Ó mhaighdean bhàn

A ghrian a's a ghealach, stiùir sinn

Gu uair ar cliù 's ar glòir

She didn’t really know why she had decided to come here, of all places. But she thought that Buchannan Street was better than going all the way to Diagon Alley. Not that it really would have been out of the way. She could have gone after work. She could have just sent Kenna, but she thought that this was better. She liked doing what she could herself. And since they had all gotten sick, Kate was taking advantage of doing some things herself. This was one of the things that she could do.

Slipping into the shop she was surprised to see that there were a bunch of people milling around. People that she didn’t think that she had ever seen in this bookshop before, and this was the closest one to Tara. She knew this place rather well. She thought that it was strange, but as she got closer, she realized that they were all milling about in different sections.

Grabbing one of the workers she nodded in that direction, “Can you tell me what’s going on over there, Michael?” It wasn’t normal for this place, but the boy that she had nabbed from the crowd was a familiar face. He was in here most Tuesday afternoons. And once things had gone to printing, on Tuesdays it was rather easy to get away. She had spent more than a few afternoons in this shop.

“There are a couple of authors here debuting their new books, Lady Yaxley.” He pointed them out to her, and her eyes fell on the last one. Before he had even finished introducing them, she knew who he was. Hiram Fitzgerald was standing there, and she didn’t think that that could have been any more of a coincidence. But then she heard her brother’s voice in her head, ‘There’s no such thing as coincidences.’ And she thought that that was probably true. Everything happened for a reason, and nothing happened the same way twice.

“Thank you.” She smiled at him and let him walk away from her to help someone else before she moved to grab a copy of Hiram’s new book. It was what she had come in here for anyway. She knew that it had only just come out, and he had only recently returned. Perhaps this last summer? She thought that she had heard of him coming back, but even if he was a gifted photojournalist, he didn’t have the type of things that she thought came up in HOME all that often. He would have fit better with something like Realm, or even the Quibbler, as much as she hated that thought.

Still, it would be something to read what he had to say, and if she could get him to sign it, well, then that would be even that much better. Brushing her long, red hair, over one shoulder she smiled and headed in his general direction. Letting other people go ahead of her, she hung back long enough that people were just lingering and talking before she approached him. “Are you sick of all of this yet?” She could have been normal, she could have gushed over him, or something else that she was sure had come out of at least one other person’s mouth since he had been doing this. But she didn’t think that that was going to get her anywhere, and if she wanted to meet him, actually meet him, she thought that being different was key.

@hiram • 581 • catherine's outfit

MADE BY VEL OF GS + ADOX 2.0

[attr="class","reasonhiram"]

[attr="class","reasonbghiram"]

[attr="class","reasonbighiram"]

A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal

[attr="class","reasonsmallhiram"]Ó MHAIGHDEAN BHÀN A GHRIAN A'S A GHEALACH, STIÙIR SINN GU UAIR AR CLIÙ 'S AR GLÒIR

[attr="class","reasonbodhiram"]Book signings. Something Hiram Fitzgerald had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that he would be doing. Growing up, all he’d wanted to do was be a photojournalist. He’d wanted to tell stories through pictures and small snippets of text. If someone had told him that he’d be writing a best-seller, he would have scoffed in their face!

And yet, here he was, at the book shop on Buchanan Street, signing his name on the front page of so many of his books.

People wanted pictures with him, they wanted to discuss what had happened over those twenty-five years in Siberia, they wanted to talk about his life before…and all Hiram wanted to do was get the hell out of this bookshop.

There seemed to be a stall of customers and Hiram took the opportunity to shift at his spot, stretching his arms back behind him. A moment of silence – a moment of refuge. This was taking a toll on him – more than he had expected. He was currently wondering if writing a book had been such a good idea after all when someone approached.

The voice surprised him. The candidness even more. Hiram hadn’t been expecting anyone to pick up on the subtle sense of dread that seemed to be emanating from his body. And yet, this young woman most certainly seemed to have pegged his mood. “You’ve no idea,” Hiram said. He felt as if he could be truthful with her, if for no other reason than she seemed to understand.

He regarded her for a moment – young, vivacious…bright. Hiram had gotten good at dissecting body language while living with The Wanderers. After all, without a shared language, so much of their communication was based on what could be ascertained through context. This woman seemed sure of herself almost as if she knew how he was feeling.

Everyone else had gushed and poured their excitement on him like glitter and Hiram wanted nothing more than to wash himself off and start the day anew; start fresh. This book was supposed to be a release. He had written about his experiences in order to work through them – in order to free himself from the hold of The Wanderers. Because, despite the fact that they were thousands of miles away, Hiram sometimes woke to wonder if they would steal him from his bed at night.

A part of him also felt like a sellout. Making a buck off of his experiences. He’d sold out to the first publisher that had offered him a book deal. And why? For the same reason. Hiram had expected that he would feel different after publishing the book. He assumed that he’d feel freer or more alive. Instead, he just felt like a washed up old coot trying to make a buck off of the tragedy that had happened to him.

