The air crackled around him as Clinton apparated to his sister's flat.  It had been a long time, too long since he had seen her last.  He'd heard plenty of things about her, though, which made today's visit even possible.  Clinton had no interest in pursuing family relations as they had been, but Laney had always been a fringe element.  Perhaps her double X's made it so, but it seemed she had also successfully come out from under the thumb of their father. 

Now that he was back in London, he felt required to reconnect, if nothing else but to give Laney a chance and see just how she had changed.  He was afraid their old relationship would fall into place, that she'd open the door and blow fur in his face.  But he was different now, too.  He was older and a bit wiser.  He ran a hand through his short, strawberry blonde hair and half-wondered if his little sister would recognize him. 

And would she even want him to intrude on her life?  She seemed fairly well-established on her own.  He'd only pop in for a moment, he promised himself, only if she wanted to see him.  It wasn't as if they owed each other anything; the blood that tied them together had long been despised.  Still,  he just wanted to make sure she was ok, to see if he could pass on anything he had learned to make her own life easier. It was a kind gesture, one meant to respect the universe more so than his individual parents. 

He paused at the door, fist upraised.  Just for a moment, he wouldn't stay long.  His wrist fell, knocking against the door twice.  "Hey Laney."

clothes

The knocks resonated through the airy flat, breaking the serene silence of the afternoon snow. She’d had her windows open, had perched herself near the balcony, shoeless, to smoke cigarettes and read a book she’d bought from the so-called hunter. Every so often, she’d get up to refill her glass with mint water, or to take refuge near the fireplace, where logs crackled under flame and died in a pile of winding ash. It was a splendid but unimpressive death.

And so she was a bit disoriented when she tore her keen gaze from the rich pages. More baffled than angry, but with a face that suggested otherwise. Her brows narrowed and she surrendered to the knocks, springing up into a boyishly lanky silhouette.

She slipped her feet into a pair of shoes, swiped absently at a thick lock which fell into her eyes again only seconds later, and headed for the door. “Hold on--” She shouted at the sealed barrier, a half-room’s length away.

The voice that accompanied the knocks had only sunk in when she’d nearly reached the door. Usually, she would be mindful to peer through the magically-enhanced security hole, to gaze upon the trespasser, to size up the person interrupting her pretty afternoon. But her hand was hot on the knob, and her heart was plunging like a cart on a rickety muggle rollercoaster.

“Clinton,” she said in a hiss of loud whisper, throwing the door open and staring at the serene, slightly scrawny young man who was her older brother. She wouldn’t have forgotten his voice for anything, however much of a love-hate relationship she’d claimed.

Despite having been born a girl, Laney was decidedly more intimidating and I’ll-Kick-Your-Ass-ish in appearance than the strawberry-hued meditator standing on her doorstep. It didn’t help that she’d slipped into last night’s ankle boots, heeled and jagged as any proper, lethal footwear. She towered, pointy and aristocratic and all the wrong anatomy over her fellow failed heir.

“I thought we lost you to the East,” she mused, opening the door further, and pressing herself into it so that he could pass through. Her smile wasn’t really a smile. It was a... pleasant frown. “How did you find where I live?” She was only mildly suspicious, sure that, should it come to that, she’d also win a duel. She had enough confidence to match his impressive spectrum of allergies. But she had to ask. She wouldn’t have been Laney otherwise.

She waited for him to step inside, closing the door behind them both when only a moment’s glance out the door-- a new-found habit since her first encounter with ‘Paparazzi.’

She stepped out of her shoes again, deciding her brother was not the company to complain about a barefooted hostess (not that there were many people for whom she’d put up with it), and slung an arm around his shoulder, pulling him into an awkward, half-hearted, smoke-scented hug. “Don’t tell anyone I said so, but I’m glad the Russian gold diggers left you in one piece.” She pecked his cheek and let go, taking the lead into the rather barren living room.

