25 February, 1891 — starting location: The Three Broomstick
final location: Londonderry, Ireland

Ford hadn't been expecting that line Lestrange had written about atmosphere of unsettling, empty manors, hence his question about whether the other man was expecting to be frightened. These sorts of things were intended to scare people, of course, but they were designed by Muggles and for Muggles, so that wasn't always the effect they had on him. Particularly since he dealt with spirits in a professional capacity, some of the antics that happened in the supposedly-haunted houses were too ridiculous for him to take them seriously, and they ended up being silly. Ford thought it was a good time, regardless, but since Lestrange had written I would love to be scared he was nervous that this manor in Derry wouldn't live up to expectations. He was excited about tonight, too. As he'd already written, he was looking forward to getting away from the crowded Bartonburg house, even if it was just for a night, but his excitement was more than that. Of the three options he'd presented, this one was the most involved, and it was a little thrilling that Lestrange had chosen it. Was that silly of him? The other man had already indicated he wanted to do something like this, and they'd gotten on well the last time they'd spoken at the club, so it wasn't out of left field. But there was a difference between getting along with someone well enough to go out and do something with them for a few hours, and getting on well enough with someone that you wanted to spend all night with them in a secluded manor in Ireland, wasn't there? Or was he reading too much into this?

In any case, between the nerves and the anticipation his skin was practically itching by the time he arrived at the Three Broomsticks that evening. He hadn't told his siblings exactly where he was going, only vaguely that he had an evening engagement and intended to stay out, which sort of added to the excitement — like it was a secret, although there was no reason it had to be. He had a shoulder bag with everything he would need for the night and the next day, so that he could go straight from the manor to the Ministry. He was loitering in the entryway, wondering whether he ought to take a seat at a table or at the bar, whether to order a drink or just wait, when Lestrange arrived.

"Hi," he said brightly. "Do you want to get a drink, or do you want to just go? They're going to have dinner ready for us when we get there," he explained. Then, with a slight chuckle, "But I didn't ask about drinks."

Cassius Lestrange

  

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Cash was excited about this; haunted houses (even if they were not actually haunted) were at least different, and having decided that he wanted to be friends with Greengrass, Cash was excited about actually spending a significant chunk of time with him. Also, any night spent outside of the Lestrange London house was ideal for Cash. Now that Cornelia was married, his best option for the household was spending time with Kristoffer, and that was far from his preferred use of time.

So: this was better than his usual evening, and Cash had actually been bordering-happy since his conversation with Theodore Gallivan last Saturday. He told Belphoebe - not that he thought she would care, but this was the done thing in Cash's life - that he was planning on staying overnight at Excalibur's, which was not true but was difficult enough to check that he didn't think she would. He had an overnight bag with the necessities with him when he arrived in The Three Broomsticks. He was happy to let Greengrass take the lead for the night; Cash felt as if he hardly had to make any decisions, which was sort of relieving.

"Hi," Cash replied, equally bright. "That's a good question -" he was torn, between spending a few minutes here and heading straight out "- I suppose we should get a drink? In case they don't, or if they only have - whiskey."

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Ford's stomach flipped at the mention of whiskey. On the one hand, it was strangely thrilling that Lestrange had cared enough to remember something about him from their first meeting. On the other hand, it was a bit mortifying that this man might only know five to ten facts about him, and one of them was apparently going to be that he'd never really figured out how to drink whiskey. It wasn't exactly what he lead with when he was introducing himself, particularly not if he wanted the other party to think well of him. And he did want Lestrange to think well of him. He'd given up on the pretense that he was only interested in the potential friendship here because it would ingratiate him to Society Types, or even that it would make passing an occasional evening at Black's more pleasant. About halfway through their first conversation, about the time that he'd stopped pretending to care about cards, he'd realized that he actually enjoyed talking to Lestrange. He wanted the feeling to be mutual.

But he didn't sound like he was poking fun, about the whiskey — with the brightness in his tone it was more like it was some personal joke that the two of them were in on.

"Yeah, let's," he agreed with a nod, weaving his way through tables until he found one that appeared to be unoccupied. "I wonder if they'd sell us a bottle for the road, if we asked," he mused as he sat. He'd never had occasion to ask, but he didn't see why they wouldn't; they had plenty of bottles, and were in the business of exchanging them for money. Not that he wanted to be drunk, tonight, but a bottle of wine between the two of them would hardly be enough to cross that boundary, especially if they were still going to have dinner later.

"Oh — and congratulations," he said, remembering only after he'd slipped his bag off his shoulder and to the floor. "I saw in the paper about your match."

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   Cassius Lestrange

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"I think they probably would," Cash said agreeably; he actually knew that the answer was yes, mostly because of his youth spent teenage drinking and occasionally trying suspicious potions. He didn't want to explain this to Ford Greengrass, though; even though they'd only had one conversation, Greengrass struck Cash as someone who had been generally well-behaved in Hogwarts and probably after, too. He didn't want to scare him away from friendship by telling stories about teenage drinking.

Cash grinned at the mention of the Quidditch match. "Thanks, it was closer than I'd have liked," he said; the score had been making him nervous when he got lucky enough to spot the snitch. He wished they'd talked about Greengrass' work last time, so that Cash could ask; as it was, he didn't know enough specifics to ask and feel like he was being friendly. "How've the dinner parties been, with your sisters?" he tried, instead.

