well. "It's alright if you don't want to tell me. I know you're doing a lot, just telling me this much." He smiles at Violet, putting all his sincerity into the expression. "But I promise, I'll never tell anyone who warned me."
Chestnut curls bobble lightly as the girl shakes her head at the Abbot's speculation, "No sir, Anson, wasn't them two." She seems to be having a little trouble adjusting to addressing the Quidditch God by his first name, but she is trying. His sheepishness brings her smile back, and her back straightens just that little bit more. "I'm not afraid of th'likes of them, my blood's just as good as theirs is," she states boldly. Of course, it's easy for her to avoid them as well, like a plague she's not keen to catch. "Only it weren't them, it was a fair haired one, the Slughorn hen. She said…" There's a pause, a moment of intense concentration as she brings up as close as she can to the girl's words, "She said there's somethin' planned for Abbot, an' it sounds like fun." She doesn't continue in so many words, but it's clear that she thinks if a Slytherin is saying it sounds like fun and it has to do with Anson, it's not likely going to be very fun at all. "It was in Arts Club." She does not specify who the Slughorn was speaking to.
Lucinda Slughorn? Anson can't keep the shock from his face. "I.. I think I've spoken three words to her my whole life." The boy shrugs slowly, drawing himself up straighter. "Well, alright, then. If they want a taste, they can come and I'll serve them such a dish. And don't they wish they'll relish it." There it is, for the first time — that fierce Gryffindor pride, well-past the borders of arrogance.
And then a change comes over his face. "In Arts Club?" He deflates visibly. "You did say that Morrow wasn't involved, didn't you?" There's a trace of suspicion in his voice. "Listen, don't spare my feelings, Violet. Alright?" He reaches out to touch the girl's shoulder again. "Who was Lucinda Slughorn speaking to?"
The spark of admiration in the girl's eyes as the Gryffindor draws himself to full bearing is unmistakable, although there's still that touch of trepidation that would come for anyone set in the sights of the Slytherins. And like a switch getting thrown, Violet blanches as Anson brings up Morrow again. She's quick to reassure once more, "No, she's absolutely not involved in any harm that's bein' planned for yeh."
She's still holding back something, but there is unwavering conviction that Morrow is not involved in the way that Anson might conclude. "I wouldnae spare yer feelin's," she absolutely would but isn't in this case. "She was kinda' jus'…. spoutin' off for whoever'd listen." That's kind of true, enough that Violet can say it convincingly. "Daft of her t'be doin'," the younger girl scoffs with a huff of breath, "All there where anyone could hear."
"And yet you're the only one who warned me. You barely know me." Anson peers at Violet more closely, his head tilting to the side. "You know I appreciate it, don't you?" He squeezes Violet's shoulder lightly and pats it once before dropping his hand, smiling again. "I didn't want to think Morrow would try to hurt me," he confides. "But everyone keeps telling me I'm wrong about her." He rubs at the side of his neck absently.
"But if you say she wasn't involved, I believe you." Though there's that troubling half-speech — she didn't answer his question, not exactly. He realizes it a bit late. It might be amusing to watch the expressions flit across his face as he tries to decide whether to press. Finally, he sighs.
"I guess it doesn't matter. Even if she didn't help them, she was there and she didn't warn me. I thought she might still care." Morrow seems to occupy the older boy's thoughts, even as he turns his charm back on to say, "I do owe you, Violet. I don't mean to come across ungrateful. Is there something I can do for you, in return?"
Violet fairly vibrates under that touch, in her effort to stop blurting out reassurances that Morrow did want to tell him. As much as she wants to ease Anson, she's made a promise to Morrow, and she would hate herself (and perhaps Morrow would hate her as well!) if she broke that promise. The poor girl almost crumbles to pieces when Anson says he thought Morrow might still care, and she has to look down at the floor and bite her tongue to keep it still. She does say, her voice aimed down at her shoes, "I'd never stoop t'fib, she's not wantin' any harm for yeh."
Violet looks back up as the boy's charm reasserts itself, bright blue eyes, one of them at least as her fringe has fallen to cover her right eye, settling on the Gryffindor, and her smile now is more shy. She shakes her head briskly, "Nay, yeh owe me nothin', but t'do th' same if ever yeh can. Folks like us, we're meant t'be lookin' out for each other against folks like them. Have a care, yeah? There was no where or when, but I expect if we all get back t'London whole an' healthy, we're doin' well."
There. It's so obvious that there's something he's not being told that Anson fairly lunges for the information. "Violet, if she said something to you.." But then he looks more closely at Violet, frowning slightly. The Gryffindor is capable of deeper insights, just occasionally, than might be expected. "No. Forget it. I don't want to press." But he seems to puff up, just a little.
"You're right," he says after a few minutes. "They'll come for me on the train. Let's see. Abraxas, Antonin, Oberon, for certain. Perhaps some of the others." Anson swallows, and for a moment, there's a crack in his vaunted courage and doubt shows through. "I've got… one friend I can count on." He considers this for a moment, squinting. "You'd best not visit me on the train-ride, Violet. I'd really hate for you to be hurt after you've been so kind."
Visiting Anson Abbot on the train ride? Such a thought never occurred to Violet, it's so bold to think someone of his caliber would have the time for someone of her own. But she has a quiet defiant streak that shows now in the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin. "I'm sure there's tons t'stand up with yeh, and I'd be among th' numbers." She's only too happy to gloss right over any further talk of Morrow and dive into this diversion. "If yeh stay around them that mean yeh no harm, then no harm c'n come t'yeh." That sounds like repeating something she's heard from others, but there's conviction in her little heart.
Anson shakes his head gravely. "I'm not so certain. I've vexed them a bit, Violet, and not all of them are cowards. Bullies, yes. But not all bullies are weak." Anson, too, sounds as though he's reciting something that's been told to him. Or perhaps he's told it to himself, in the mirror, while practicing his heroic poses. "Besides. What would it look like if I stood up to them when it was safe, but backed away when it got dangerous? They'll say it proves their point, that Half-Bloods and Muggle-Born can't defend themselves and only have cowards to speak up for them." Weak logic, at its finest. It barely even makes sense. He seems to hear it and smiles again, almost bashfully. "…It means a lot, though. That you'd stay and help me. You'd be welcome in my cabin, even if there are no Snakes coming to bite." His grin shows bright mischief and a return of his good humor. "You'll stop by, right?"
Violet's lips purse and twist to the side, an odd expression that looks a touch skeptical, a bit concerned, and somewhat pained somehow. She can't argue with his logic, such as it is, because it seems perfectly sound to her. But she doesn't have to like it. She's no response to that, but any that she might have had would have been wiped from her head at his words of praise anyway. A blush creeps up and into her ears, peeking out from her curls, and she all but scuffs the toe of her shoe on the floor. "Aye, I will," she finds herself answering, because who says no to such a surprising invitation? She may not be all boy crazy like some her age, but she knows kindness and appreciates it. Suddenly, she seems almost to be looking for an escape, because she looks up, and blurts, "I'd best be gettin' in, Gladdy will be savin' a seat an' all." Time to go before he brings up Morrow again!
"I'm really glad," Anson says, and he pours sincerity into the words. While it seems he means them, he puts just a touch more emphasis on it than is necessary. He looks Violet up and down again, then grins. "It's good to have a new friend, Violet. And trust me — next time you need me, I'll be there. Shoulder to shoulder." He seems to sense Violet's eagerness to leave and takes a step back, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "I'd hate for you to lose your seat on my behalf! Go! Enjoy the Feast, if I don't see you."