July 10th, 1892 - Wellingtonshire Streets

He'd lured Ford into a walk this evening, but there was something about Hogsmeade that had Cash feeling hemmed in. The walk seemed better than Black's sometimes, because in Black's there was family and he was never convinced he wanted to risk seeing them.

He'd been a little quiet all evening; but Cash had been particularly thoughtful lately, and there was something he had to do tonight. He had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and was playing with a rolled cigarette he had in the pocket. He had an impulse to smoke — actually, he had an impulse for the out-of-body drugs he'd tried sometimes as a teenager — but he hadn't lit it yet.

The sun was starting to set.

"Did you ever feel like all of Wellingtonshire is sort of the same?" Cash asked. This wasn't what he wanted to talk about, but it was a good enough starting point.

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Fortitude Greengrass Reuben Crouch

  

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"Yeah, absolutely," Ford agreed with no hesitation. This was something he thought about not infrequently, but usually didn't voice. He didn't want to appear to be complaining about Hogsmeade when, from all outward appearances, he'd been the one to spontaneously decide to sell their country home and move here in the first place. But it didn't make sense to try and keep a charade up around Cash. Ford had determined that by now, Lestrange already knew half his secrets and had neither the energy to devote to sussing out the rest nor the inclination to do so.

"It's that it all sprung up too fast," Ford continued. "All of Hogsmeade is like that. It didn't grow out organically like other towns did. The houses might be different colors but they're all the same style and the same age and everything. None of the trees are taller than any of the others."

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   Cassius Lestrange

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That was it — there was none of the weird architecture and different construction dates that made London interesting. At least in Bartonburg things could be a little lopsided. Everything in Wellingtonshire looked too pretty; you could be on any street in the neighborhood, and you would never be able to guess.

"Yeah," Cash said. "London's better, I think." He could get lost in London, especially when he went into the muggle areas of the city. It was easy to just walk until he had to apparate home. What was he going to do?

"I'm moving here. This Autumn."

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Ford had never lived in London, but he'd spent a lot of time there for work and he tended to agree. Besides, London was full of Muggles, and that made things more interesting. He didn't say this, though — the announcement that Cash was moving to Hogsmeade surprised him. "Oh?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Ford didn't know what to think of Lestrange's tone. Moving to Hogsmeade could be an innocuous thing, or it could have nothing to do with him at all; just something his father had decided and Cash was along for the ride. This didn't feel innocuous, though. It felt like a thing.

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There was a question in that raised eyebrow, and Cash didn't particularly want to answer it. If he couldn't deal with Ford, though, how the hell was he going to tell anyone else?

"There's going to be an announcement," he said, "In a few weeks, I think." He hadn't asked for specifics. There were things he had to get through before then, and he had time — as long as he actually followed through.

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Ford would have raised an eyebrow at that if he hadn't already been raising his eyebrow at Cash for the previous thing he'd said. This conversation was getting weirder. Ford generally considered this a red flag as it pertained to his ongoing assessment of Cash's mental health and the likelihood that he would spontaneously create magical creatures from nightmares.

Ford had been talking to Lestrange for a long time, and he'd spent a not inconsiderable amount of the past year thinking about how to read past what he was saying. It was clear to him that there was A Thing (because Cash had started the conversation and pointed it this direction for a reason) and that this was a Big Thing (because Cash didn't seem to want to actually talk about it).

"Let's turn this way," Ford suggested, nodding towards an upcoming street. It was the way to Asphodel. This was a bit of a risk, but a calculated one. He wasn't sure if Cash's hesitancy to say anything directly had to do with a risk of being overheard or not. If it did, Asphodel might help; they were unlikely to be interrupted and no one would be near enough to eavesdrop accidentally. Of course, bringing Cash to a graveyard did have drawbacks. (Swan wasn't buried here. Ford had checked, last spring, when he'd been slowly starving out the dementor in the forest. He'd wanted to ensure it wasn't particularly near to anything that would be likely to perk it up).

"Do people usually announce when they're moving, or is that a Lestrange-royalty sort of thing?" He was joking, because unless one considered a sale listing of an old house as an announcement, that sort of thing was ridiculous. Maybe Muggles who needed to send mail by hand, but in a world were owls could find you regardless of your location and the fireplace could bring any house as close as a neighbors, why would anyone care where you lived? But the joke wasn't really a joke. It was a question, asked through subtext: Announce what?

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Cash could feel tension starting to drain from his shoulders the closer they got to the cemetery, the further they were from the center of Wellingtonshire. How was he ever going to live here? Maybe the cemetery would even loosen his tongue.

