[George Ralston]

It had been a couple of weeks since he'd sent out the invites. First class mail and everything - thruppence a time just for the stamps. Weren't many folk about who could afford the likes of the Trewethett place. It didn't, as far as George knew, have a proper name. It wasn't a "Trewethett Mansion" or something like that, though by rights many of the locals called it that anyway.

Though it were a bit odd, no-one had seen old man Trewethett in years - and it were a bit of a mystery how old 'old man Trewethett' was... George had heard the rumours of the grumpy old man in his house that were far too big for him, ever since he were a lad, and that were a good forty years ago. No-one had been quite sure when the mansion had been built, either. Far as anyone knew, it had always been the Trewethett place.

So when it came up for sale, it turned out that old man Trewethett had had kids and they lived up in the Smoke and didn't want nothing to do with the house so when he passed, they just wanted to sell it. Typical city folk, don't know what they got. It's not just a piece of land and an old building in need of a fixer-upper, it's got history, heritage.

The place should smell funnier than it does, building this old ought to have damp and cobwebs and musty everywhere. Could be nice though, fix them creaky floorboards, lick of paint, modern heating - though that old fireplace ought to be left intact, bloody marvellous bit of marble, that. Marble and granite from down the road. Lovely, wouldn't mind having it, but it's practically the size of a front-room all to itself. Better it stay here in the mansion where it belongs.

The invites had gone out to quite far and wide - there'd been calls back to the office from his lordship in Shropshire, a businessman from Oxford way, even some interest from a fancy-pants herbalist from Ireland. Couple of others, wasn't sure exactly who would be turning up on the day.

George had left instructions for folks driving down to Tintagel way; the motorways weren't the best, the local roads were worse, especially for the more city folks, but they know all about the state the roads were in. But they'd do, and he'd even listed a local B&B that were alright, as well as the nearby hotel, in case any of the visitors should want to stay for a bit, soak up the local atmosphere. It were right pleasant in the area that time of year.

And so the appointed hour had come, and he was standing outside the gate to the mansion, a tidy collection of keys in his hand, trying to remember which one was the gate.

He turned to the others. "Glad you could make it - it's a right nice day out here, best way to see the place, when it's light." As he wasn't sure who else might be coming, he reckoned he'd give it another few minutes just in case, and filled the void with a bit of empty sales patter, like he'd been taught.

"Well, as you can see, the mansion has all the hallmarks of that splendid Victorian Gothic architecture that you see round the country. Big builders the Victorians. Loved themselves that tracery you see, the circles with the three circles inside. Very popular in the south, I'm told. Though," George paused, "some folk round here like to think the mansion is much, much older. Some folk even reckon that it weren't under Tintagel Castle where Merlin were buried, but I don't reckon this house is old enough for that."

He paused to let it sink in for effect. Truth be told, George thought Arthur and Merlin had beggar-all to do with Tintagel but local legend were quite adamant on the subject. Still, if it were the resting place of Merlin, it'd explain how old man Trewethett could be that old!

"I think that's everyone that's coming, so... I'm George Ralston, and my office is the one looking after this place. Its former occupant passed away, you see, and his kids didn't want nothing to do with the place; them's living up in London and they just want it sold, so I'm looking after that business. I know my name's George but call me Dod, everyone else round here does."

With that, he fumbled with the lock on the gate, it clicked open and he swung them open wide.

"If you wouldn't mind following me, I'd like to show you what we affectionately call the Trewethett place. Won't be a quick tour, old duffer like me don't move quickly." He'd also learned that it was better to let people take their time, especially for something like this that would need some time and work.

[Suzanne Le Tissier]

Cornwall. Suzanne loved this part of the country. The people were simple, the landscape was beautiful and she particularly enjoyed that one was never far from the sea. Really, it was the ideal place. Therefore it was all the more exciting she got to stand in for her father Aubéron and brother Meriadoc. Normally, the Le Tissier men dealt with any additions to the family's impressive real estate portfolio, but the prospect near Tintagel was special. Though once wizard-owned it was being sold through a muggle outlet.

It was that circumstance that had made Suzanne the logical candidate to attend the property tour. She'd had good grades in Muggle Studies and, as a ministry diplomat, had some experience with negotiating on unfamiliar territory. Truth be told, it was all rather exciting. Her father didn't usually trust Suzanne to conduct business on his behalf and scolded her for being too ambitious, but just this once he seemed grateful for her talents and interests.

In her usual fashion Suzanne had the trip meticulously planned. She'd hired a muggle driver in London who'd taken her to Cornwall in a beautiful limousine. The chauffeur had called it a Rolling Royston or something like that. Suzanne assumed that meant she was supposed to be impressed, which would hopefully translate into exactly what she was going for in terms of impressing the sales agent and making sure she left a lasting impression.