Pulling another book from the pile, Hiram opened it to the front page. He could see his name as clear as day on the second page: Hiram U. Fitzgerald. Looking up, he gave the red-haired woman a gentle smile. This wasn’t her fault. If anything, she was trying to help by being friendly. “Who should I make it out to?” he asked, dipping his quill in the dark purple inkwell sitting on the desk to his left.

[attr="class","reasontaghiram"]@ mystery girl | 553 | OUTFIT

[attr="class","credhiram"]MADE BY VEL OF WW + ADOX 2.0

[googlefont=Fjalla One]
[newclass=.reasonhiram]width:390px;background-color:#404040;padding:35px;border:1px #595959 solid;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbghiram]background-color:#644d80;padding:10px;height:115px[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbighiram]margin:-16px 0px 0px 115px;padding:0px 0px 0px 15px;font-size:20px;font-family:Fjalla One;text-align:left;color:#eee;text-transform:uppercase;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonsmallhiram]font-family:verdana;font-size:10px;letter-spacing:1px;color:#eee;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbodhiram]background-color:#595959;padding:20px;font-family:verdana;font-size:10px;line-height:14px;text-align:justify;color:#eee;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbod bhiram]color:#644d80;[/newclass][newclass=.reasontaghiram]background-color:#644d80;padding:20px;font-family:verdana;font-size:9px;text-align:center;color:#eee;letter-spacing:1px;[/newclass][newclass=.credhiram]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;margin-top:5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cred ahiram]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]

Ó MHAIGHDEAN BHÀN

A GHRIAN A'S A GHEALACH, STIÙIR SINN

GU UAIR AR CLIÙ 'S AR GLÒIR

In a way she thought that they were all just trying to figure out how to exist. They were trying to figure out what they were, and what they could be, without magic. Kate thought that living without it, like her sister-in-law had, would have made it easier. But she had never lived like that. She was a pureblood witch, from a Sacred family. Everything about her life had always had a magic to it and going without it now meant that she was going to have to try and readjust.

It meant that she had to learn to do things for herself. It meant that she had to learn to be even more independent than she had been before, and that wasn’t always all that easy. She had never been the most domestic of witches, and magic had always helped with that. Now she had had to learn to do things herself. Kenna had to teach her to do things, and she thought that her mother would have been appalled by the fact that Kate had actually asked her elf to teach her anything. But it wasn’t fair to just expect her to do it all for her.

Not when she was perfectly capable of learning. And she thought that she was, she had been, so far anyway. There was nothing that Kenna had tried to teach her to do without her magic that she hadn’t been able to do. Cleaning without magic was certainly not her favorite thing. But she was getting used to it. Today she was taking a break, and she had come here to get the book that she wanted. What she hadn’t expected were the number of people milling about, or that there would be authors here signing things. She hadn’t come for that. She had just come for the book.

It was photojournalism at its finest, and she thought that there was a distinct lack of that these days. Too many novels about things that were all the same in the end. And less about the real world, and the cultures and the mysteries that surrounded them. There was a story to it too. His story, and Kate wanted to read it. But something about him made her want to hear it instead. She wanted to hear his story, and not the one that was printed for the world. Not the one that had been edited and dressed up. She didn’t care about the PR statements, or the things that they released for fans that wanted to know him.

Those were the things that the rest of the world saw. And Kate thought that, while usually it was deceased spirits that she talked to, there was something perfectly haunted about his. And it drew her to him. “Stuck in a goldfish bowl, with someone else telling you what to do when you’d rather be just about anywhere else?” She chuckled softly and then shook her head enough that she had to push her long, red hair behind her ear. “I’m Kate.” Simple enough, just Kate. It was always just Kate. Catherine Yaxley was someone else. Catherine Yaxley was a name that people automatically reacted to. Kate was so simple. Like a ghost of someone that she might have been.

@ haunted goldfish • 546 • catherine's outfit

MADE BY VEL OF GS + ADOX 2.0

[attr="class","reasonhiram"]

[attr="class","reasonbghiram"]

[attr="class","reasonbighiram"]

A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal

[attr="class","reasonsmallhiram"]Ó MHAIGHDEAN BHÀN A GHRIAN A'S A GHEALACH, STIÙIR SINN GU UAIR AR CLIÙ 'S AR GLÒIR

[attr="class","reasonbodhiram"]“Sounds like you could be an author yourself,” Hiram commented as he flourished the inside cover of the book with his signature. He wondered if more authors felt like he did. So many people thought it was a glamorous job. And it probably was, for those that were writing such things as tame fiction and historical nuances. But Hiram was writing about true life experience. He was writing about kidnapping and hostage-taking, all from his point of view. This wasn’t just some fabricated story that he had made up on a whim. This was his life…this was his reality.

And here he was pouring his heart and soul into a book only to turn it around and sell it for a profit. Benefitting off of what had happened to him. Making money off of the very instance that had caused him to miss the birth and adolescence of his only daughter, Blake. It was deplorable, really. But here people were, showing up for his autograph like he was some sort of celebrity.

