Friday 21 October 2011
@2pm
McBoid Farm, Scotland
Rainy

He was a bit soggy, but his spirits were not dampened. Figaro glided into the farm property, passing a few ancient stone walls and eventually coasting down a puddle-y lane. Maybe other people were better at it, but he didn't like Apparating to places he hadn't been before. So he'd cracked on into Hogsmeade, picked up a few things, then made the (dear Merlin hours long) flight. He'd actually found it quite nice. He liked broomstick flying, which he hadn't had need to do in ages. It was peaceful, really. He could go as fast as he felt like, and there weren't huge cities to avoid.

By now he knew not to expect some exhuberant greeting from Moira, who while they'd downgraded from bethrothed Fig considered a friend. (Even if she might only consider him a clingy acquaintance. She could grouse all she wanted, but he had no shame.)

"Well, cor blimey, it's horses." There were horses huddled by a shed or something. He aimed for the cottage, however, for his destination.

He lit off the broom and hollared. "Mo! Come out!"

Fig was had on a bulky backpack, a long wool cloak (far more traditional clothing than he ever wore, but it was perfect for traveling), and Quidditch goggles. He peeled off his gloves, and set the bag down.

"Got something for you."

The McBoid farm was not like a city, lacking large buildings, people chattering and bustling and other city noises. Sometimes the lands of Moira's home could become eerily quiet, especially in the dead of night. On this particular Sunday afternoon the soft patterning of falling rain was the only immediate noise, then Figaro made his arrival evident with a shout. His call for "Mo" to come out carried past the house to the barn and further, which was fortunate for him as the cottage was currently unoccupied.

Peeking her head out of the barn to see if the voice really belonged to who she thought Moira blinked at the rather soaked young man standing in front of the cottage door. Not feeling like disturbing the sleepy world with another shout the witch pulled the hood of her carmine colored jacket up over her head and left the dry barn. Walking through the rain she approached her apparent guest.

"Figaro? What's the occasion?" Moira's expression was openly curious and unguarded, her fingers casually tucked into her jean pockets. "What kind of something do you have?"

Figaro turned. She looked every bit the witchy farm girl. He half wondered if here in the muck and wide open spaces, she'd be more herself somehow. All the time he'd known her, she seemed closed off somehow. Maybe ancient rock walls and drizzly skies were more her thing, instead of crowds and pubs.

"Halloween," he answered. It was still more than a week away, but the fun was in the anticipation, right? He unzipped the pack and reached deep inside - deeper than the bag seemed to actually allow. He had to go down on a knee to get his arms around what he'd brought. He pulled out something large, round, and orange.

Fig hefted it around in his arms, rotating it so she could see. It was a giant pumpkin! It still had a long, crispy vine attached.

"Oi. Wake up." He jostled it and the lumpy surface began to shift and grimace. Two eyes appeared and a toothy mouth. From inside a magical blue flame glowed dimly.  The pumpkin blinked, looked around a little, and settled into a suitably festive grin.

Figaro looked up at Moira, eyebrows up. "Well. What do you think?"

Moira watched as Figaro pulled a giant pumpkin out of his pack and even tilted her head slightly as he 'woke' it up. Seeing the blue flamed grin she couldn't help but smile back at it, looking to her visitor again. "I think it's cute and perfectly festive."

Being home and seeing the lack of decorations she had become accustomed to while at Hogwarts had definitely instilled in the witch a desire to make the cottage, and possibly barn, more season appropriate. So far all she had autumn themed kitchen towels and dinner mats. A few red and black candles dotted around house as well. Home Decoration hadn't been an available course at school and asking her family was useless. Her observational skills were all she had to go off of so far.

Buying the decorations were another matter. Her account was something Moira was keenly aware of since she planned on building her own cottage one day. That way she wouldn't have to leave the horses but she would have her own space.

Taking in his wet appearance again she shook her head. "Sorry. Do you want to go inside and get dried off? Are you hungry?"

Fig was about make a comment on how uncharacteristically pleasant Moira was being when the enchanted gourd jostled in his arms.

"Hungry for snakes, got any snakes, feed me some snakes, can't see nothing, what's that smell is it a snake...?"

Figaro nearly dropped it! He knew it was supposed to talk, but this was the first time since he picked it up at from a street vender in Diagon earlier that day.  It had been sleeping like a lump. Did pumpkins sleep?

"She was talking to me, Jack," he said.  "And yea, I could eat. What are you having?" 

He was still looking around, taking in the big space. It all looked utterly pastoral.  He whistled.  "You really live here?"

"Plenty of dead things here, heaps of maggots under below. Have a bite, have a bite..."

Figaro snorted. What the hell even was this thing?

The pumpkin was an enchanted so it could talk too. Of course it was. Considering the item was meant for Halloween likely anything it 'said' would be at least borderline creepy. At least the pumpkin was cute.

Unsurprised about him being hungry, it had to have been a long trip on that broom not to mention the weather, Moira simply nodded. "We don't usually have leftovers but I can cook up something fairly quick, depending what you want." If her guest didn't have any food ideas to offer then she'd make do with her own though she likely wouldn't eat. Lunch had been just over 2 hours ago.