She retouched her makeup using her hand mirror as they pulled up near the estate. Playing muggle for a day was going to be so much fun. The clothes were so fun. As a socialite witch she rarely got to wear trousers, but she adored the black and white silk ensemble she'd purchased in a trendy Saint-Tropez boutique. With her oversized straw hat she looked every bit the part of - what did the muggles call it again - oh yes, the jet set.

Storing the mirror in her clutch bag she checked that she had everything on her. Wand, make-up, mirror, a pair of muggle tights, because apparently women were supposed to carry some of those and of course cigarettes and a lighter because she'd learned in school that muggles smoked a lot. She'd tried it out the day prior and the taste was terrible, but it was part of the ruse and therefore as fascinating as the rest of it all.

Having parked, the chauffeur opened the door for her and Suzanne tried to elegantly exit the car. It wasn't a complete success, but Winston was kind enough not to say anything. Though it shouldn't have come as a surprise, Suzanne was dismayed when her heels started to sink into the soft ground. Did muggles not have a charm for that? Oh, Merlin. Obviously not. She tried her best at a surreptitious wandless attempt which steadied her sufficiently to take a confident couple of steps forward.

The estate agent was already waiting and took the opportunity to deliver his sales patter. Just what was he going on about describing the place as Victorian Gothic? It was clearly older than that. Maybe the recent addition of finials had given the impression? It didn't matter. She made a point to smile and nod at everything and to seem very impressed by the man's 'knowledge'.

"When did you say the house was built?" she asked innocuously. Suzanne was convinced she'd be given an incorrect answer, but asking questions was a way of expressing engagement.

At last some other interested parties had arrived. Out of the set of potentials there was only one Suzanne recognised. Declan O'Dwyer moved in similar social circles as her family, though she'd never in her life seen the normally flamboyant Dubliner look so, so.... somber. It was a little unreal, though she supposed his look gave a definite rich muggle at a funeral vibe.

Momentarily distracted, she almost missed the agent introducing himself.

"Suzanne Le Tissier. My pleasure." She smiled and held out her hand for the agent to shake. Muggles did that, right?

[Declan O'Dwyer]

Gwel an Mor had finally been put up for sale. This was a much anticipated business opportunity. During his lifetime Penrys Trewethett hadn't wanted to sell the place, though Declan had made what he thought of as a rather generous offer. It wasn't so much the old estate that interested him though, but the geological properties of the ground it stood on. He had it on good authority that there was a rich moonstone vein running right underneath the old house. It was therefore important that he secured the deal.

Rather to his distaste, the family of the deceased hadn't seen fit to engage a wizarding estate agent and had instead given the job to a local muggle. It was a rather peculiar choice and one that he figured might deter some potential buyers, but not him. Though he rarely dealt with muggles, he figured it couldn't be all that difficult.

His assistant, Elaine, had been instrumental in making the necessary arrangements. Having grown as as a halfblood in 1920s Dublin she knew a lot more about the non-magical realm than he did. She assembled an outfit for him that, all things considered, wasn't half as bad as he had imagined it would be. He could handle a black three-piece suit and a hat that looked rather fine aside from the oddly flat top and missing curly tip. He'd envisioned something more casual in his mind, but Elaine had assured him that this was entirely appropriate for a businessman. Honestly, it was a bit of a relief. The only thing was that it didn't go terribly well with his long hair but he wasn't about to cut it just to appease muggle sensibilities.

The trip to Cornwall was a familiar one. Gwel an Mor wasn't the first estate in the area he'd been interested in and just last year he'd bought neighbouring Chi Gwynn and associated lands. Elaine had advised he should arrange for a car, but Declan couldn't find anything amiss with the plan of apparating to his own land and taking the short walk to old man Trewethett's place on foot. The landscape was beautiful and it was nice to spend a little time outside rather than forever cooped up in his office or potions laboratory.

Interestingly, he was not the first to arrive. One of the Le Tissier girls had beaten him to the chase. Was that Simonette or Suzanne? He could never get their names straight. As far as he was concerned the family had spawned three near identical looking airhead sisters. How odd that they would send one of the girls when Meriadoc Le Tissier was quite a capable businessman. Well, that certainly made his job here somewhat easier.

The Le Tissier girl introduced herself to the sales agent, so Declan followed suit.

"Declan O'Dwyer. Delighted to make your acquaintance."

Ralston made some excuse about being an old duffer, for whatever that meant.

"Not to worry," Declan threw in diplomatically. "We're in no hurry and this place is sure a sight to be seen." Couldn't hurt to butter the man up, now could it?

