March 27th, 1888 — Macmillan residence. Wellingtonshire, Hogsmeade.
He simply couldn't take it any longer.
At some uncivilized hour that morning - even dawn hadn't broken yet - his daughter had decided she was displeased in some way and had proven to him that she had inherited her mother's talent for opening her mouth and loudly ejecting sounds no one wanted nor needed to hear. This had gone on for at least an hour after which he'd been unable to get back to sleep. Had they been living in a house he likely wouldn't have heard her but even in his apartment which had reasonably thick walls, the proximity was such that he couldn't not hear her. He'd actually resorted to a silencing charm in the end and felt the tiniest shred of guilt about it the next morning. The tiniest. He'd been unable to get back to sleep for a couple hours and by the time he did, he only had an hour and a half before he had to get ready for work.
He was dark around the eyes and had taken the afternoon off with the intention of sorting out his wayward toddling daughter once and for all. He'd been trying to avoid this course of action for fear his mother would think less of him as a father and that Mrs. Selwyn would take it as a personal affront since he was sure she'd suggested taking the girl into her home at least once but he didn't know if she had been serious, nor did he actually want the person who had reared his wife to have that much influence over his daughter who inevitably had the disadvantage of being predisposed to turn out like her ill-fated mother.
Charles and his burden of a daughter arrived without appointment at his parents' Wellingtonshire home and was shown in to the library where his mother was apparently occupied at present. He quietly slunk into the room like the sheepish daughter-ditching twenty-seven year old that he was. He nudged the three year old in front of him like an offering to some god or goddess that requested child sacrifice. What he was really doing was angling for her to soften his mother up in the way that only granddaughters could. "Good afternoon, Mama. I hope you don't mind that I brought Althea along." He exaggerated the name both for his mother's benefit and his daughter's, not that he had much hope of the latter following the conversation well enough to benefit from it.
At some uncivilized hour that morning - even dawn hadn't broken yet - his daughter had decided she was displeased in some way and had proven to him that she had inherited her mother's talent for opening her mouth and loudly ejecting sounds no one wanted nor needed to hear. This had gone on for at least an hour after which he'd been unable to get back to sleep. Had they been living in a house he likely wouldn't have heard her but even in his apartment which had reasonably thick walls, the proximity was such that he couldn't not hear her. He'd actually resorted to a silencing charm in the end and felt the tiniest shred of guilt about it the next morning. The tiniest. He'd been unable to get back to sleep for a couple hours and by the time he did, he only had an hour and a half before he had to get ready for work.
He was dark around the eyes and had taken the afternoon off with the intention of sorting out his wayward toddling daughter once and for all. He'd been trying to avoid this course of action for fear his mother would think less of him as a father and that Mrs. Selwyn would take it as a personal affront since he was sure she'd suggested taking the girl into her home at least once but he didn't know if she had been serious, nor did he actually want the person who had reared his wife to have that much influence over his daughter who inevitably had the disadvantage of being predisposed to turn out like her ill-fated mother.
Charles and his burden of a daughter arrived without appointment at his parents' Wellingtonshire home and was shown in to the library where his mother was apparently occupied at present. He quietly slunk into the room like the sheepish daughter-ditching twenty-seven year old that he was. He nudged the three year old in front of him like an offering to some god or goddess that requested child sacrifice. What he was really doing was angling for her to soften his mother up in the way that only granddaughters could. "Good afternoon, Mama. I hope you don't mind that I brought Althea along." He exaggerated the name both for his mother's benefit and his daughter's, not that he had much hope of the latter following the conversation well enough to benefit from it.