He cracked a smile at Lestrange-royalty.

"It's not really about the house," Cash admitted. He was sure it would be noted, though; obviously Lucius would be buying it. He sighed, kicked at some of the grass at the entrance to Asphodel. He rolled his shoulders. He could do this. This conversation was the easiest part of it all; it was just going to get harder from here, and then it would be his life.

He sighed.

"It's about the girl."

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The girl. It was such an odd way to introduce the subject that it took Ford several seconds to put together what Lestrange actually meant, but when he did — oh. This was certainly a development.

"This autumn," he said, awed but not necessarily in a good way. That seemed so sudden, but Cash could have said he was going to be married in a year and it still would have seemed sudden. Was that just because the two of them were the same age, and Ford couldn't be farther from marrying? (Or perhaps because Cash wasn't necessarily emotionally capable of taking care of someone else?)

Macnair had married very suddenly, too. Based on Cash calling her the girl, though, Ford doubted this one was his cousin.

"Does the girl have a name?" he asked, frowning faintly at the cobblestones.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Cash looked up. A thin layer of Scottish clouds hung over them, and he wished it would burst. "Adrienne Selwyn," he said. "She's related to —" he broke off. Ford wouldn't care who she was related to, Cash thought. He kicked the toe of one shoe against the cobblestones, still looking up. "— I don't know, a lot of people." There was a seemingly infinite number of Selwyns, with some number of scandals among them. Cash supposed he would have to meet some.

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Ford didn't know Adrienne Selwyn, which surprised him. He'd have thought if Cash was close to someone, he would have at least met her once or twice. They saw each other at parties; Cash could have introduced him. The fact that the first thing he'd said about her was who she was related to, however, made Ford think perhaps they weren't close after all.

He spent a minute chewing over his response, trying to think of the gentlest and most non-accusatory way to phrase it. "This doesn't sound like it was your idea."

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The question stopped Cash short; he looked away from the sky and over at Ford. "It's an arrangement," he said, "My father has always had — particular ideas in mind for our lives."

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An arrangement. His father's idea. Ford pursed his lips tightly. He flexed his shoulders back and then in again, practically radiating discomfort. The problem with Mr. Lestrange making these sorts of decisions was that he didn't have enough information about Cash's life to make a good decision for him, and from what Ford knew about him he had different values than either of them. Even if he was well-intentioned, his definition of a good choice for Cash or a solid arrangement would have been different from theirs. Ford didn't know much about Cash's relationship with his father, since it wasn't something Cash spoke about openly, but he'd picked up hints here and there. Cash might mention an upcoming lunch with his father with no enthusiasm whatsoever; the obvious conclusion was that he felt forced to go. Cash was never going to stand up to his father.

Poor Adrienne Selwyn, Ford thought as he frowned at his shoes. He didn't know her, but he thought she deserved better. What a disaster for everyone.

Ford looked back at Cash and opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself by biting down hard on his lower lip. He went through the same process again: starting to speak, thinking better of it. He glanced over at the line of trees at the edge of the cemetery, where the town ended and the forest took over. "What are you getting out of it?" he asked; what he really meant was is it worth it?

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Ford seemed uncomfortable. Join the fucking club, Cash thought. He was uncomfortable with this whole thing, and — and it was just going to get worse when he talked to Theo about it. He drew his eyebrows together, distressed by the thought. Where was he even going to start with that?

"Lucius is — not the sort of person you say no to," Cash said. It was that simple — he married Adrienne, and he got to live. Even if he lost everything else.

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He's not the sort of person you say no to, Ford thought. He wouldn't say it. It wouldn't make any difference; it would only start a fight, not change Cash's mind. Ford let out a huff of breath and continued looking at the treeline. If Cash had been cowed by his father for twenty-five years, he wasn't going to stop now.

"If you're going through with this, you'll have to do better than that," he said testily. "You've got a few months to figure it out."

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Cash shrugged his shoulders. Ford was annoyed, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say about it — that he'd had enough agency to (kind of) choose Miss Selwyn was victory enough. "What does it matter?" he asked, more hopeless than exasperated. This was always going to be his life.

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Ford looked at him then, so annoyed that he momentarily had nothing to say.

I babysat a bloody dementor for you, he thought bitterly. It matters.

He didn't think it was worth saying; he didn't think it would convince Cash. He didn't know that anything would. Ford almost wanted to hit him, on the off chance that it would shock some sense into him. Instead, he glowered.

"If it doesn't matter, then fucking leave," he said thickly.

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