[Vincent Spaulding]

Well, well, the old Trewethett place was up for sale. Vincent had heard stories - anyone familiar with larger country piles would have heard of the place, and of the wizard that used to live there. So when the initial notice of interest was published, he was - of course - interested.

Partially because a trip down to Cornwall would do him some good, take in some of the local air, some of the sights, that sea view was some of the finer coastline of the land. But partially because if it was everything he'd heard, he wanted in. A nice little estate in the south west would suit him nicely, especially if it were suitable for conversion, say, such that half the place was for him to stay in as he pleased, and the other half suitable for some kind of rental agreement. Perhaps if it was as big as he'd heard, it could be turned into a hotel of sorts. A small one, but enough to be profitable, and another legitimate business to launder other monies through was never a bad thing, especially as the southwest was a tourist magnet.

It was rather a shame that the sellers of the place were the muggle brats who wanted no part of the heritage, but that might simply work in his favour. Since it wasn't a wizarding owner these days, selling it through a muggle estate agent, they might not be aware of the value of the property.

A more practical problem, though, was that he'd have to show up to the place like a muggle. No apparation. So, a trip in a car - not the worst thing. Vincent supposed the choice of cars was relevant. He didn't want to show off and flaunt his situation - the estate agent might try to pull something if he appeared too rich. Vincent knew that the initial offer price was well below what the place was really worth, he knew there would be some fierce competition - while it was going for a song, there would be others interested in the place, whether because of the legacy of the place or because of the place itself.

Looking over his garage didn't quite settle him. The Rolls-Royce was perhaps a little too ostentious. The Triumph TR6, was a sporty little number but didn't seem quite the type. The Morris MGA? The Austen Healey Sprite? He had any number of vehicles that would be appropriate but none that felt right.

His gaze came to the end of the line. Of course! The Jag. The E-Type was a classic, sporty but sophisticated without being flamboyant, and naturally in British racing green.

Just the thing for a drive down to the coast. To be truthful, the idea had some appeal - Vincent didn't often get to drive anywhere, especially not for something of a social jaunt. It wasn't glamorous but it was a bit of a jolly - even if it didn't work out, he still would get to see the old place, something he'd wanted for a while but old man Trewethett didn't take kindly to visitors. And a trip to the coast, sure to be a pleasant couple of days. He'd even booked a B&B nearby, make a couple of days of it.

The roads were about as awful as he'd expected - definitely the E-Type was the right choice, the Roller and the MGA wouldn't have appreciated the road conditions, but the E-Type tooks the bends with its charismatic flair. Good solid British workmanship right there.

He arrived at the place shortly before the appointment time - thought it was important to get the lay of the land a little. Maybe see who else was coming for this. There were a few ideas who might show up for something like this. Bennett, if he could stomach the price tag - it was good but it wasn't that good - might show his face, and little would be more pleasing than taking it off him, unlike the last property they'd both gone for. Though of course, his lawyers had 'found something' on the property in their searches, making sure Bennett had to pay through the nose for it in the end.

But the estate agent had made some commotion about someone in Ireland coming - that was why it had been a goodly while since the original statement had circulated. Vincent didn't know many from Ireland, least not that could afford something like this. But if someone was coming, that would at least make it interesting.

There was of course the question of whether old Albron would show his face. Reasonably astute businessman that one, though it seemed unlikely he'd have the wherewithall to finance something like this. But he'd been sniffing around some of the smaller properties that Vincent had been looking at, so ruling him out wasn't really an option.

He wasn't surprised to note the estate agent himself was here. The good ones were always prompt, especially for a big viewing like this. Ralston, Royston, whatever his name, had on the blower seemed a bit of a bumpkin to be quite honest, but had to hand it to the man for knowing a little more about the local area. But he was surprised to note a couple of attendees already present.

The woman wobbling about in high heels, in this neck of the woods? She introduced herself as one of the Le Tissiers, and Vincent had to hide a reaction; he had, for the merest of moments, been taken in by the act of vapidity on her part. The sort of person Carmen might have round for a dinner party and drink fancy cocktails with. Limited style, little substance, but if she was here, her old man was probably interested, which made sense. The Trewethett place was up for grabs and by all accounts, worth it. The question was how far she was willing to go to negotiate a deal... he didn't imagine she dealt with muggles all that often.

Then there was this other chap. Wearing a suit that looked like something Vincent's grandfather might have worn for stately occasions but coupled with the wrong sort of hat on much too long hair. Clearly, also a wizard unused to dealing with muggles. Vincent, old boy, your luck's in here. They won't know how to behave.