“Where are you staying?” She asked over her shoulder, heading straight past the open balcony doors and into the adjoining kitchen to scrounge up some alcohol.

In a typical Laney fashion, the door was flung wide open to reveal her silhouette.  Quidditch suited her, it seemed.  She always seemed on the verge of sparking a riot, and Clinton was glad she chose to welcome him in rather than kick him out. Of course, he wouldn't have begrudged her the latter action.  It had been quite some time.

He slid past her into the flat, surprised by its open, airy atmosphere.  He had half-expected dingy smoke-stained walls, clothes everywhere with bits of vinyl peaking out from underneath. Or rather, that was his last apartment anyway.  She was a girl, after all, although her gender was often in flux.  "And miss the rain? The smog? The brain-dead aristocracy? Never."  He slipped off his shoes as well, pushing them along the trim.  "Basil gave me the address.  Nice place."

And there it was, the sudden scent of cigarette smoke pressed up against his face, the slight seizure of his chest in preparation for an oncoming sneeze, and Laney.  Oh yes, he was back in London.  Clinton returned her embrace awkwardly, pulling away only to touch a finger against his nose to ward off the sneeze.  He followed her into the living room, smile damped by her comment.  "Oh come on, don't start that again.  You'd like her if you'd give her half the chance." The two women shared similar qualities, Svetlana's softer and more feminine than Laney's.  He was certain they'd get along, one day. 

"No where, really.  Just got in yesterday and stayed last night at the house.  Some bloke said there's rooms to let at the...Shedding Arms? Doesn't sound like much but he said it's cheap and well enough.  I'll take a gin and tonic if you've got it." He added, lounging against the counter.  It was a very nice apartment.  He was impressed at how far his kid sister had come.

“Careful, C, that’s our brain-dead aristocracy,” she warned, though playfully so. “Minus Olive. She’ll never not be a national landmark.” Floozy. Their father’s taste was questionable at best. After Virginia, things had only spun into decay. It was kind of ironic, how such a genetic jackpot could bankrupt itself.

At least their father had Basil, and hadn’t desired another heir.

Basil...

“The little bastard,” she murmured, though she was not particularly mad. She was glad, in fact, that Clinton had found her. She only regretted having had to give her address to the blood-sucking life force that was her baby brother. She loved him, sure, but it didn’t mean she had to like him. “How am I going to get any privacy if he hands out my address to perfect strangers?”

Not realizing it was her bad habit that caused the stir in her brother’s allergies, Laney picked up an idle cigarette from an ashtray as she passed into the kitchen. He’d been away too long. Almost too long. There was still Olive’s hairspray, which she’d never forget. And even in Clinton’s absence, Laney couldn’t resist pouring a new bottle down the sink and replacing it with Pepper-Up Potion.

She was glad to hear the compliment, but tried not to look overly pleased. She smiled to herself, back to him, and glowed a bit. She was proud of what she’d done so far-- and it hadn’t been as seamless as she’d always dreamed. Quidditch with a Professional team was a lot like Quidditch with school: ungodly early mornings, drills and whistles, over aggressive refs, and teammates eyeing each other when things went south. Add to it the new hurtles of management, branding, and recognition, and Laney’s eyes were certainly bigger than her stomach. But she loved it.

“Right. Have you noticed a trend in this family’s choice in women? I think... I won’t take your word for it.” And she wouldn’t clear her calendar, either. Neglecting one’s shoes and hanging off of one’s balcony to admire the snow and London smog were very time-consuming activities. “There were no English women who would have you, then?” She couldn’t help feeling a smidgen wounded; it would pass. She understood. She was only giving him a hard time. It was her brand of affection. I-Can-Insult-My-Brother-But-You-Can’t.

“The house? What, Dad’s house?” Laney quirked a brow. She hadn’t spent a single night there since moving into her flat. She wasn’t opposed to visiting-- she was still on decent terms with her father, when she wasn’t complaining about his wife, and with her younger brother, when she wasn’t complaining about his Basil-ness. “I bet that was fun...”