                                He whistled.  "You really live here?"

Moira tilted her head at him, "Yes. Is that really so hard to believe?"

The pumpkin's mention of maggots and dead things in the ground made her pause. "That's obvious though. Everyone and everything ends up buried in time."

She glanced at Figaro. "You can leave it out here on the porch if you don't want to bring it inside. Mind your shoes though. I just cleaned this morning." Stepping through the door she slipped her shoes off before crossing over to the kitchen. The cottage was cozy always.

That's obvious though. Everyone and everything ends up buried in time.

"Morbid," he evaluated.

Figaro heeded Moira's instructions, setting the pumpkin down by the door ("Through a door, bloody steps..."), bent over to untie his damp shoes, and then joined her inside. She'd asked him if it was so hard to believe that she lived here, and honestly, kind of. She was like a proper tiny adult with shoe rules, animals to care for, vast open spaces, and offers to get him something to eat, cleaning in the morning. It seemed like it would be well boring out here, but he had to figure that Moira might like the solitude.

Despite his constant tomfoolery and tendency to be a bother, Fig's parents had raised him right and he sort of instinctively knew how to be an un-obnoxious guest.

The contrasts of Moira's place to Figaro's flat were many. He had a single room in an old building in the middle of the city, sparsely furnished on an as-needed basis. He rarely had any hospitalities to offer, but then, he rarely had visitors. London was a busy place and always somewhere to be.

The youthful young wizard followed his witchy friend through the entryway and into the living room.

"Oh, nice," he said. The space was cozy, well-lived in, and, as promised, tidied. There were even decorations. Figaro was impressed. He moved around in the room and picked up a framed picture from a shelf.

"Who's this? Bloody hell, is this you?"

Moira knew what she had said was morbid but it was a fact. From a young age she had learned what death was, and not just from her mother's death. Working with animals, and breeding them, there was always the chance for an accident to happen, an unhealthy foal to be born, or a mother who wasn't strong enough. Being aware and having practice didn't make the incidents any easier, of course. The practice merely gave them the experience to learn how to cope and possibly learn more of what to look out for in the future.

After Figaro had set down the pumpkin, removed his semi-dirty shoes, and followed her inside Moira let him look around the place, shutting the door.

Having a clean house was not always possible, especially when living on a working farm with two bachelors, including her dad. Their bedrooms Moira didn't touch. Her days off were really the only time she could squeeze in time to scourgify the cottage. Working the jobs at home and at the magical menagerie ranch took up most of her time, despite her dad's protests that she needed to go visit friends more often. Honestly, it felt like she was seeing them more now than when they were at school.

Moira glanced over at him as she looked through the cupboards. "I'm flattered, but no. That's my mum. You're okay with eating stir-fry?"

"You look exactly alike," he marveled. Now that he had a second look, he could tell the photo was older. Fashion seemed to be more 1970s than 2010's. He wandered with it over to the kitchen and leaned against the table.

"Don't need to make me anything," he said to the offer of stir-fry. Then he moved back to the previous topic. "You don't live here by yourself do you?" 

There was no-one else around, but taking care of those animals on her own, or having so much furniture. Seemed like a house-house, not a twenty-something hovel. "Your parents at work?"

When Fig was growing up, both his parents worked all the time, even weekends. If Fig and Frank weren't at school they were as likely to do homework and take meals at the shop than home. When Figaro was old enough to babysit Frank they spent more time at home, but at that point he was old enough to actually take slow shifts on his own. He'd kind of wondered what it would be like to have family dinners and all that; not that he was unhappy about it, but maybe this rustic homestead had held different for Moira.

Moira silently disagreed on looking exactly like her mother. Even in pictures there was an elegance about Genie McBoid that she didn't possess. From the stories her father had told her, Genie loved nature, working with animals, and met Angus because of her own work and study of plants. He would say, "It might have just been me, but being around your mother made me feel so at ease."

Continuing to get everything set up, he did say he was hungry, Moira shook her head at his question. "Nay, my dad and Uncle Duncan live here too, and they're always working." She gave him an amused side-look, "They work here, with the horses, goats, and garden. My uncle said he was going on another business trip but I personally think he's got a girlfriend or something." Turning on the oven she oiled up the skillet, "I'm not sure where dad is. Taking inventory?" That was a big job by itself.

"It's not a problem, I like cooking so don't think it's a bother," came Moira's belated reply. Her uncle had taught her how to cook but when she turned out to be more skilled cooking became one of her jobs. Even at school the young witch had sometimes borrowed the kitchen to make something. The elves had been very polite, if surprised, about it all.

Fig noticed Moira didn't mention her mum when he asked about her parents. As a kid with a dad in prison, he knew better than to push it. Besides, Fauna's advice had rubbed off. He let it go and set the picture down on the table. He took his goggles off his head, and hung his damp robe on the back of a kitchen chair. He didn't really have a plan for this afternoon; just to hang until she'd had enough.

She got to cooking, and Fig watched her comfort and skill with the pans and knives and oils. Reminded him a bit of watching his mother rapidly breaking down magical reagents to get ready to sell.