That left him time to consider Ralston or Royston, the agent. He'd been off giving some rambling incoherence about Victorian Gothic; it wasn't the style or the fashion and the place was clearly much older than that. The Trewethetts had lived here for at least three hundred years that he knew of and possibly more - it had the style of something older than even Blandings, though he wasn't sure that was period accurate.

"Good morning!" Vincent beamed, "I'm Spaulding, the 17th Earl of Ensworth, but please, do call me Vincent. Titles can be so formal. And you're right there, Mr O'Dwyer, this place is most certainly a sight to be seen." He'd caught the name from his introduction, and it wasn't familiar but this must be the mystery Irishman he'd heard about.

The Le Tissier woman made some comment about the Victorian architecture, clearly she had had the same idea about its age, but unlike her, Vincent could date it considerably more precisely than 'older than the Victorian era'.

"I must say, it looks like it has seen a few more years than I'd have imagined for Victorian Gothic, positively more Jacobean if you don't mind my saying so. Yes, more Jacobean... with just a hint of the Baroque side, wouldn't you say?"

Of course, that was also nonsense. Wizarding properties didn't tend to follow the fashions of the era in quite the same way, not that the property was any more Jacobean than it was Victorian. If one had to truly date it, Vincent might have suggested wizarding construction of the middle Tudor era - somewhere in the latter part of the 1500s perhaps. Wizarding style was curiously anachronistic, both before and after the fashion of the era. It had vibes of Hampton Court about it. But it was also a useful barometer to see what the others knew about the place.

[Pyrrhus Albron]

Well, well, the Trewethett place was finally up for sale. Should be a reasonable job lot of antiques in there, and it would make a lovely southwestern property to add to the family estate. The rumours of what was in the library alone would make it worthwhile.

It was a little unfortunate that the family had a muggle branch; he would rather have dealt with wizarding kind for the sale and transfer of the property. Wizarding property, wizarding business, just better all round, but the property went to muggle types that live in London. Not even bothering to show up for the viewing, just passing it all through an estate agent in the area. Practical, but unassuming. Pyrrhus had spoken to the office, had spoken to a wonderful lady called Ethel that had given him all the details. Pyrrhus had always been fond of the West Country, the people there were refreshingly plain and honest, not like the city types. And the accent was always pleasant to listen to, not like the local dialect.

There was a slight question as to who else might be turning out for the viewing or the sale. The office had made it clear there were several possible buyers, so there was a joint viewing to be arranged. The schedule was unusual - apparently someone was coming in from Ireland. The question was whether it was a magical or a muggle buyer. There were a few property tycoons in Ireland that he knew that might turn out for something like this.

After that it was simply a matter of travel arrangements. As this was a muggle affair, arriving in a muggle vehicle would be more appropriate but, honestly, Pyrrhus didn't particularly fancy the drive. With the roads in the state they were, particularly the further west he went, he was looking at a 6 hour drive. But there was a train station in Newquay, it was only an hour away by road, he could easily apparate to Newquay and hire a car from there. A few phone calls and it was arranged.

He'd found the place readily enough, though he was a little later than he'd cared for - normally he preferred to be there ahead of the agent, get the lay of the land without any interference but the roads were as bad as he'd thought.

The agent looked like he was about to lead the group in and was just giving anyone else a few moments to arrive - fortunately that was his cue to arrive. The car was parked off to the side with the others and he walked briskly - but not hurriedly - to the group. "Good morning, I'm Pyrrhus Albron, I spoke with your office? Sorry I'm running a little bit late, I'm not used to the roads around here."

He took a moment to quickly try to size up the competition. Of course that oaf Spaulding was here. He might be a lord, with his fancy castle and sit in the upper house, but he lacks a certain... tastefulness.

The woman standing by them, dressed to impress, she looked familiar - one of the Le Tissier family? Someone in that socialite capacity, anyway. Could be a dark horse, wouldn't rule them out. And lastly the long-haired man in black. If ever there were a dark horse, that'd be him. Must be the chap from Ireland that Ethel had told him about, but with that fashion sense, wizarding. At least they had that going for them, that none of the buyers were muggles - it might have made things... complicated.

"Shall we, uh, are we all ready? Again, apologies for my tardiness, I hadn't quite realised the drive from Newquay was quite that... meandering, if very pleasant."

[George Ralston]

Well, it looked like them's that were going to arrive had made their way here at last.

Dod, honestly, wasn't sure what to make of the assembled group. The young lady was pleasant enough, though Dod thought her choice of footwear wasn't perhaps the wisest for the Cornish coast. Clearly one of them city folk, and with money if she had a very expensive car - and a chauffeur. He shook her offered hand, but it seemed a little on the limp side, as though she wasn't used to shaking hands.

