March 22nd, 1891 — Black's, Wellingtonshire, Hogsmeade

The desire to confront Macnair at the ball the other night had almost won over but ultimately he decided the risk of Miss Lestrange spotting them together was greater than the instant gratification. He'd gone to the club on Sunday but he hadn't been there so he was trying again this evening, if this failed he'd up his game and go after him at his home or at the hospital.

Luck was on his side that evening it seemed. He'd asked a member of staff who confirmed that Mr. Valerian Macnair was indeed in the building. He proceeded to book a room for the evening so he might take advantage of the privacy and soundproofing. Whatever happened between them that evening he didn't want a whisper of it getting out.

He was informed that Macnair was taking dinner in one of the dining rooms and after penning a quick note, he headed in to said dining room. He spotted the healer quickly and strode purposely towards him. "Macnair," he muttered tersely. He slid the note onto the table on which was written the number of the room he'd just booked. "If you have any self-respect you'll meet me there when you've finished gorging yourself." As abruptly as he had shown up he stalked off again to wait for him.

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Valerian Macnair

  

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It had been nearly a month since Valerian had proposed to his cousin, and he had yet to hear an answer. It made sense, of course; there was a possibility that she did like Charles Macmillan, but if she had liked him enough he thought she might have denied him by now. He was growing more wary, not out of a desire to be married to her, but out dread. Hearing that Tatiana did not wish to be his wife was not likely to cause him any heartache—they were cousins, had been sitting at the same table since they were children, and he did not desire her the way a man ought to desire his wife. What he did dread was the prospect of being less desirable than Charles Macmillan—who, while attractive, was always seemed to look like he was having trouble passing whatever he'd eaten for breakfast.

The club was the safest place to avoid Tatiana, because sitting at the same table with her not knowing her thoughts was beginning to become a pain, and there was much better company to be found at the club. Well—even that was up in the air now, because Valerian caught sight of Charles Macmillan stomping towards him with a strained look on his face. His brows knitted together as he stared up at the other gentleman, confused by his words; if it were any other man, speaking in any other tone, he might have read a little deeper into their meaning, but this was Macmillan.

It was a number on the paper. A room number, he recognized. He looked back up just as Macmillan began to withdraw. He had to know by now. Valerian didn't know whether to be amused or weary; it was almost funny to watch Macmillan saunter about looking so serious, but on the other hand he didn't know where the conversation might lead once they were in private.

He finished his food, taking his sweet, sweet time, and only when he could no longer pick at the crumbs on his plate did he rise from his seat and make his way to the room number written on the paper. He swung the door open, and there he was.

"How may I be of service?" he asked dryly, shutting the door behind him with a click.

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   Cassius Lestrange, Ursula Black

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Charles heard footsteps approaching and by the time he'd stood up there he was. "Don't act like you don't know why you're here, Macnair." He wasn't actually completely certain it was Macnair but he was so damn convinced he hadn't even considered this interaction ending in embarrassment. However, he didn't want to let on to Macnair that he didn't have absolute certainty just in case he tried to take advantage and lie. "I know what you did."

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Valerian was positive that Macmillan knew. He had to know. The only common denominator between them was Tatiana, and he could not think of another reason other than he might confront him about. However, it was better to avoid admitting anything; in fact, actively playing dumb might suit him best.

"I have done plenty things in my life, Macmillan," he said, with an over-dramatic roll of his eyes, "so I must ask you to specify."

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How profoundly irritating! He'd had a cool head only a moment ago but this degenerate's smart mouth was quickly ruining that. "Drop the act, you pompous arse, you know!" His snide manner was an obvious sign of his guilt, Charles was sure of it.

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Valerian's pulse quickened at the harshness of the other man's tone, but he had already resolved not to make any admissions of guilt ("guilt" being used loosely here, because he felt no guilt over proposing to Tatiana).

"If you intend to hurl insults at me, at least allow me to know what fuels them," he countered, his brows arching upwards.

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   Desdemona Pettigrew

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"The proposal!" He spat the words furiously and had he had the luxury to think of anything besides Macnair's filthy underhanded stealth proposal to Tatiana he would've been grateful for the soundproofing. He was furious but was at least still measured enough to manage searching every inch of Macnair's demeanor for evidence of guilt.

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Ah, there it was. Valerian found it difficult to subdue a smile, but he did so, if only out of fear that he might be hit if he did. Valerian liked to talk, but physical confrontation was less his forte. (There was a reason apart from a desire for his mother's approval that he went into healing instead of - well, anything else.)

"I take it she told you?" he asked, a touch of curiosity in his tone. He was more curious about how the conversation went. Had he proposed and she told him she'd already received another and would have to consider? Had she turned him down? He supposed not—if she had any intention of accepting his proposal, she would have found him before Charles Macmillan could.

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And there it was, the confession he'd been waiting for. A calmer Charles might have considered that technically Valerian Macnair could be referring to a third man's proposal that he simply knew of because he lived with Miss Lestrange, he hadn't explicitly said he'd made the proposal. Charles could only dream of handling this situation that calmly. He'd waited a long time and worked too damn hard to let Miss Lestrange slip through his fingers, he'd never find her like again and he would be damned if her shit stain of a cousin was going to decide at the very last minute that actually maybe he wouldn't mind having her for his wife! There was no damn respect for the fact that he was the one courting, he had sought the blessing of not only her uncle but her dreary brother, he'd bought a fucking house and picked out a ring and damn it Valerian fucking Macnair was not going to ruin his life he could go find another woman!

