Crowley Hall is dark and gloomy reminiscent of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The only benefit is that Crowley Hall is quite cool in the summer even if it is drafty as hell in the middle of winter. And with the start of the summer holidays, the Crowley's Soirees are quite popular to attend and enjoy oneself as the hall is cool and there is no need for pesky cooling charms.
Seated in the parlor, the large girth of Mrs. Crowley encompasses a portion of the loveseat. Her dress is much too tight for her girth making her look like a fat sausage with thick curls. The letter had been delivered via owl. It had not been delivered via house elf, (showcasing its lack of urgency and importance).
Mrs. Crowley's unpleasant face is scrunched up as she opens an envelope bearing the Prince family crest. Mrs. Crowley disliked the Prince's. The Prince's believed themselves to be superior to them. And Mrs. Crowley would have happily put them in their place, but only in her mind. She knew the Prince's in actuality are not to be trifled with.
Quintus Crowley, an almost bald man with particularly thick eyebrows sets a copy of the Daily Prophet down at seeing the expression of his wife grow dark with each passing second.
Mrs. Crowley's lips curl up in disdain. "The sheer audacity," she hissed utterly enraged causing her double chins to precariously wobble.
"What nonsense have the Prince's professed now?" Mr. Crowley asked seeing his wife crumble the letter in her hand.
"Georgine Prince has invited us to Prince Manor to speak terms of betrothal on behalf of our daughter!" Mrs. Crowley roared as her massive chest dangerously heaved.
"Quyen?" Mr. Crowley furrowed his thick, furry eyebrows. He bore no great love for his only child, but he did not dislike his daughter. He was even fond to an extent, unlike his wife who held no affection for their daughter.
"Who does she think she is!" Mrs. Crowley cried out mid-tirade. She tore up the letter into smitheries, before tossing the parlor room up. She smashed vases and threw chairs on their sides until she was satisfied.
Breathless Mrs. Crowley sat down in one of the few remaining upright in their chairs. Mr. Crowley had merely cast a charm about himself and waited out his wife's tirade. Seeing that his wife is calm again, he asks, "And when is this invite for?"
"Tomorrow," Mrs. Crowley sulked folding her thick, flabby arms over her massive chest.
"Mm," Mr. Crowley hummed saying no more.
"I shall lock that ungrateful spawn up with no food or water this time!" Mrs. Crowley viciously vowed. "As if the Prince's care a single wit about her! They are merely using her as a means to an end!"
"How could such a stupid child have come from my loins!" Mrs. Crowley's chest heaved indignantly.
"There, there," Mr. Crowley consoled his wife. "There is no need to be angry, dear. The Prince's have graciously reminded us that it is time Quyen is betrothed."
"Hmph," Mrs. Crowley sneered. "That brat has no beauty or brains to speak of. Who will have her if not for her large dowry?"
"Precisely, my dear," Mr. Crowley carelessly agreed. "Quyen needs a firm hand. Someone like Villem Selwyn."
Mrs. Crowley pursed her face in thought. Villem Selwyn is a widower with two dead wives and no children. His wives were said to have been beaten to death. However, she cared little for the rumors. If she could foist that problem child onto Villem Selwyn, she would finally be rid of that troublesome burden.
"We shall proceed then," Mrs. Crowley triumphantly crowed feeling much better. "It is high time that evil spawn settles down. We shall see her pulled out of Hogwarts and be taught on how to please her husband."
"Hear, hear," Mr. Crowley easily agreed to the suggestion.
Mrs. Crowley haughtily pulled herself up and went to write an insolent letter in response.
Leaving Mr. Crowley alone, he summons the house elves to clean up the mess. He retires to the cigar room to enjoy a cigar. He rather puffs the rest of the day away content to be left to his own devices.
Yet these seemingly innocent letters had a far more lasting ripple effect in other ways. In the depths of a valley, there is a small muggle village named Helthorn. The muggle residents are wise enough to not wander about after dark. They are also wise enough to not peek around at things they shouldn't. Their curtains remain still as no one peeks through the windowpanes.
Past the main street and down an alley the graveyard, there is a crumbling building enchanted to keep muggles away. The wood is nearly rotting, the door is old, gray, and dilapidated. The door knockers are two rusty ravens in mid-screech, each holding a rusted ring in their mouths.
Past the entryway, the passage s dim and cold. The air is no longer dusty. There is a persistent chill in the air from countless housed dark artifacts. There is a curled skeletal hand, a Hand of Glory used by thieves and plunders to shine through the darkest of veils. A pack of bloodstained cards and countless dark masks hanging on the wall watching them with unseen eyes. A large iron cabinet, a crushing cabinet to slowly crush the prisoners to death.