Then there was the young man with the long black hair and the suit, it didn't seem right proper to Dod. Turned out he was that chap from Ireland - Dod had never been to Ireland, it were a bit far for him to be travelling, but perhaps they did things different there. Maybe it were the fashion there. The accent were less different than he were expecting. More unusually, the man didn't seem to have any car to have arrived by. Must've walked for bloody miles - if he'd come from Port Isaac on a boat, it'd still be ten miles or more to walk. Dod weren't going to speak untoward or out of turn, but it were odd.

His lordship, on the other hand, were right proper. Proper car, in a proper colour, and seemed to know more about property than he did. To be fair, mansions weren't a thing Dod had seen that many of and while there were a few older properties in the area, most of the big'uns stayed in them, being the family home and all. If it had been one of the smaller houses in the village, he'd have known exactly when it were built, what kind of architecture and everything, but no-one seemed to know nowt about the plcae excepting for all the old wives' tales.

"Glad you all could make it - I do hope your journey here were a pleasant one. If you'd all like to follow me, we'll start the tour. First the inside, then we'll round off with a walk around the grounds."

Everyone seemed to be ready, so Dod took out the bunch of keys, and opened the door. The large, wooden double doors opened before him with a bit of a pained creak.

"Here we have the main hallway of the house. Spacious, access to all the other parts of the house, door out to the back garden, this wonderful spiral staircase upstairs, these wooden storage cupboards for visitors' umbrellas, coats, and the like. There'd be room to have chairs and what have you for receiving guests, or whatever you wanted to do. Probably big enough to have a reception here for a hotel or something."

Dod hadn't seen an entrance hallway that big before. Most places had a hallway just for simple need of getting to all the rooms, but this room were bigger than most of his house. And, unlike his house, this room had some stonework in the walls to suggest it weren't just a room but a structural support for other parts of the building - it wasn't just wider, it was taller than some of the adjoining rooms, and the stairwell was magnificent.

"To your left, there's a drawing room, a parlour, what might have once been a billiards room, the library and a sitting room. To your right, another parlour, the master sitting room, a small cloakroom, the dining room, the kitchen and the scullery. There's an outhouse out back, upstairs, the master bedroom, several guest bedrooms, two or three bathrooms."

Dod looked through his notebook. "You know, I can't always quite remember how many rooms this place has, it's like sometimes there's an extra room or two that comes and goes when I weren't looking." He laughed, "Seems like all big country places are like that to me, though, you know, I'd as soon as forget me own head if it weren't attached some days. Might just be me old age, though... Any preferences for what you'd as soon as see next?"

[Suzanne Le Tissier]

Introductions were made and Suzanne listened carefully. Spaulding was a name she had heard spoken before, though, if she recalled correctly, her father didn't like the man. She couldn't recall any of the particulars, but her old man usually had good instincts. Suzanne decided to watch the gentleman carefully in case he pulled any strange moves. She had to hand it to him though. His muggle disguise was rather compelling and entirely believable. Out of the three of them, he had probably done it the best, though she couldn't claim to care for his style and fashion choices.

The tour was about to start when another gentleman arrived. Pyrrhus. As far as Suzanne was concerned he was a total wildcard. Albron was a pureblood name, wasn't it? She tried to catalogue her mental inventory, searching for where she had heard the name before. Audoleon Albron seemed to ring a bell. Hadn't her grandfather talked about having a school friend named that? She wasn't sure. Probably just a nice upper middle class family who didn't have any tied to France or the continent.

Her eyes moved on to O'Dwyer. She hadn't expected to see him here and the fact that he was didn't bode well for her. If she had it right, he was the wealthiest man in the room and first dibs would likely be his if he was prepared to pay the price. But maybe he wouldn't like the place. Declan was known to be eccentric and discerning. Perhaps, that was something that she could use to her advantage. It had to be possible to talk him out of it, right?

The agent began to tour and Suzanne nodded politely here and there while taking in the house. There was a lot of work to be done here to update it. The wallpapers weren't very fashionable and the old wooden floors could certainly do with some care and buffing. The reception area was nice and she liked the spacious storage it offered.

She stepped through the drawing room and looked into the supposed billiard space. A little giggle escaped her before she could catch herself. The room was certainly a sight, but she very much doubted anyone had ever played pool in it. The stonework on the walls made it probable the room had been built as a vault, the evenly distributed pillars being used as a surface for a rune cast spell. Her eyes got stuck on the remnants of a stone pedestal and watermarks on the floor. Had there been a pensive here? Well. That could certainly explain the extra layer of security. 

"How charmingly eccentric," Suzanne murmured, trying to distract from the fact she hadn't quite managed to contain her laughter. She pointed at some floor boards that had discoloured to a deep purple. It was probably just a potion spill, but the colour was quite punchy. "Whatever was the decorator thinking putting that there."

