September 2nd, 1887 - Ros' Greenhouse

The Ministry was a problem.

There had not been peace within its walls since the announcement of the half-breed ban. Things had gotten worse after Miss Urquart was bitten by the werewolf. And now the vultures were circling. The Wizengamot was the worst of it, but the DMLE was no respite, either - Ross was worried about rallies that turned into riots, and riots that turned into bloodbaths.

He had spent the past two days working late, shuffling from his office to the Wizengamot and back again, and was nigh-exhausted by the time he was finally able to pop back to Bartonburg. He flooed into the sitting room of the Ross home and made a silly face at Rhiannon, who was playing with the nanny on the carpet.

He glanced at his watch. He was late, but at least not too late for dinner, and that wasn't going to make this any easier.

If Roslyn wasn't in the sitting room, she could usually be found in her greenhouses. Ross stepped out of the back door and through the yard - it was drizzling - and stepped into the greenhouse.

"How're they doing?" Ross asked, with a handwave towards the plants.

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She heard him enter before she heard him speak, but neither was enough to draw her attention from the miniature rosebush she was so deftly pruning. After her husband and her children—and the rest of her family, she supposed—the contents of her prized greenhouse were the most beloved things in Roslyn’s life, and each plant and pot was treated with tender dedication by their mistress.

“Thriving,” she replied proudly, her smile plain as she finished her task swiftly, set down the sheers, and turned at last to face her husband. “I hope as much might be said of the Ministry?”

It was a hope unlikely to come to fruition. What had happened to Minister Urquart had been dreadful and unwarranted—even Roslyn could see that, and she was often more pragmatic than many in her circles—and thrown the entire establishment into chaos. That her husband had returned home in time for dinner was almost surprising.

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— #PrettiesByMJ —

Ross couldn't help but grimace. He leaned carefully against the doorway of Ros' greenhouse, not wanting to disrupt any of her carefully-cared for plants.

"Unfortunately not so much," he said, "Even with the election scheduled, the Wizengamot is in a state of emergency." Ross had been nervously tracking the progress of public opinion since the Half-Breed Ban, certain that something was coming - and due to a tragedy of circumstance, something had.

"I think that several of the old guard are going to run."

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That came as little surprise. Dawlish, she thought, and perhaps Dippet. Maybe even Flint for a second bout—though she was a woman, a second tenure under Josephina Flint was almost more frightening a prospect than any of her male counterparts!

“And who of the new, do you expect?” she inquired. Her brother would have been an admirable fit, but he was perhaps too close to Mr. Urquart for it to be comfortable to the general public. A pity.

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— #PrettiesByMJ —

Moment of truth.

He wasn't going to do this without his wife's approval. He was not going to do it without Minister Urquart's approval, either, but Ros was first, and most important, and still Ross was already hoping that she'd say yes.

"That's a little more difficult to predict," Ross admitted. "Some names from outside the Ministry have been mentioned. And - well, my own department is whispering about me."

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Roslyn stiffened, probably visibly. She could not even say she was surprised—Ross had always been political, and was friendly with the now-former Minister Urquart. As a member of the Wizengamot and a department head, he certainly had the gravitas. But while the idea of him as Minister of Magic was perfectly sensible, the idea of her as wife to the Ministe was something Ros found decidedly offensive.

Roslyn Fisk had been one of ten children, happiest with anonymity. She had not shed that when she had shed her natal surname.

A deep breath.

"You would be an admirable Minister, though I hope I don't need to tell you that," she offered with a small smile. "Possibly even the best man for the job—though I am, perhaps, rather biased. Certainly better suited than Dawlish," Roslyn added, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the mention of the lecherous, ancient Chief Warlock.

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— #PrettiesByMJ —

Ros was listing his qualifications - or may as well have been, for Ross was willing to treat not Herschel as a qualification. He was also not Stephen Flint, nor Roman Crouch, nor - for all that they were close - was he as tied to Balt Urquart as Konstantin was.

"I won't run if you don't think I should," Ross said, "But I do think that I should at least try. The candidate field - it's not great."

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   Roslyn Ross

She was being given an out, but it was wrapped in thorns. Already, a politician’s wording—even if it was not intended as such. If you don’t think I should. Not if she didn’t want him to, if she doubted his capability for the job. Doubted that society would benefit from his presence as Minister for Magic. How could Ros even imply that she doubted her husband—especially after all she had just said?

“Of course you should,” she affirmed with a smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremble at the corners of her lips, doubting very much he would. “It’s what’s right.”

Right, but not desirable.

Best for the many, but not for her.

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— #PrettiesByMJ —

Ross reached for his wife's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I love you," he said. He loved her more than the prospect of being Minister, more than the country and all the weight of the Wizengamot. But perhaps his desire for the job, and his desire to do what was right, was blinding Ross - he did not notice the tremble in Roslyn's smile.

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   Roslyn Ross