Tracking down Memories pv. Howard

The months leading up to when Howard officially opened his business surely hadn't been the most exciting of his life. He had trudged along from one office to the next as he looked for one that he could actually afford and with it came all of the supplies an office would need to procure. Quills and inks, parchment with the proper heading, files and cabinets to put them in. Mundane was an understatement, but there was one thing he had enjoyed and that was receiving his first set of business cards. To think there would ever be an official anything with his name on still felt like only a dream. In his younger days he may have hoped for a quidditch card, yet here he was. Tracker by profession and the young man was slowly making a name for himself.

Howard sat in said office with a jar of bruise removal paste next to him that was in desperate need of refilling. He knew this job came with risks, but so far it had been beating the young man to a pulp. The past six months alone had seen him off to St. Mungo's for treatment a handful of times, yet it did little to curb his enthusiasm for the job. Howard knew in his first care of magical creatures class that he would one day work with the beasts of this world and no one comes away from working with wildlife in the field without a cut or two. However, it was the dangers brought to him by witch and wizard alike that he had not fully expected. The ring of poachers he was actively looking to bust up being the most present of his dangers.

Many would look to people like Howard and wonder why? The field was not the most lucrative for the risk that came with it. Fame or even notoriety would rarely be attached to your name. That was for the aurors and their department heads when the arrests were actually made. No one writes about the blood hounds. So, why? A sense of duty that compelled him past all the threat and injury? Perhaps. Right and wrong was a blurry line for someone like Howard. Harm to person or animal often required punishment, but for the most part who was he to judge another. Duty could push a man so far, but what really drew him to this line of work was the fact that he liked the danger that came with it. Howard was a man of dualities and one of those halves was born in the shadows. To hunt, to track, it was in his nature.

Howard's card had been passed out to the others in the field. Those with experience that he hoped to work with and to gain some knowledge from as he made his way down this career path. So, when a knock came at his office door he was fully expecting either client or colleague. "Ferula." Howard whispered the bandaging charm around his bruised ribs and buttoned up his shirt. "Come in."

Admittedly, Archer had not been quite certain what to expect from the mysterious Mister Howard White.

The man himself…. Well, he didn’t seem to be present. The voice that called for him to enter was deep, yet still bore the signs of young adulthood. There was no chiselled man in his thirties or maybe early forties, no seasoned explorer; the room felt empty, and still. Instead, in his place, was a different man he assumed to be far younger. His skin was even paler than Archer’s, which was saying quite a lot — almost inhuman in fact. Red eyes standing out against his dark hair, the boy wasn't quite certain what to make of him. An assistant or aide, perhaps.

He cleared his throat and straightened his collar, setting his gaze on some semblance of professionalism. “I’m looking for Mister Howard White?” Perhaps he was in a meeting or off on an expedition, yet soon, Archer reckoned, he would be back. Certainly, the issue of grieving his mother and her legacy was a far more pressing one that whatever magical creatures he had been designated to track. Folding his hands behind his back he stood, spine straight, as he waited. Little did he know the man he was looking for was sat directly before him.

Yet soon enough, Archer’s attention was pulled away from the soon to be revealed Howard and towards his surroundings. The room was single and rather small, shabby, almost. Two desks and one globe occupied most of the room, and Archer was currently standing on the opposite end towards the far wall. The wall panelling, having long-lived its time looked as if would cave in if Archer stared too hard. On it, however, was littered maps that covered almost the entirety of its surface. Forever the son of the mapmaker, his fingers trailed curiously over the paths and trails, skipping from mountain to ocean. Some were parchment, some were paper, but each had an undeniably different and unique texture, each had a unique story. He could spend hours being poured over each and every one of them.

Yet one stopped him dead. His fingers halted as they reached the paper. There was nothing special of the material, nor any expensive ink or flourishes, yet hidden on the coastline, curved as if it were a wave crashing onto the shore, were two letters most did not even notice, but Archer had watched her ink herself. Her initials, and hands tracing over them, their slightly protruded surface from when she had poked at them from the behind with a quill, Archer read those two letters aloud. Marguerite Duncan was many things: adventurer, explorer, probably tracker herself, but above all those titles her field was cartography. And above all those titles, to Archer, she was just his mother, in life or in death. “My mother made this.”

Before he knew what he was asking, Archer turned on his heel, lifted his chin, and said quickly, “Can I buy it back from you?”