Charles took a couple steps towards him. "What gives you the right?!"

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   Valerian Macnair

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Valerian not-so-subtly slid his wand from his robe's pocket and held it at his side as Macmillan advanced on him. In a fistfight he would be useless, and Macmillan looked like he wanted to punch something—him, probably. He managed to keep the tension off his face long enough for Macmillan to come to a halt.

"Now, now, Macmillan, you must remember that Miss Lestrange is nearly five-and-twenty. It would be irresponsible to allow her to enter another season without a ring on her finger." Another reminder that Macmillan had kept her waiting too long—which, in fairness, he had, but if the threat of spinsterhood was enough to prompt Valerian's advances, he would have proposed after Tatiana's second unsuccessful season. "And she is such a lovely woman," he continued, feeling a bit bolder now that he wielded his wand. "Does Tatiana Macnair not roll off the tongue?"

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   Aldous Crouch, Mariana Macnair

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It had been a very long time since he'd been this angry. Then Macnair went even further and Charles was incensed. "Shut your mouth!" He now advanced properly, his fists clenched, his knuckles itching to find whichever part of Macnair's face would feel most satisfying beneath them. "She's mine, you had every chance to stake a legitimate claim, you lost your chance! Deal with it, you bastard!" Charles reached out to grab him by the collar, his other arm pulling back to aim a punch. "Stay away from her!"

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   Roberto Devine

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If he'd set aside the distasteful insults and the situation in its entirety, Valerian might have been riled up—and in quite a different way than Macmillan—by the sudden yanking of his shirt collar, but the rush that went through his body was one of fear rather than anticipation. Thankfully years of working the hospital floor had instilled in him the ability to react quickly, so in the second Macmillan pulled his arm back to swing, Valerian slid the tip of his wand against the other man's throat.

"Don't," he said suddenly, his voice free of the feigned innocence and instead replaced by a low, venomous tone. His expression hardened, and he poked the tip against the artery. "Tatiana is not your property; she has all the free will to decide her own fate."

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Goddamn him! It infuriated him to hear Macnair use her first name but what else would he call her? Damn it, it wasn't fair! The bastard had unfettered access to her if he so desired and if Charles didn't think as highly of Miss Lestrange as he did then he might even be genuinely worried for her virtue.

Although he stopped his fist in midair he didn't lower either of his hands. He swallowed hard as a show of defiance against the tip of Macnair's wand, the pressure of it almost satisfying, like giving him the middle finger. "She will be my wife, Macnair, do you suppose she mentioned it because she wants to wed the likes of you?" He smirked and tightened his grip on the other man's collar, finally lowering his fist because his arm was getting kinda tired.

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   Valerian Macnair

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Macmillan had lowered his fist, but Valerian did not dare lower his wand. He was almost glad his interest in marrying Tatiana was not rooted in an interest in her as a woman; he could imagine how quickly he might have risen to anger if that was the case, but instead Macmillan's words caused him to raise his brows again.

"Will she, now? I suppose I ought to go congratulate my dear cousin on her impending nuptials," he said, the dry tone returning to his voice—although his wand remained firmly in place against the base of Macmillan's throat. He did not ask what Macmillan meant about the likes of him, although a number of insults danced on the tip of his tongue. "Though I should question why my proposal angers you if you are so certain of her intentions." A smile twitched on the corner of his lips.

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Charles' grip tightened on Macnair's collar yet again, perhaps he could gradually strangle him without the other man noticing. His fist clenched again although he did not raise it again, as much as he might like to wipe the smug look off his face. "You disrespected me! Going behind a man's back and trying to take what's his, men have killed over less." He wasn't going to murder Macnair but manslaughter sure sounded appealing at that moment. "And you're still disrespecting me. There are worms with more honor than you!"

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   Cassius Lestrange

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This was getting tiring—the way his neck was being bent at an awkward angle, not the argument. He could do this for hours, maybe days.

"Once again I must remind you that Tatiana is not yours," he said, his voice raised a notch by the end of his sentence, "nor will she be until the day she says 'I do'. I would not dream of betraying my cousin's confidence, but I feel as though I must, if only to remind you where you stand." He inched the tip of his wand higher and higher, until it rested at the man's chin. Valerian poked his head upwards, exposing his neck area—and if the situation weren't so dire, he might have taken a minute to admire it. (If Macmillan dreamed of marrying Tatiana, he might do well to aim for a cleaner shave, though.)

"She told me you were not the most illustrious match," he said, increasing the pressure on his chin on the emphasis, "That she could do worse. She never said that she could do no better. Now tell me Macmillan—" He raised his other hand and grabbed at the man's wrist, hoping to loosen the grip on his collar. "—does that sound like a woman eager to call herself yours?"

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   Aldous Crouch, Justin Ross, Mariana Macnair

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