26th June, 1890 — Hogsmeade Memorial Ballroom, Hawaiian Welcome Party
Evander had almost been able to convince himself that everything was fine. At first, the event seemed to be going perfectly smoothly. Certainly no gunpowder plots. But Alfred had already ruled that out. Eventually, of course, he had located his brother across the room, arm in arm with Miss Fisk, and he had thought oh, he had done it, he had ‘tried again’ to court her and apparently been successful. Evander - still dithering uncertainly over the prospect of courtship, himself - had been, for half a second, surprised and impressed.
Then, of course, he had realised. Oh. Oh no. ‘Might try again’, his foot. Besides the lack of the curse, nothing about Alfred’s situation had improved enough to change anyone’s mind about courtship, and Evander certainly didn’t hold his brother’s persuasive abilities in good stock. Damn it, Alfred. He didn’t know whose idea this had been, between them, but it was a dreadful, risky, underhand move, and if it happened to come out later - if her family refused to entertain it - it would reflect badly on them all. (Evander wasn’t certain how bad the fallout would be - but at the moment he thought he might rather be experiencing the fifth of November.)
Nor was he certain how to mitigate this sort of disaster. Merlin, he hadn’t expected a diplomatic incident between the Minister’s in-laws and his own brother. Ought he approach one of the Fisks to try and make apologies for the misunderstanding? Should he discreetly hex his brother, pretend he’d taken ill, and frogmarch him out of here, presumably setting the combined wrath of Alfred and Miss Fisk upon him? What he really needed was a drink, but he had steeled himself against it - he was having a difficult enough time digesting this sober - and anyway, he kept setting his glass down, too vexed to hold it, and finding every time as he went to pick it back up that it had vanished, tidied away on a waiter’s tray. A sign from the universe, maybe.
He was proving quite as distracted in conversation, peering solemnly at his conversation partner and then unwillingly catching sight of Alfred and Miss Fisk dancing - and he could not haul his brother off the ballroom floor, because upon pain of death he was not going to contribute to the scene, he utterly refused. Still, even the problematic sight of it was giving him a pressing headache, and Evander had abruptly been so aware of his heart rate - were these palpitations? his pulse was thready - that he hadn’t heard the question, could not even guess at the topic well enough to feign his way out of it. “Er,” he said, clearing his throat and pivoting his gaze determinedly back on his company. “Pardon?”
Then, of course, he had realised. Oh. Oh no. ‘Might try again’, his foot. Besides the lack of the curse, nothing about Alfred’s situation had improved enough to change anyone’s mind about courtship, and Evander certainly didn’t hold his brother’s persuasive abilities in good stock. Damn it, Alfred. He didn’t know whose idea this had been, between them, but it was a dreadful, risky, underhand move, and if it happened to come out later - if her family refused to entertain it - it would reflect badly on them all. (Evander wasn’t certain how bad the fallout would be - but at the moment he thought he might rather be experiencing the fifth of November.)
Nor was he certain how to mitigate this sort of disaster. Merlin, he hadn’t expected a diplomatic incident between the Minister’s in-laws and his own brother. Ought he approach one of the Fisks to try and make apologies for the misunderstanding? Should he discreetly hex his brother, pretend he’d taken ill, and frogmarch him out of here, presumably setting the combined wrath of Alfred and Miss Fisk upon him? What he really needed was a drink, but he had steeled himself against it - he was having a difficult enough time digesting this sober - and anyway, he kept setting his glass down, too vexed to hold it, and finding every time as he went to pick it back up that it had vanished, tidied away on a waiter’s tray. A sign from the universe, maybe.
He was proving quite as distracted in conversation, peering solemnly at his conversation partner and then unwillingly catching sight of Alfred and Miss Fisk dancing - and he could not haul his brother off the ballroom floor, because upon pain of death he was not going to contribute to the scene, he utterly refused. Still, even the problematic sight of it was giving him a pressing headache, and Evander had abruptly been so aware of his heart rate - were these palpitations? his pulse was thready - that he hadn’t heard the question, could not even guess at the topic well enough to feign his way out of it. “Er,” he said, clearing his throat and pivoting his gaze determinedly back on his company. “Pardon?”