Grinning, she pulled out a bottle of tonic, and rummaged for the expensive gin. “Merlin, Clinton, you really are dense, aren’t you? The Shodding Arms, and it’s really not... your cup of gin.” For one, the whores were natives. And secondly, they didn’t know the meaning of yoga. Hell, Laney didn't know the meaning of yoga. “You can stay here. For a few nights.” Didn’t want to sound too cozy, though she was chuffed to see him, really. And she wouldn’t mind if he stuck around. She was sure he knew it. Deep down. She just didn’t say it. “I have a spare room. No furniture yet, but...” She gestured vaguely to the living room. “There’s that for now.”

She'd found the gin, and with a wave of her wand, the drinks poured themselves. "Cheers." She lifted her own, and took a swallow.

"You think I'm perfect? All these years and I had no idea," he teased.  Of course he had been told almost since his birth that he was less than perfect.  Once Basil was born, the adage increased considerably.  It had been a point of soreness for years, and even now the word still carried a history. 

"Yea, Somehow I managed to miss her when I stopped by.  Conveniently," he added, with a slow grin.  None of the siblings had ever been fond of their step-mother.  She had probably been out spending father's money at a spa, or painting her nails, or buying furs.  She was going to milk him dry.

He took the drink, and bumped glasses, surprised by the real clink of glass.  Fancy, she was doing well.  "Cheers," he mumbled, and took the shot.  It burned down his throat, but the good burn, that kind that warms one up on a Russian Winter morning. 

"It'll do, I don't need much.  Hammock'll be fine." He stated, glad he didn't have to deal with the shifty doorman.  He'd have had to put charms on everything.  "But," he sighed, giving her the brotherly look of disappointment, "If you're going to keep comparing her to Olive, I don't know how much longer I'll stay.  I have changed, you know.  You can't bully me anymore, not like before."  He stated firmly, his face drawing grim.

 It was the one sticking point of his family, one he wished he had never clued them in on.  None of them ever understood his relationship with Svetlana, always thinking the worst of her.  He understood their point of view, as did she, but it was inane and prejudiced for them to continue judging her without the slightest inclination to meet her.  If it wasn't for Lana, he wouldn't have survived Hogwarts, much less the world.

Laney narrowed her eyes, staring with seething affection at her older brother, whom she oft treated as a younger brother of sorts. It was strange, how the roles could be reversed, twisted, tangled, never quite clear. “Yeah, I think you’re perfect,” she conceded, cool arrogance dripping from her throat. “But you left out the best bit... the part about strangers.”

Perhaps there was something to this whole karma thing. He’d been home after four years away, and he’d escaped the wrath (and sharp, pink manicure, fake hugs, and hairspray) of one Olive Irving? Some wizards had all the luck. “How’s that? You must have slept in the labyrinth to pull that off.” The labyrinth was their pet name for their father’s wine cellar, a dusty old catacomb beneath the house, and the only place both off limits and completely unappealing to Olive’s nosy muzzle. “I made her leave your room the same. You’re welcome.”

The unsightly blueprints she’d drawn up, to turn Clinton’s bedroom into a second closet, a personal sitting room, or a play pen for her obnoxious little lap dog... well, those were best left unspoken.

She waved off his threats about leaving. As much as she wanted to proclaim him a pain, she was glad to see him, and glad he would be staying with her. The hammock, somehow, seemed to suit his persona. It were as if she’d subconsciously chosen it just for him. Or because of him.

It was funny, how such an alpha male father, high-maintenance step mother, bullying baby sister, and douchey younger brother had resulted in such a perfectly modest young man with an eerie sense of inner peace. And it wasn’t just Clinton being his usual weird self. There was something... different... about him.

Glass hovering near bee-stung lips, she looked him up and down. He ever looked taller. He might not have grown an inch, but he looked like a bigger man. Or maybe it was all that yoga, stretching him out. An illusion.