Speaking of mothers...

"Oh yeah, Zelda's good now." She was home from the hospital after weeks of worry. "Apparently she was literally possessed. Insane. Like, actual dead person inside her body. What even is that?"

The only reason he actually wanted to talk about it was because it was over, and Moira had been at his place when Kurby stopped by.

"Going to help her clean up and re-open in time for Halloween." That was an Eldest Son responsibility he could handle.

Moira watched from the side of her eye as he placed the picture on the table instead of returning it to the mantle. Currently the placement didn't matter, so she stayed silent. His damp robe would have to be dried and possibly charmed before he went home. Then again, he could use the floo system instead of flying all the way back. Being a magical fire Figaro's broom should be fine so long as he kept a good grip on it.

Hearing his comment about his own mother Moira nodded, "I'm glad to hear she's doing better. Possession? That must have been frightening," she glanced at him though her thoughts drifted towards another friend. Even without knowing Abby Reid all that well she did sometimes exhibit rather unnatural behavior. Plus there was the differences in her appearance compared to what Moira had been told at school. Was there a connection?

Abby only came to mind due to the letter she had received regarding Sasha's upcoming Halloween party. Her new friend wanted Moira to stop by her and Raine's apartment after work so they could all arrive together, not that the rustic witch could stay for more than several hours unless she decided to give up on sleep entirely that night, anyway.

"It's good that she apothecary is opening again. Do you think it will take to a day or two to get everything ready or until Halloween?" Not too much longer and the food would be ready.

Figaro crossed his arms and scratched his neck.

"No, yeah, absolutely. Scary." Certainly, it had been horribly frightening to see him mum like that, nearly dying and that terrible attack at St. Mungo's... but now he didn't have to think about that part. Now he got to move on and feel relief and even some pride in that he had actually been doing something constructive.

"Yeah, just a couple days. I've already been doing some cleaning up and some of my mum's friends have been asking how they could help. A lot of it will be restocking. We lost a lot of stuff."

The kitchen had started to smell appetizing and Figaro's stomach let out an eager rumble. He rarely cooked as nice for himself, and despite having the inspiration to do so from time to time, he could never stick to the habit. He felt a little odd, Moira cooking him lunch and not eating anything for herself, but it would have been more awkward if he tried to protest. That, and he was hungry.

Quite at ease, he continued chatting. "Right, so after my mum got back from being freaking possessed, she's got this white streak in her hair. Sort of at her temple," he ran his hand through his own hair sort of above his left eyebrow.

"It's wicked as shit. She can't be bothered, but it's sick. I should get myself possessed by a pentral..." he joked.

Moira listened, as usual, as Figaro talked about fixing up the shop, restocking, and then his mom's slight change in appearance. The following comment had her glancing over again. "Not your best joke." She thought of Abby's hair. "You could always dye it or use magic." Some horrors couldn't be joked away and all a person could do to lighten the mood was change the subject. Moira did this by pouring the food into a bowl and passing it over.

---

While Figaro had been eating the kitchen was returned to a clean state with the dishes and utensils put away and the counters wiped down. Magic was a wonderful thing where such household chores were concerned. It made the whole process take less time and decrease the chance of missing a spot. 

As Moira began to lean back against the counter and take a drink of her recently filled glass of water a crashing sound came from her room. "Mac na galla[1]. He got out again." Taking that drink the young witch put the glass on the counter and went to go clean up after her pet. "My niffler. Casper can't leave my room but he can sometimes get out of his den."

The 'den' took up almost an entire corner of the room and was designed so he could have exercise and have a nice hole to sleep in. Most of it was littered with shiny objects. "Casper, anything shiny I have you've already got. No point tearing apart my room. I'll get you something new tomorrow." Scooping the creature up in one arm, he wriggled and protested for a few moments, she pulled out her wand and put her room back to rights.

The room was plain and didn't show many signs of being lived in. Moira's bed was against a wall with a bookshelf at the foot of it. Mostly it held different encyclopedias on different creatures from habitats and living needs to medical magizoology but there were also an assortment of sketchbooks, stuffed to be much fuller than originally intended. Her dresser rested against the wall by the door and above it was a sketch of a mare (Cerys) and her newborn foal.

1.	Son of a bitch

Fig shoved the last forkful into his mouth and jumped up to follow Moira across the living area to her room. This he had to see.

He might have guessed that Moira's personal space would be more or less spartan, but he hadn't counted on a chunk of it being converted to a whole-ass habitat where he could see glimmers of gold tucked into the little burrows and crevices Moira had provided him. Figaro took a couple of polite steps into the room. Moira's spell carefully put what had been toppled back to rights.

In Figaro's pocket was a bit of change. Approaching Moira with the little bugger in her arms, he said, "hey there, little guy. You want -".

Before Fig could finish, Caspar's grabby little hands took the silver sickle right out of his fingers quick as wink and hid it in his fur. Figaro laughed - he'd only ever seen Nifflers rummaging around dumpsters as pests.

"Ha, he's awesome."  He dug out another sickle and Casper snatched it as well. It was like a vending machine except cute came out instead of chocolate eggs. He'd go broke if he wasn't careful.