Rufus Scrimgeour paced his office, the rhythmic click of his boots echoing off the stone walls. His mind buzzed with the recent encounter—Geneviève Delacroix’s sudden appearance, her seemingly innocent explanation, and her rather mysterious presence. The Map of Vigilance had confirmed her identity, easing some of his initial fears, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the French witch than she let on.
He paused at his desk, running a hand through his greying mane of hair. Geneviève’s intrusion into his private training session hadn’t just been an inconvenience—it had unsettled him. He prided himself on being cautious, even paranoid, yet she had slipped into his defenses far too easily. And now, she was waiting outside, expecting some kind of explanation or resolution.
A knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Come in,” he called.
The door creaked open, and Clara, his ever-efficient assistant, stepped in with her usual calm expression. “Minister Scrimgeour, Ms. Delacroix is waiting in the reception area as you requested.”
“Thank you, Clara,” Rufus said, straightening his robes. “I’ll see her now.”
As Clara disappeared from sight, Rufus steeled himself for the conversation ahead. He wasn’t used to being caught off guard, and his instincts told him to tread carefully. He strode out of his office and down the hallway toward the reception area, his mind already crafting the precise wording he’d need to remain noncommittal yet firm.
When he arrived, Geneviève stood from her seat, her movements fluid and graceful. Her deep blue robes shimmered in the afternoon light filtering through the windows, lending her an ethereal air that made her look even more out of place in the harsh, bureaucratic halls of the Ministry.
“Ms. Delacroix,” Rufus greeted her, offering a curt nod. “I trust you’ve been comfortable?”
Geneviève smiled, a polite, almost demure gesture. “Yes, quite. Your staff has been very kind.”
Rufus gestured toward the corridor. “Shall we talk in my office? It’s more private.”
She nodded and followed him down the narrow hallway. As they walked, Rufus could feel her presence beside him—a faint, almost magnetic pull that made him acutely aware of her. He quickly dismissed the thought, attributing it to the lingering tension of the day. Yet something about her lingered in the back of his mind.
Once inside his office, he motioned for her to sit. She chose the chair across from his desk, crossing her legs and folding her hands neatly in her lap. Rufus took his own seat behind the desk, leaning back slightly, but keeping his gaze steady on her.
“Now that we’ve cleared up the matter of your identity,” Rufus began, his voice even, “I’m curious as to what brought you here, to this remote part of the British countryside.”
Geneviève’s expression remained unreadable, though her eyes sparkled with something just beneath the surface—mischief, perhaps? Or calculation?
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m on vacation,” she said smoothly. “A bit of a reprieve from Paris. My family can be… overwhelming at times, and I thought a few weeks of quiet would do me good.”
Rufus raised an eyebrow, his skepticism thinly veiled. “A vacation? And you just happened to stumble upon my training session?”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Geneviève smiled again, though this one was tinged with something more elusive. “I assure you, Minister, it was purely coincidental. I hadn’t anticipated crossing paths with the head of the British Auror Office while seeking some peace and quiet.”
Rufus considered her words, watching her closely. Her body language was calm, composed, but her response felt too practiced. Still, pushing too hard might drive her away, and he wasn’t ready to let her slip out of his grasp just yet.
He leaned forward slightly. “Regardless of the circumstances, I must ask for your discretion in this matter. What you witnessed during my training session is confidential. I’d appreciate it if you kept what you saw to yourself.”
Geneviève’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You wish for me to keep your little training session a secret?”
Rufus’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. The nature of my work is delicate, and not something I care to have spread about. I trust you understand.”
There was a pause, a slight hesitation on her part, before she responded. “Of course. I can assure you, Minister Scrimgeour, your secret is safe with me.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken thoughts. Rufus felt a knot of suspicion still sitting heavy in his chest, but for now, he had no choice but to take her at her word.
“Thank you,” he said, his tone measured. “That’s all I ask.”
Geneviève rose to leave, but then paused, a playful glint flickering in her eyes. “There is… one small favor I’d like to ask in return.”
Rufus tilted his head, wary. “Go on.”
She met his gaze, her voice softening. “If you don’t mind, Minister, I’d appreciate a bit of companionship during my stay. I don’t know anyone here, and it can get dreadfully lonely. Perhaps I could write to you? It seems you’re one of the few people I’ve encountered who understands the pressures of duty.”
The request took Rufus off guard. Normally, he would have rejected such a personal entanglement without hesitation. But something about her—the way she spoke, the subtle vulnerability in her words—made him pause.
“I… see,” Rufus said slowly. “I suppose that could be arranged.”
A small smile bloomed on Geneviève’s lips, and for a brief moment, Rufus felt his resolve weaken, an unfamiliar warmth spreading in his chest. “Thank you, Minister. I promise not to be a burden.”
Rufus nodded, his voice gruffer than usual. “Very well.”
Geneviève gave him a final, graceful nod before excusing herself. Once the door closed behind her, Rufus remained seated, staring at the spot where she had just stood. His fingers drummed lightly against the desk as he tried to make sense of his own actions.
“What has gotten into me?” he muttered aloud, his brows furrowing. “Why did I agree to that? Am I losing my edge?”
He considered the possibility for a moment before a more troubling thought crept into his mind. Was she part-Veela? Had she bewitched him somehow?
The thought sent a chill down his spine, and for a second, real fear fluttered through him. Before he could dwell on it further, a sharp, exasperated voice cut through the room.
“No, you stupid boy!”
Rufus nearly jumped out of his chair, his head whipping around to locate the source of the voice. It was one of the portraits hanging on the wall behind him, a sharp-tongued witch with grey hair and a scowl etched permanently on her face.
“You agreed because you think she’s beautiful,” the portrait said, her tone dripping with disdain. “Stupid men, always the same. A pretty face and you’re all mush.”
Rufus blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. “I—what?”
The witch in the portrait rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t act so surprised, Scrimgeour. I’ve been hanging here long enough to see how you lot operate. A lovely young woman bats her eyelashes, and suddenly you’re agreeing to anything she asks.”
Rufus scowled, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. “I’m not… smitten,” he muttered defensively. “I’m just… being cautious.”
“Cautious?” The portrait let out a derisive snort. “You’ll be writing love letters by the end of the week at this rate.”
Rufus opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, his mind still spinning. He turned back toward the door Geneviève had just left through, the echo of her words still lingering in the air.
As much as he hated to admit it, the portrait’s words gnawed at the back of his mind. Was there something more to his unexpected agreement? Had he been drawn in by her beauty, or was it something deeper?
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. There was no time for distractions. And yet, as he sat there in the quiet of his office, a small voice whispered that perhaps the portrait had a point.