“Alright. No bullying. That’s fair...” Or painful. Though it depended on his definition of bullying. A bit of playful, sibling rivalry and love-hate raillery never hurt anyone. Besides Basil.

“But since I’m following your new rulse and giving you a place to crash, rent-free--” Her eyebrows rose, daring him to protest-- “This means you have to take your allergy meds, because I smoke inside... and everywhere... and I have company who smoke even more than I do. And you can’t say anything bad about them, either, if I can’t say anything bad about your little Svetrussia. Only Olive. Olive is free game. Olive doesn’t have any friends.”

"Pretty much," he responded, thinking back on the Labyrinth.  It was the coziest place in the manor, aside from his own bedroom.  "And thanks, I'd missed some of my things.  You didn't look under the mattress, by any chance, did you?" he asked curiously, hoping she hadn't seen what he had returned to remove.  He had cleared out most of his stash when he left for the Motherland, but there were still a few caches left--now, hiding in an enchanted duffel bag outside Laney's apartment.  He knew she wouldn't turn him away, at least not for the first night. 

"Good," he sighed, glad not to worry about any further fighting between them.  He could stand a lot of things, but Clinton was still sensitive to his friend's honor.  But of course Laney would issue her own rules.  Tit for tat, always the same.  He made a face at the mention of medication.  Pills were the bane of his existence.  Two a day, every day, for the rest of his life, excluding the years in Tibet.  He had learned to manage himself, without medication, but in a controlled environment.  Now he was back in London, and like Moscow, all bets were off. 

"Fine," he sighed, knowing he'd have to do it anyway.  He only hoped he could find a decent specialist in town and get on a new regimen, one with lower dosages.  "But it doesn't mean I have to like them.  You still hang out with your old crowd from school? Basil and I swore you were going to die from hepatitis or some'at..." he teased.  "But that's fine, really.  It's...nice to be back, Laney."

Laney shot him a look, pausing mid-pour so that the bottle hovered in the air, drip drip dripping like a cut-off fountain above her refill. “I didn’t. But if you think a man having porn shocks me, Clinton, you should see what I have under my mattress.” Granted, he was her brother. Her smirk faltered a bit, becoming more of a frowny smirk. She waved her wand, and the bottle began to flow again, new life swishing into her glass. She picked it up and sipped. “It’s the thought of my fragile brother having porn that makes me cringe. New Age, bendy, circus freak erotica full of women wearing hippie headbands and dreadlocked leg hair...” She wrinkled her nose. “Have fun with that. But not on my hammock.”

She grinned, trying not to feel too pleased that her older brother was actually reminding her of his... older brotherliness. It was a rare moment, for Clinton to be the dominant or overbearing one of the pair, but Laney felt strangely comforted by the fact that he might distrust her boyfriends. Like they were school-aged once more.

Who would have thought she’d ever want to be young again?

Boys were one thing. Friends were an entirely different matter.

“Oh, come off it. You’re more likely to be stabbed by those--” Gold-digging witches in the East. “Girls. You don’t even mind if they’re not witches, do you? Muggles can do that yoga thing.” She waved her hand in a strange swish of exasperation, indicating the poses she’d rather save for the bedroom. But they were two very different birds, Laney and Clinton. “I can’t believe you’d talk about that with Basil. That’s more offensive than hepatitis.” She rolled her eyes, grabbed her glass, and trotted back toward the open window.

Plinking herself down on a few pillows, she eyed her ashtray and was not surprised to see her smoke had burnt to ash. She lit up a new one, taking a drag and turning her neck to stare pensively out the window. “Do you remember when I told him Olive’s hair was a wig, and that she kept sweets tucked under it?” She didn’t look back toward him, but her eyes seemed to find something besides the building across the way. Olive had spent days in bed bemoaning her delicate scalp. Most unfortunately, the hair upon it was real. (Even if the blonde potion wasn’t.)