[Declan O'Dwyer]

An older gentleman joined and immediately started acting like he already owned the place. Declan could only surmise that he was a muggle. No self respecting wizard would give a muggle title upon introduction, much less act like it was something to be proud of. He came across as glib and shallow to Declan, though the estate agent, Ralston, seemed to be charmed.

What? The weird muggle had the audacity to address him? The notion made Declan rather uncomfortable, but he gave a beatific smile nonetheless. While not fundamentally opposed to muggles, he felt about them much the same way as someone might feel about ants. They were just entirely more pleasant outside the house where they belonged.

On the upside, it discounted one of his competitors right away. A surreptitious Confundus charm would probably be enough to stop the muggle from making a bid. He'd just have to time it well. Maybe later on when they were about to leave.

Another man joined, and though the name rang a bell, Declan couldn't exactly place him. He seemed somewhat more pleasant than Earl Ensworth call me Vince. With a name like Pyrrhus he was clearly a wizard, though his muggle disguise was quite convincing. The roads had been bad? Weren't they just always the same? The turn of phrase rather confused Declan, but it had to be one of those things muggles said and muggles sure said the darndest things.

The tour began and Declan was amused as Ralston went on about the virtues of the storage space and explaining what the containers were for. Surely everyone assembled, except that muggle maybe, had a house keeper to take care of such things. Truth be told. He wasn't sure what these things usually contained at his home, but it sure wasn't visitors umbrellas. Declan was certain he would know about that.

They saw a room or two when Suzanne suddenly burst into a giggle. It took him a moment to figure out what had amused her. That really was some shade of purple in the corner. He wondered what kind of potion or magical reagent would have caused such a reaction. Maybe something with dragon blood? That seemed more ominous than funny to him.

"What did you say the previous owner used this room for?" Declan couldn't help asking. He'd not really paid a great deal of attention to Ralston or the house, being more interested in seizing up the competition.

[Vincent Spaulding]

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Albron, old chap, how wonderful to see you." Vincent prided himself on sounding convincing with his sincerity, if not necessarily in earnestness with it. He tipped his flat cap. "To the victor, the spoils."

With that, he followed Ralston and the group indoors. He'd noted the smile that the Irish chap had given him, clearly a smile of 'well, how nice for you'. That meant his cover as muggle was probably working - if an obvious wizard thinks you're an idiot, that's their mistake and it will bite them.

The main reception was solid enough. Plenty of storage space for the housekeepers to store their equipment in, as well as anythnig should guests want to do so. Though, if it seemed like the place was better suited to becoming a small hotel, it had all the room one should need for the reception desk and maybe even a small office, perhaps as an annex to the back door. Vincent couldn't help but be wryly amused by Ralston's slight faltering - poor chap, clearly wasn't used to properties of this size and magnificence, let alone wizarding ones. He wondered, for a moment, whether Ralston's place would fit inside this reception area and decided that, perhaps, it would.

They'd been led into what might have - for a muggle house of this size - have been a billiards room. It was of the size and shape that would have suited a full size billiards table rather nicely. But this was not a home for a billiards table even if old man Trewethett were reputed to be a shade eccentric. More likely, a space for a pensieve or something similar - certainly there were remnants of runes in the stonework.

But it was clear to Vincent why Ralston had come to the conclusion he had, what else could he do with this?

The giggling woman disturbed his line of thought, pointing at some discoloured floorboards. Rich velvety purple. Vincent frowned, that pointed to powerful potioneers in the place - Trewethett wasn't reputed to be a potion master, but maybe this was the result of some kind of accident. He thought back to his own school days - the last time he'd bothered mixing a potion by hand - and scarcely remembered anything vividly purple.

"Perhaps the former owner spilled a very sizeable pot of beetroot and red cabbage soup on the floor?" He managed to effect a tone of mild incredulity as though he wasn't sure but with just enough confusion that it could have been plausible to believe he thought it.

"Though that would be rather odd for a games room or a billiards room, wouldn't it?" That's the spirit, Vincent, just let that pair underestimate you. Old Pyrrhus knew how the game was played and had also turned out looking just the part, and what he was up against. It really depended what was in the library, all other considerations were rather ambivalent in Vincent's mind. But if the library had what it was reputed to have, the place would have to be his, and gifted to those around him in certain circles.

[Suzanne Le Tissier]

Beetroot and Red Cabbage soup? Was that something that British muggles ate? Spaulding had really done quite an impressive amount of research. Or maybe he had dealings with the muggle world regularly. Either way, it was quite impressive he had a muggleworthy excuse right off the cuff and without breaking a sweat. Clearly, he could not be underestimated in this.