Howard sat back in his chair and straightened his posture. He would have liked to be a bit more cleaned up when meeting with a potential client or discussing business with another in the field, but this would simply have to do. However, when the door opened his crimson eyes would flash with subtle surprise. No longer a boy, but no where near a man, a teenager walked into his office claiming to look for him. The opening to this interaction had him looking from side to side. Well, he was Howard White and this was his office. Though for a moment it cast a flicker of doubt through his mind. Howard was still getting used to being addressed as an adult, but he found his voice in the following beat.

"That's me. Um, I mean, I am Howard White. Mister Howard White." The young man coughed and cleared his throat in a weak attempt to cover up his fumbling words. Perhaps he'd get the hang of this whole professional thing one day. "What can I do for ya?" He asked to keep the conversation flowing. "Do you have a message or something?" Why else would a teenaged boy be here on his own? A summer job working for a parent in one of the other offices? Mail delivery for the building perhaps? However, judging by the way he was drifting towards the maps on Howard's wall it would seem it was for another reason entirely.

The boy would stop at a certain map. One in particular that he was quite fond of. Not only were they very helpful in his line of work, but he also appreciated those that made them. The cartographers of the world were skilled and talented people that were often overlooked. Many maps were simply mass produced copies of the ones you could find in textbooks or travel guides, but you never got the personal touches or any of the artists notes that were sometime provided. That's why it took Howard by such surprise when the boy claimed that his mother was its creator.

Howard's keen eyesight could see that it was the map initialed M.D. A veteran in their field with quite the reputation. A skilled tracker by any means, but her work as an adventurer and explorer were the stuff of legends. It was people like her that had drawn Howard to this profession in the first place and when he was reaching out to those that might provide him with guidance, it was she that had offered a map of her own making and encouragement to press on in an often unforgiving field. "Your ma is Marguerite Duncan?" Howard did not know of her passing. "Oh." Again he was taken by surprise when the boy asked to buy the map back. "I mean, she gave it to me as a gift. It means a lot to me coming from someone like her. So..." Introductions weren't made. "What's your name, lad? Maybe I could make you a copy?"

Then he must have been far younger than Archer had expected. He watched with one slightly raised brow as Howard introduced himself. Just then, the realisation dawned on him that he must not have graduated so long ago, but certainly must have been something of a prodigy if Marguerite saw something in him so early. Though perhaps not at conversation, but Archer was hardly one to judge. He didn’t bother to answer the question, however — who was he, Mercury?

“Archer Theodore Duncan,” he supplied cooly, the same introduction he had delivered infinite times in his first year yet with a particular bite on the middle name. The surname should have been implied, but he supposed he would help Howard with the air of formality and professionalism he was so desperate to instil. As if to further aid that endeavour, he walked forward to extend a hand. After all, if his mother of all people saw potential in him, it must have existed. He smiled slightly, and although it wasn’t particularly warm, it wasn’t supposed to be cold either, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Marguerite is my mother, I found you through your business card.” Was would have been the right tense, but he had no intentions of randomly revealing the fact that she passed.

“Maybe I could make you a copy?”

Funny, Archer didn’t recall himself being so quick to argue, but he spoke before he could have thought. His voice was collected as he offered the opposite, “Well, no, how about I make a copy for you instead.” Or he could make a copy for himself and give Archer the actual work, or hell, they could take a nice weekend trip down to the print shop. Honestly, there were quite a few options, and it shouldn’t take Howard, being the smart man as he was, that long to think of. Like most, he must not have known of Marguerite passing, and of course Archer was suspecting a question along the lines of: Can she not make another one for you? Evidently not. And it must have been foolish for Mister White here to have thought it carried great sentimental value to him, when it carried a value infinitely greater to him.

Archer did not usually carry money in his satchel, but figuring that he would be in a different city and perhaps might even swing by a coffee shop on his way back (he was here anyways, he figured), he had brought a bag of galleons. Humble in size and weight, it certainly would never cover the amount of a money a handmade map on high-quality parchment from a cartographer known in her field costed. Which, having been to several auctions, most of which Marguerite wore a “resting bitch face” through, was expensive. “You want to name your price? Write me a cheque.” Of course, he would have been using more of his father’s money than his own, but consider it payback for everything he burnt, literal or otherwise.