Inside a locked cabinet are innocent-looking unlit candles. Yet to a knowing eye, these are poisonous candles that will release toxic fumes upon being lit. They are worth a high-grade punishment from the Ministry of Magic if anyone is caught with such an item.
Alongside the cabinet are innocent-looking ancient tomes. However, these books were not meant to be read, but rather a trap to an unsuspecting reader. The curse inscribed within the tomes would burn an unsuspecting reader's eyes leaving them blind. There were countless more items, but they had not the time to study them for they had far more pressing matters.
The carpets are clean no longer dusty, but still worn and faded. The hallway leads to a chamber revealing the seated Acolytes. The wrinkled hag, Charybdis Carrow is harsh with cold eyes. Her dark clothing is not selected out of preference but rather out of practicality since blood does not show as much on dark clothing.
Sitting nearby is a beautiful witch with dark eyes and short hair that arches a thick, long eyebrow. Praxidlike Rosier's purple lipstick and eyeshadow match her pale visage. She is elegantly clothed showcasing her proud pureblood heritage. A witch that even Voldemort would find beautiful to the eye.
The face of Macduff is rather relaxed as he strokes a rabbit's foot with one hand and the other toys with the chain of human teeth that hangs around his neck. Glancing at the copy of the Daily Prophet, he loftily says, "I must admit I did not think Voldemort would miss such a perfectly godsent opportunity. And yet here we are."
"Pathetic Mudblood," venomously spat Charybdis Carrow. Her harsh face curls in disgust. "What else can be expected from a half-breed?"
"Come now," said an older graying deep-voiced wizard with dark skin. Nagel tilts his head back to reveal his solemn face showing bits of salt-peppered hair peeking out from under the brim. "This is a direct consequence of trusting in those lesser born."
The Acolytes in the chamber murmur in agreement. Giants are lesser existences. They would have never united with them in the first place only a foolish half-blood would be stupid enough to do so.
"Nevertheless," said Abernathy, a fair wizard with proud features. He raises his hand to push his brown hair back, "we must now assume the olde Prince is compromised." He gestured in the direction of the copy of the Daily Prophet.
"His granddaughter is a parselmouth if the rumors are to be true," Abernathy earnestly concluded. "Prince will never ally with Voldemort and even more so with the blood pact in place," he paused to give MacDuff a sly smirk. "Very well done, MacDuff," who willingly accepted the paid compliment as his due.
Krafft, a pale wizard in a military suit thumps the table with his fist. "It matters not, the two of them are bound by a blood pact. Prince will abide by it as much as Voldemort. This conversation is meaningless, there are far more matters to discuss then the injured pride of a half-blood parselmouth."
There is a chortle of sneers from the other Acolytes that fall away as Praxidlike Rosier speaks, "Indeed, we do have more pressing matters to discuss, Kraft." She paused turning her dark eyes toward MacDuff. "Yet I am curious about one thing, why did Prince meet with you last summer?"
Krafft stiffens slightly in his military uniform, while MacDuff continues to toy with his human teeth chain without pause. The silence expectantly grows as MacDuff responds, "Prince merely wished to assert his intentions and request that we not ally with Voldemort."
The expectation drops as Praxidlike studies MacDuff but finds nothing in his bearing saying otherwise. The only indication is Krafft, who relaxes at the response. Though Praxidlike is convinced there is more to the story, she cannot further press the matter.
The curiosity disperses as Charybdis Carrow unfolds her arms. "Voldemort is not a suitable ally long-term," she spat as if in utter disgust. "There are strong indications that he seeks to ally with the covens."
"Filthy blood-sucking leeches!" Abernathy swore with disdain. "Who in their right mind would trust a Vampire?!"
There is a whisper of agreement by the other Acolytes. Vampires are looked down not for their lack of power or even beauty, but for their weakness in the elements and their continued dependence on blood. They are rapid dogs that can turn on their master at any time.
Nagel thoughtfully adjusted his cap, before saying, "If it is true then what of our alliance with Voldemort? I am uncertain if it is even worth the time and effort wasted upon him."
"It matters not as long as Voldemort attempts to free Gellert," Krafft said with great conviction. "Once Gellert is free, Voldemort is of no further importance."
An understanding look passes among the Acolytes, who openly begin to discuss how to aid in the plan to liberate their leader, Gellert Grindelwald from his prison in Nurmengard. If worse came to worst, they would simply cut times with Voldemort and continue elsewhere. What could a mere half-blood possibly do to them?