"I suppose you must be right about that," she agreed cheerfully. "I dunno what I was thinking." She rolled her eyes at herself and then giggled. Suzanne didn't mind if she came across as dumb. If it caused the men to underestimate her than she had done her job correctly. If she could get them to think she wouldn't make an offer or that she didn't understand the value of the property, then she would have an easier time winning the bid.

"So where to next? I can't wait to see the master bedroom."

She stepped to the side to let the agent and the others step out of the room before her. Judging from body language Spaulding was confident he was in the lead position. Declan looked as aloof as ever, though it seemed like the potion spill she had pointed out had caught his interest. He was studying it closely. The last gentleman, Pyrrhus she didn't know what to make of. He was so quiet and restrained she didn't know if he was one to keep an eye on or if he could be discarded as not important.

[Declan O'Dwyer]

Declan took a step towards the potion spill, unable to help his curiosity on the matter. This colouration definitely wasn't caused by cabbage and beets. If the mark had been caused by natural ingredients, sunlight would have faded it over time. However, the colour was still bright and vibrant which pointed to a magical reagent involved. It appeared his first instinct had been incorrect. It wasn't dragon's blood. Blueberries, lemon and moonstone dust seemed like a more plausible combination. 

Moonstone dust was usually an ingredient in potions that had some sort of wish-fulfilment aspect to them, like potent love potions. It made Declan wonder what had happened here to cause such a spill. A spat between lovers? An attempt to salvage an unhappy pureblood marriage? He'd heard about such things happening from time to time. Things had to be dire though when manufactured feelings seemed like the only viable option.

He supposed the good news was that the mark on the floor should be easily removable, meaning the beautiful old floorboards could be preserved. While he didn't really have any plans for the interior the space just yet, it was nice to know that there were a number of options. 

"It's not that odd for a games room," Declan chimed in. "People usually eat and drink in all sorts of places when there's a party. I bet it's blackcurrant cordial or something like that."  He lightly touched on of the runes carved into the wall, noting there was still a faint magical tingle. Whatever had once been here, it couldn't have been removed all that long ago.

It seemed the consensus was to move to the next room. Declan trying to trail behind. Maybe he could sneak a quick spell or two in to figure out the spilled potion. Professional curiosity was truly getting the better of him.

[Pyrrhus Albron]

Pyrrhus stepped back and let the peacocks in the room strut about the place. Spaulding was trying to play the fool, muttering some nonsense about a billiards room, knowing full well that that discolouring on the floor was of nothing muggle.

He quietly watched as the Le Tissier woman giggled at Spaulding's comment, as though she took it seriously. Was she under the assumption that Spaulding was a muggle, and that his comment about beetroot and cabbage was ... a muggle joke? It was uninspiring to say the least, and it was all he could do to not roll his eyes at it.

But he'd taken stock of the room, it was pleasantly sized, the floorboards could be repaired if necessary, had a multitude of purposes.

That other chap, though, most odd. He was eying up the potion spillage - perhaps he was a man of the field, inspecting it out of professional interest. It was clear from his manner that he was quite convinced that it was no cabbage and beetroot soup, and the blackcurrant cordial quip... well, he wasn't sure precisely whose benefit that was for.

There was a moment of interest where the Irishman seemed to gingerly touch the walls, and from his manner, Pyrrhus suspected some magical influence, rather like the tingle one gets from brushing past one of those clunky storage heaters if it's on cheap nylon carpet, that little spark off it. The muggles don't have magic? Might as well be.

It was too far away to see if there were runes on the wall, but something had to be there.

But no matter; Spaulding had already clearly sized up the room for whatever plans he had, the Le Tissier woman clearly content to be the charming ditz of the bunch - though clearly she had an agenda too, and was playing the fool for Spaulding's benefit. The Irishman was interesting, but the room seemed clearly interested in moving on - Le Tissier wanted to see the master bedroom. It would have been ungallant to suggest that her interest was anything less than for home decoration purposes.

His plan of saying little was working; giving little to nothing away, asking no questions - a further visit, just an individual one, perhaps with a surveyor, would be perfectly normal even for a property with this few purchasers, and no doubt there would be paperwork. Even Spaulding with his lack of class was not so unaware that he'd make an offer without consulting some professionals. Though, whether the Irishman would was another matter entirely.

It was at that point that the agent seemed like he wanted to say something.

[George Ralston]

It seemed a bit daft to Dod that them folks were in any sort of doubt as to what the room would ha' been used for. Plain as the nose on his face, it were a billiards room when originally built and the last folks to live here simply moved the table and made it a dining room. And that stain on the floor - his lordship probably had the right idea of what high-tone and fancy to-dos would have been in a house like this'un. Serving a big bowl of soup to a large number of guests at a fancy gathering; the place was big enough to host quite a shindig. Not that Dod would have been invited to such a thing, mind.