It was only a year and a half or so since Howard graduated from Hogwarts, but sometimes it seemed like a lifetime ago. It was rather wild how quickly you go from being a schoolboy to an adult and how quickly all of those changes start piling up against you. There is the usual. Rent, mortgages, bills and banking debts. All the things that weigh heavy on the shoulders. Then there is the other. Hogwarts was mostly safe. Yes, they had a hag infestation or two, but there were adults there to protect you. To guide you through the troubles and tribulations and make sure you come out whole on the other side. That was gone the moment the headmaster handed him his diploma. So, when he had made contact with Marguerite it sort of had that feeling to it.

Howard had not grown as close to her as he had some of his professors. He didn't even know of her passing after all, but to be recognized by someone as talented as her had bolstered his confidence in a way that she would now never know. It was the closest thing he had to a mentor at the time and considering his age it was quite the treat. Howard had been gifted with the natural abilities of a dhampir, but he had also worked very hard to hone those skills to suit this career. Marguerite had seen something in him and for the first time in his life he felt like he was on the right path. A shame they hadn't more time to get to know each other. When Howard did learn of her passing it wouldn't gouge his heart out, but some sense of loss would be there.

"Nice to meet you too." Howard was trying his hardest to be professional, but acquaintance wasn't in his rather small vocabulary. It reminded him of all those rich kids from school curtsying and bowing to each other like a bunch of posh...He let the thought slip away. However, he would rise and meet the boy's outstretched hand. "I can't believe she kept my card." Howard let his hand slip away and offered Archer a seat beef taking his own again. "She's one of the best in our field, you know?" It was stating the obvious, but Howard wanted to offer his respect to the woman's son. Though the topic of the map would offer just a slight bit of tension.

Howard couldn't help the slight smirk that spread across his lips when Archer bluntly refused his offer and turn it right back on him. The smile wasn't a challenge, rather it was a recognition of one's self in another. Howard too was steadfast when it came to something that he wanted. Especially if it was something that held any sort of sentimental value. The letters from his own mother safely sorted and tucked away in his safe would provide testament to that. As much as Howard would have loved to hold on to the original it was clear that the map held much more importance to Archer. Perhaps they had worked on it together or it was in the backdrop when they shared a special moment. Whatever the reason, it was hard to argue.

Crimson eyes would drop to the moneybag that Archer provided. More proof that this boy wasn't leaving here without that map today. They both knew it was worth more than that bag of coins could hold, not that either of them would dream of selling it. "Sorry kid, that piece is priceless, but if it means that much to you then you can have the original. I'll need someone with a better wand hand than myself to make the copy." One of the downsides to his dhampirism unfortunately. He was stronger and faster than most men, but his magic would always be considered subpar. For a piece like that he would want a professional. "Give me your address and I'll deliver it myself." Hopefully the offer would conclude that particular bit of business, but it did still leave him curious. "Is that all that brought you here today?"

If you caught Archer last year, he could have passed for your perfect pureblood heir. Not anymore it seemed. He carried a dishevelled look about him — the bags under his eyes, the tousled long hair, to the very way he walked, fast, purposeful, but certainly not polished. It extended now to how he conducted himself, and etiquette could have been the centrepiece of a comedy show. The hand he extended had seemed ironic, the words on his lips were insincere, and as Howard (or rather, Mister White) mentioned Marguerite as one of the best in her field, Archer said fussily, waving at the air with dismissiveness, “Of course I know that.” Stiffly, he took a few steps closer to the desk and pulling out the chair opposite to Howard’s, slid into the seat.

Don’t be so generous; frankly, your office looks like you could use the money, but Archer had more self control than the say that. His lips only curved up in a small smirk, the sort ambiguous enough to be implied as either gratitude at his generosity, which accounted for a quarter of it at most, or, more truthfully, amusement at the entire situation. Well, he reminded himself again, if his mother had seen potential, it surely did exist. Instead, he voiced instead, voice clipped with measured precision, “Simply having an owl send it to me at Hogwarts would be fine. And this offer, yes, does conclude this particular bit of business….” Archer confirmed, before trailing off in thought.

“Someone’s life is also priceless,” he mused suddenly, the statement so casually thrown it might not have seemed to have meant anything, or could have meant anything at all. There was little sentimentality in the statement, and littler melancholy yet. It was purely an observation, a factual statement he could have been seen making in a class of theory. It was the sort of thing that was “blink and you’ll miss it”, words fast, but firm. His look in his eyes seemed to have flashed in the light once. Then he shrugged, as if saying, an arbitrary thought for you to entertain, Mister Howard.