He grimaced, swallowing hard at the accompanying mental images of Laney pouring over Warlocks Weekly.  "No thanks," he muttered.  And of course.  Heaven forbid twenty seconds go by without some Orientalist dig.  Fragile, heh.  Svetlana had never described him as fragile, quite the opposite, in fact.  But that wasn't something he was quite comfortable with in sharing to his sister.  "It's the spandex that does it, you know," he replied, taking the bait.  It had been quite some time, indeed.

 "What do you think Hogwarts was for? I'm completely capable of...," he couldn't finish his sentence, being unable to keep from laughing. There he was, talking about his sexual habits with his younger sister.  The same one that tried to make him eat dirt.  Clinton couldn't help but blush like mad.  He took a sip of his drink to recollect himself. "You know, of---c-cleaning up.  Damnit, Laney.  Too weird." He took a longer gulp of his drink, draining the glass. Despite his twenty-one years he was still uncomfortable with certain subjects, at least outside of Svetlana's company.

He slide his glass next to the bottle, in askance for a refill.  "Thank you," he nodded, noting the hesitation and obvious restraint as she referred to his friend in a more polite manner.  "Hardly.  Believe it or not, Laney, but there are some civil people out there.  And some of them even live outside London."  He laughed at her motions, accustomed to the portrayal of yoga as any abnormal gesture.  "As if you would've given me the time of day to voice my complaints," he replied, grabbing his own full glass and following her to the window.

Clinton rolled his eyes as his sister did precisely what he hated most.  Fumbling for a pocket, Clinton pulled out an orange bottle after she drew another fag, popping a pill as she inhaled.  He swallowed hard, chasing it with his G&T before muttering, "Bitch."  As she stared pensively, Clinton replaced the bottle in his pocket and adjusted himself on her wide array of pillows.  Honestly, how many did one woman need?

"Right, and I told her he had just watched some nature program and wanted to groom her. She thought he was precious until he almost ripped it right off.  Ah, the best," he sighed, taking another sip.  "Isn't she due to die soon? All those chemicals and what not?  I don't think she's real anymore."

Spandex. Laney wrinkled her nose appropriately, but the shadow of a grin couldn’t disappear if it had wanted to.

Cackling silently over her glass, Laney was thrilled to see that hint of the Clinton she’d grown up with, the older brother whom she’d treated as a younger brother. “If you’re going to live here, you’ll have to get used to weird.” The word was acidic on her tongue. Laney didn’t care to be like everyone else, but she hardly categorized herself as weird. An opportunistic adventurist? Certainly. But weird? That was Clinton’s territory. Silly man. “Because, let’s be honest here, all that new age meditation stuff is what’s weird. You think it actually works? You think you could turn me into the tame little princess Olive always wanted with five minutes of breathing exercises a day?” She quirked a brow, daring him. “Porn’s got nothing on you, my friend-- brother.” Ah, there were her dimples again, out from their hiding place.

She gave yet another huffy little laugh of sorts. “I’m not an idiot, Clinton, I’m just picky about the women my brother picks up. Merlin knows Basil’s going to peak at 17, and then who will run the family? Last time I looked, I didn’t have the balls to qualify.” She took the drag, rolling her eyes. Things were back to normal. It was annoying and wonderful. It was how it should be. “I know more than a few Durmstrang blokes, and they’re all brilliant. I loved St. Petersburg when I visited for a match. But London’s the best city in the world.” She blew smoke toward the open window, delighting in the heat leaving her mouth like a dragon’s breath in the winter. She turned to face him. “You’ll remember. You’ll remember soon.”

The city was seductive. Laney knew it. Deep down, Clinton did, too. He had to. He hadn’t a choice. They shared the same blood in their veins, and neither of them were worthy of being locked up in Bedlam. Azkaban was another story. But that was beside the point. London was Brilliant.

“I heard that,” she said, not missing a beat-- or a drag-- as she stretched into her pillows and crossed her legs. She let out a yawn after a steady stream of smoke.