Maybe in another time and place, he could have been comfortable here. But right now, he wasn’t sure he had made the right decision. Perhaps he would have been better off returning to London and sticking to the classroom instead of writing a novel.

He shook his head, lifting his gaze to the red-haired woman as she spoke her name. “Kate,” Hiram said with a small smile. “It means ‘purity’ when you delve into its English origins,” it was a simple observation, but Hiram had always been quick with names and deciphering them. Languages, too, really. It came with the territory, he supposed. A world traveler like he used to be was bound to pick up some interesting hobbies and habits along the way.

He was about to finish addressing the book when he paused. Perhaps there was something more he could write than ‘Well met and best of luck!’ After all, surely the woman in front of his was worthier than his usual salutations. “Short for Catherine? Patron Saint of philosophers, students, craftsmen, nurses, and librarians,” he paused before shaking his head. “Fitting that we should meet here today when I am in such desperate need of my own patron saint,” he was miserable, today. Feeling more lost than ever. Perhaps the woman was not the solution, but she was a welcome distraction to feeling like a sell-out.

There were so many things he had missed out on being away from his home. Different people — different experiences. It seemed to him that this woman had her own story to tell. But would she share it with him? He doubted it. He was just a silly old man making a buck off of his own misfortune. “I’m Hiram Fitzgerald,” she perhaps already knew that. After all, she was the one purchasing a copy of his book. How strange it would be to live in a world in which people recognized him from the black and white headshot on the hard back’s cover page. He wasn’t sure it was something he would ever grow used to. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

[attr="class","reasontaghiram"]@ patron saint | 523 | OUTFIT

[attr="class","credhiram"]MADE BY VEL OF WW + ADOX 2.0

[googlefont=Fjalla One]
[newclass=.reasonhiram]width:390px;background-color:#404040;padding:35px;border:1px #595959 solid;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbghiram]background-color:#644d80;padding:10px;height:115px[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbighiram]margin:-16px 0px 0px 115px;padding:0px 0px 0px 15px;font-size:20px;font-family:Fjalla One;text-align:left;color:#eee;text-transform:uppercase;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonsmallhiram]font-family:verdana;font-size:10px;letter-spacing:1px;color:#eee;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbodhiram]background-color:#595959;padding:20px;font-family:verdana;font-size:10px;line-height:14px;text-align:justify;color:#eee;[/newclass][newclass=.reasonbod bhiram]color:#644d80;[/newclass][newclass=.reasontaghiram]background-color:#644d80;padding:20px;font-family:verdana;font-size:9px;text-align:center;color:#eee;letter-spacing:1px;[/newclass][newclass=.credhiram]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;margin-top:5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cred ahiram]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]

Ó MHAIGHDEAN BHÀN

A GHRIAN A'S A GHEALACH, STIÙIR SINN

GU UAIR AR CLIÙ 'S AR GLÒIR

Kate shook her head with a soft smile, "Not an author, just a lowly journalist." Humble she could be, she hadn't come here expecting to meet him, or talk to him, certainly not to flaunt her career. She didn't think that what she did for a living was nearly as worldly as what he had done. But there was something about him that made her want to know him. That made her care a little more about the man that was standing in front of her, and not the picture on the book jacket. He was intriguing, in the haunted sort of way that Kate could never have just turned away from.

He had written this book about his life and what he had gone through, and she wanted to read it. She wanted to hear his stories, but she had to wonder just how much had been left out of the book? How much of the world that his eyes had seen had made it to the page, and how much was still trapped inside? It was the stories that she wasn't going to find in the pages of the book that she was curious about. The stories that had shaped him into the man that had come home and shared some of his experience with everyone around him. With the world really, in pages and ink.

When he repeated her name and spoke of its meaning, she couldn't help but smile. "Well, if my mother would have known that, she might have chosen something else." She didn't think that she was the purest of souls, but you couldn't be after the life that she had lived. Nothing terrible had happened to her directly, but a life tied to the Death Eaters, a life that had been defined by so many outside factors for so long, had finally stopped defining her.

"Yes." She nodded when he asked if it was short for Catherine. Kate had always been proud of her name. It was a strong name, a name that came with a deep background from all sides. The name of queens and commoners alike. Anyone could be a Catherine. As he finished signing the book, she watched him, studied him, more like. "Oh?" There was a sort of admiration in her tone for his honesty about the situation he found himself in, "And which are you? Philosopher, student, craftsman? Or are you a bit of all of them?" He seemed like he could have lived the life of every occupation he had listed out.

"I know." Kate chuckled lightly when he introduced himself, "The pleasure is mine. I didn't know that you were going to be here this afternoon, and I nearly sent my elf on this errand for me, but now I'm quite glad I didn't." If she had, she wouldn't have had the chance to meet him, nor would she have had the chance to do this, "I'm entirely sure what a patron saint would do, but if you'd let me, I'd take you for a cup of coffee, somewhere not in a fishbowl." She had no idea if he would take her up on her offer or not, but it stood either way. This book signing seemed over enough that no one would notice if he slipped out a few minutes early.

@ join me? • 556 • catherine's outfit

MADE BY VEL OF GS + ADOX 2.0