Archer wasn’t here for pity. Pity was not a language he spoke, full stop. From all the halfhearted condolences he had received on Marguerite’s funeral to the glances Matthew gave him after he had broken down over the piano… it was only natural that he would soon get sick of it. He certainly wouldn’t tell Howard of Marguerite’s death; Archer did not yet deem him to have the right of knowing.

In fact, in hindsight, he wasn’t quite sure why he was here. The decision had been a foolish one, and as Howard asked his question, Archer was only reminded of his impulsivity. “Is that all that brought you here today?”

“Sorry,” he said, words sharp as he collected his straying thoughts. It wasn’t much of a genuine apology as opposed to a indicator that he was about to speak, a reminder to himself that he was wandering off the tracks of what he wished to reveal and inquire. He cleared his throat, straightened himself in the chair too big for his slender frame, and continued, “I just realised I have not yet arrived at the point of my visit. I myself am interested in the field of tracking, as well as cartography, exploration, et cetera. I happened to have a weekend free, and figured I would come see the friend of my mother.” Shifting in his seat and holding his cheek in his palms as he leaned forward Archer decided to offer Howard a question to start their conversation, “Did you know you wanted to become a tracker when you were in your third year?”

Howard's upbringing was different than many. His dhampirism would come later in life, but he was one of those rare muggleborns before then. The idea of pureblood, family heirs and massive estates all seemed like something reserved for royalty or pulled from the pages of a fairy tale. No one would have mistook him for being posh. He was brought up on the rougher streets Manchester, so when it came to acting proper, Howard always felt like a fish out of water. Yet he tried to fit in to a world where that sort of thing was expected by a certain class of people. It didn't always leave a great taste in his mouth, but nothing a bit of fire whiskey couldn't wash down. So, the frank, almost blunt tone that Archer took was actually a breath of fresh air.

Of course the boy knew who his mother was and maybe exactly how much talent she possessed. However, sometime there is almost a filter that youth provides when looking at your parents. You may be proud of them, but true appreciation sometimes took years. Howard only shrugged when Archer dismissed him with a wave. It would take much more than that to offend the man and again, he appreciated the straightforwardness of it all. "No problem. I'll have the owl out in the next day or two." Howard's eyes shifted towards the door as he half expected Archer to take his leave now that the business was done quickly.

However, the youth would remain and with an odd statement at that. "The most precious thing of all." Howard agreed that no price could ever be put on a life, but why the boy would say such a thing was probably far beyond his capability to understand. Life was beautiful and was meant to be cherished, but it was also ruthless. Even if Archer were to disclose the fact that his mother had passed, Howard would not be the shoulder to cry on. He was no monster despite outward appearances. Any that knew the young man would have known him to be an emotional fellow. The human side to his dual nature would offer sympathy. Perhaps it was the natural born killer his soul shared space with that would think more rationally, if not coldly about it. Life comes and goes.

Again Howard would shrug when an apology escaped Archer's lips. The boy had every right to be here in his opinion, but it would seem that his mother was not the only reason for the visit. "No, not at all." These two did not know each other well enough to dive too deep into Howard's third year. Those were some difficult times for sure as he began to figure out what it would mean to live life as a damphir. The dark desires that came with such a transformation had proved challenging to repulse. "I'm sure I was still dreaming about being a quidditch star at that point, but certain things about the field have always been interesting to me." Sports had always been a love of his, but never enough to pursue professionally. "I like the outdoors and I've always enjoyed studying wildlife. Plus, my, uh...unique nature makes tracking pretty easy. It wasn't until fifth or sixth year that I discovered it might become a job, but as soon as I read about it I knew that was going to be my career. Do you hope to follow in your mother's footsteps or something a bit different? I've actually been working much closer with law enforcement than expected. We'll see where that takes me."

“The most precious thing of all.” Howard agreed.

“Unique nature?” Archer asked instead, not dwelling for long on the previous conversation. He cocked his head in curiosity, this time a genuine spark of wonder lighting dulled eyes, “Can you tell me more about what you refer to? I don’t suppose it’s something I can just attain myself but I may as well know about it. It must be nice, having a inborn nature already give you a direction.” Of course, there was no possibility Archer had any idea he was referring to his dhampirism, but to hi it did not make his point any less true. Compared to him, lost in the winds of life, having his fate decided or urged into a direction seemed like a blessing to him. Or a curse. Or a blessing. He still haven’t quite decided yet.