But he could tell his guests were less interested by a dining room with a discoloured floor.

"While I think you might like the master bedroom, miss, lots of room for lovely large wardrobes, probably enough room to convert it into one of those, what you might call a walk-in wardrobe if the lady of the house has lots of fashion choices." That sounded a little pompous in Dod's head, he had to think about the words. Imagining what people with this kind of money live like weren't exactly an easy ask.

"But if you'll just follow me please, we have a few more rooms to get through downstairs - there's a drawing room and I think your lordship in particular might find a wine cellar to his liking." Irish folks only drank Irish whiskey, and the man from Oxford seemed so much more the brown and mild type than a wino, and the lovely lady... she seemed the kind for a right good G&T.

To be fair, he could have done with a pint of bitter himself at this point, the tour wasn't going... quite as he'd expected, but no two tours were ever the same.

He stood at the threshold of the drawing room, one arm gesturing to the expanse before them; oddments of furniture that didn't seem to go in Dod's eyes, but probably just the chaise-lounge cost more than his annual salary and he didn't right care for the leather finish on it. Seemed a bit too much like the colour of blood for his liking, and leather furniture might be all the fashion, so he were told, but it always felt too uncomfortable to spend any time on... give him a regular three-seater any day. If he were really pushing the boat out, washable covers too.

Other than the several chaise-lounges, in different colours - all only lightly worn, and none of which went with owt else in the room - there was a sturdy cabinet in the corner, intricately carved, mahogany with teak inlays, though to call it a cabinet seemed daft. It were like one of them bureaus, only more massive and wide, the bottom section with large hinged doors, the middle section with drawers, and the top being a rolled-up section with many more much smaller drawers. The only image Dod had in his head is if a fancy antique bureau had somehow crossed itself with a piano, it were that wide and tall and then some, and all of it full of antique bottles - some not in a language he recognised.

Other furniture lined the walls - sideboards, cabinets, shelves full of papers, beautifully-framed oil paintings on the walls. Dod marvelled at how, if he looked just right at them, they were the sort that seemed to follow you round the room so that no matter where you stood it were like they were watching you.

He coughed politely, "The furniture, fittings, it's all included in the sale, and whatever's in them. We aren't going to attempt to value the contents, so..." He coughed again, "Cavit empter, I think they call it. Please, take your time, look around, try the chairs out if you like, just don't get any mud on them."

[Vincent Spaulding]

Vincent took this as an opportunity to barge into the room and take stock of things, in a way the others hadn't seemed overly enthused or wanton to do.

"Well, lovely period furniture here, wouldn't you say, Albron?" He took note of the different items, noting which ones were in just about serviceable condition and whether any would look better in his castle.

The paintings were interesting; some of them were clearly Muggle, painted the old-fashioned way, perhaps Muggle ancestors of old man Trewethett; it wasn't clear how pureblood the family really was, and they were old-fashioned enough to have kept it quiet if they'd cared to, but perhaps this was a sign that there was Muggle blood in the family line.

The other portraits, however, were unquestionably magical. Lots of staring, indignantly, at the outsiders. Who were these misfits, here in the family home? What right did they have to be there?

That said, there were certainly those portraits that were entirely disinterested, unflatteringly so, with the guests and left. Vincent looked, sidelong, at old Ralston to see if he'd noticed. It had never occurred to him, Vincent, what might happen if a Muggle were to observe a wizarding portrait - if he even could.

"Well, if we're going to be buying this place lock, stock and barrel, perhaps we'd better see what's inside this cabinet, eh?"

He looked at Ralston, expectantly, then impatiently, and then with a huff, strode across the room to the cabinet. "I'm sure I have a key here that can open it." Out from a pocket came a rather almost absurdly large collection of keys.

Vincent leaned down, peered into the lock, carefully selected a key from it and inserted into the lock. Giving it a wiggle, he muttered under his breath, "Alohomora!" and the lock sprang open. "Ah," he said, standing up again, "I think I've got it."

Carefully standing back, Vincent opened the bureau part of the absurdly proportioned cabinet, and then the front swing doors. The array of bottles on offer was surprising; tall bottles of something distinctly lavender in shade, or perhaps lilac. Vincent didn't hold much for flowers or decorational terms, they were bottles of purple to him. But they were attention-getters. Other bottles had equally pronounced colours, green, blue, gold, silver, some swirling in their bottles, others bubbling away quite happily.

Vincent was too busy peering at the bottles to notice a fine silvery wisp emerge from one of the smaller drawers.