Not too terribly offended to be called a word rightfully belonging to their step-mum, Laney went on to satisfy her brother’s curiosity about said woman. (For the record, being called a bitch was about the only thing Laney could tolerate having in common with Olive, and there were few people who could get away with such a crime). “I think she’s hired some loser Potioneer with severe agoraphobia to perfect an anti-aging regimen. But more chemicals to combat the chemicals... she’s gotta croak sometime,” she mused aloud.

Clinton laughed, glad to know he and his sister could bond over their weirdness. Except, "It's not weird no more than you being some quidditch star is weird.  I bet you'd pluck your brows off if it'd give you two extra seconds in a dive, weirdo," he teased back, still somewhat sensitive about his status within the new age movement.  If you could call it that, of course.  The slip of friend was sweet, and Clinton smiled at that.  He liked being friends with Laney, now that she wasn't pushing dirt in his mouth.

"Neither do I it seems," he sighed.  It was established early on that he lacked the necessary grit to become the Irving heir.  Not that he  minded, too much.  It was an easier life without that pressure, but the disappointment that came with it could drive him crazy sometimes.  "I know, I missed London every once in a while.  But now I miss Moscow.  I suppose it'll always be that way."

"You know she's leaving everything to the dog, right?  Swear to Merlin.  I saw the will before I left."  He sneezed once, covering his nose briefly with his arm.  "So do you spend all your time developing cancer?"

Laney rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t pluck my brows for anyone but myself,” she growled back. “But I’ll cut yours off in your sleep if you want a good challenge, Little Cleo.” Ah, the nickname of eras past. The sister Laney had never had nor longed for, for the girl who was supposed to have been the new and shiny male heir. An all around decrescendo.

“But my hair did do me wonders in school...” She mused, continuing. Her voice grew calmer. “I’m growing it out again, you know? Now that Olive can’t have a say, I can wear it however I like, whenever I like.” And not just to spite her. Laney was growing up, slowly but surely.

“You don’t want that lazy money, anyway, Clinton.” There was a strange pull at her heartstrings suddenly, and while they were now a more friendly pair, there had always been that sentimental edge to the things she did. A he’s-my-brother-not-yours-you-cow possessiveness, and a desire to comfort him. “Let the brat squander it and start your own... crazy Eastern Medicine empire...”

Hey, who knew? It might take off.

“Just don’t leave again.” She pointed an accusatory finger, closed the space between them, and poked him lightly in the chest. “Not for so long.”

Nearly snorting, she didn’t doubt this newfound bit of gold. Olive willing her usurped fortune to her mutant designer dog. A tote bag canine with a studded collar, it was an ugly little thing, the antithesis of the sort of glorious mutt or massive, hunting thoroughbred Laney would like for her own. "Let's hope it outlives her, then."

She took another drag, holding the smoke in, considering his concern with a tiny head tilt and a smirk. Letting it out slowly, she shrugged in nonchalance. “I’ll go the way I please. At least I’ll go with style.” But really? Laney had enough ego to believe things like cancer were below her. Wasn’t that what magic was for?

He raised an eyebrow.  Little Cleo? Now that had been a while.  And Laney knew the second she attempted such a think he'd be ready for a tenfold retaliation.  Maybe he'd hex her cigarettes to turn her face green.  See if she'd smoke in his face again.

"You should, I think it'd look good long."  It'd be weird to see his sister with a more feminine hairstyle.  For so long she had seemed to do everything as butch as possible.  It'd be interesting to see how long she could get her hair to grow. 

"I might just.  There's a lot of money in it, 'specially with squibs.  I'll be Guru Jones of the Eighth Monkey Temple, if you please." He laughed lightly, although he never would assume such a title.  He was still very respectful of his friends in Tibet, but it was nice to be able to express a sense of humor. 

"Hey," he cried in protest.  Clinton rubbed his chest where she poked it, before looking back up at his sister.  "I won't.  Promise." 

"Of course you will," he sighed.  "As long as Olive goes before you.  I'd like to live in a perfect world for just a few moments."