“Law enforcement,” Archer repeated brows raised in a mask of blatant unpleasantness, “Sounds most interesting. I mean why get into a job like this just to do that. The entire point is to be out in nature and to be free; I personally would hope to work in it like my mother did—without care for restrictions and as a purely scientific pursuit.” He pursed his lips, musing at his own explanation. “Do they give you a direction? Limitations? Do they help you know where you’re going in this world, or are they just there to put you into another box?” He almost lacked the ability to understand. The most freeing job, in the tightest of circumstances.

Archer paused, in thought. This question was one that obviously extended law enforcement or no law enforcement — it was about someone providing guidelines and following them easily. “Because that’s my question, Mister White. At the end of the day, I suppose I’m seeking for advice. I must admit I am lost, yet I do not seem to be searching for light.” He shrugged, as if to ask, do you understand what I mean? He supposed it would have been a shame if the elder boy didn’t, but it was not like he expected him to anyways. What frustrated him was how no one ever seemed to understand, what frustrated him more was his own conflicting self that pushed them away whenever they actually did.

The epitome of his problems was his lack of direction, both in life and in guidance. Since Marguerite passed away he had not known what the hell to even do with himself. Of course, there was ever the possibility of becoming a cartographer, explorer, or tracker like his mother, perhaps even publish a few papers on the matter and get himself known, but that, if he thought about it, wasn’t what he wanted to do in life. Running a hand through his hair, he stated the fact out loud, “I don’t quite know what I’m doing with myself, Howard.”

Why was he even here? Why was he anywhere? He was supposed to inquire quickly about the state of his career over the boredom of a weekend, not dip his toes into existential philosophy. Yet there he was, all awkward and lanky and thinking about this too early at his age of not yet fourteen. He took a few steps away from Howard and towards the door, estimating that he had overstayed his welcome with the man far from a doctor of philosophy or a life coach. He did not intend it as a farewell, but a creation of healthy distance between him and a man that he realised didn’t exactly care about his troubles. Hands in his pockets, he seemed suddenly out of place in a room of maps he never belonged on.

Howard's head tilted slightly to the side as well when Archer asked for further explanation. The young man had grown accustomed to explaining his dhampirism to people and whether that brought disdain or delight meant little to him these days. However, he hesitated for a moment with this boy. Perhaps it was because of who his mother was? To think that an idol of his may have been intolerant of his nature brought a pause, but he shook it off as quick as it came. "Right, sorry. I was talking about being a dhampir." Howard didn't wait for a reaction or give a moment for it all to sink in. "Some can tell right away." He shrugged. "I have better eyesight and sense of smell than humans. Almost as strong as the werewolves, so I can play the part of bloodhound when needed. It makes all this." Howard gestured around the office. "A bit easier."

Howard gave an understanding expression when Archer cast an unpleasant one at the mention of law enforcement. This was a field that he was sure he would never pursue, but so far most of his contracts had come for that very department. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate what those officers did, Howard just wasn't really one for being that tied down. "Yeah. I thought it would be more along the lines of what your mother did too, but humans need to be tracked too." Part of protecting the land and wildlife was keeping it safe from those humans that sought to destroy it. "Fortunately they contract me and then I do it my way. I'm not deputized or anything like that. As long as I bring the result they are looking for I get my pay. How it's done is up to me." That sense of freedom was crucial to Howard. He wouldn't survive under too much restrictions, but he did hope that sense of exploration would come down the line.

Howard nodded along as Archer explained his own predicament. Perhaps every young person at that age goes through a phase of self doubt, but his own had been rather severe. "Drawn to the shadows." A statement that was meant to be one of understanding. "I spent a few years lost in 'em too." Howard had indeed nearly lost himself completely during that time. He didn't have much else to offer besides understanding. No sage advice or words of wisdom. That journey is for the individual to take. "One foot in from of the other, kid. You'll find your way eventually."

Red eyes watched at the boy took a few paces away from him. He knew what that sense of frustration felt like. How it drove you to seek answers, but fueled your anger when those answers were given and they made no difference. It would churn in this boy like a storm for a good long while, especially after such a loss. Howard wouldn't protest if he chose to leave his office, but he didn't encourage his departure. "Have you thought about going out on an expedition? See if you like it. You'd need a guide or a party, but maybe you'd find some answers? Yer old enough now to give it a go. Over summer maybe?"