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Ford nodded at the comment about the score, but was relieved when Lestrange changed the subject. He didn't really know much about Quidditch (as he had admitted, mortifyingly in retrospect, to Dorian Fisk), so he didn't trust that he could get through a conversation of any length on the subject while maintaining the vague notion that he understood anything about it. He also wasn't sure, given how things had transpired with Fisk, that he could get through a conversation on the subject of Quidditch without blushing — which would look pretty stupid, since normally when people talked about Quidditch they were actually talking about Quidditch, not about — whatever else had been lurking in the subtext of that conversation.

Dinner parties, though, were safe territory all around. A staff member approached the table, and Ford asked for wine before turning his attention back to Lestrange. "Yeah, they're — well, as good as you can expect dinner parties to be, probably," he said with an affable shrug. "A dozen people, only three or four of whom you really know well enough to carry a conversation with, and too much food. I suppose it serves a purpose, but no one's come by with a proposal for Verity yet, so," he said, with another shrug. He'd slipped into this casual conversation about getting his sisters married too easily, he realized once the words were out of his mouth. He was comfortable in this conversation, so he'd just followed the same pattern he'd developed in talking to Noble — but Lestrange was not his brother, and he wouldn't get it. From his perspective, it probably seemed as though Ford was callous, talking like that — like he didn't care about his sister's happiness at all, only about nudging them out the door faster.

"My sister's eager to marry," he said by way of explanation, hoping this would take the edge off of how blase he sounded in discussing her lack of current suitors.

  

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Cash also ordered wine, and listened easily through Greengrass' tale of dinner parties. He was a little perplexed by the last sentence - he did not remember Verity Greengrass being so old that she should be desperate to marry, although he also did not remember Verity Greengrass at all - but Greengrass' follow-up helped. Plenty of women were eager to marry, after all; marriage brought a sort of freedom with it.

"I wonder if my sister Seneca will feel similarly when she debuts this year," Cash said. A waitress brought their wines over to them. "And perhaps events will be more interesting when it's the season." Cash grinned, a little playful; the season itself was a funny concept to him, as he had never really dabbled seriously in it, even in his conversations with Miss Abercrombie. They largely ran into one another at the same vaguely-related-to-one-another events, after all.

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Presumably Seneca Lestrange did not run the risk of being ruined in three seasons if she didn't marry well (or sooner, if their mother kept spending the way she did), but obviously Ford was not going to say anything about that. And besides, it had nothing to do with Verity's desire to marry soon — she'd been of that opinion without Ford even having to push her towards it to much, unlike Clementine, who seemed quite vehemently opposed to any of his plans for her. Maybe that was just Clementine, though — she was (or at least, could be) contrary just for the sake of it.

He didn't really want to talk about Verity or Clem or any of his siblings, though, so he didn't dive into any details about them. Instead, he joked dryly, "Right, when we cross the magic date line and things become interesting for six months."

The season sort of made sense for Muggles, since the fashionable ones with distant properties tended to travel between the countryside and London. There was a natural divide between the sort of company one could expect in London and in the countryside. Wizards, on the other hand, could apparate, or floo, or take flying carriages about — the fact that they had a social season at all seemed just sort of old-fashioned and strange. But he supposed a part of him was glad for it, too; if they didn't have a season he might be expected to chaperone the girls even more often, and he wouldn't have time to run off to haunted houses with friends — and there'd be nothing to prevent them from getting Grace out into society right away, which would double the load. So perhaps it did have some use, after all.

  

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"Listen," Cash said, equally dry, "I would rather spend the summer perhaps literally anywhere but at a ball, but sometimes it helps to think positively." He smiled at Greengrass, as if thinking positively was normal for him, which it was not, but he could pretend. He took a sip of his wine. The season was boring, though; Cash didn't think that the season was interesting and he knew that Greengrass didn't, either, so he wanted to talk about something else.

"I didn't mention this but I don't think I've been to Ireland before," Cash said. At least - he was pretty sure he hadn't been to Ireland before. He certainly hadn't been to Derry.

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Ford could have said a great deal on the subject of balls and why he didn't like them — Begonia Belby featured in at least three of his top five reasons — but he could not say anything on the subject that would make him sound cool, or suave, or interesting, so he was glad when Lestrange changed the subject once again.

"You haven't?" Ford asked brightly. He'd been plenty of times, mostly for work — Ireland had sort of a strange relationship with England in Muggle politics but it was all the same Ministry on the magical side. It was sort of neat to think that he had the upper hand in experience, here, even if there was nothing particularly exotic about Londonderry.

"You seem like the sort of person who would've toured Europe after school," Ford teased lightly. "I expected you would've been everywhere. You must've at least been for Quidditch? Or do they not play in Ireland?"

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   Zelda Darrow

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"Oh," Cash said, "You're going to think it's stupid." He was going to have to explain it, now, and he took a sip and let his wine swirl in the glass before he expanded. "I don't really - count those? Like, we take the portkey or we apparate or we floo in, and then I'm at the pitch which is essentially the same as other pitches, and then we play Quidditch and we leave." Traveling with the Cannons wasn't real traveling; he usually wasn't anywhere for longer than a few hours. He swirled the liquid in his glass and glanced at Greengrass; he didn't want to expand on where he'd actually traveled - (also, there were some places Cash didn't remember distinctly) - until getting a reaction.

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Ford leaned in slightly when Lestrange pronounced that he was going to think it was stupid, as if to save the other man from having to say whatever it was too loudly. He doubted very much that he was going to think it was stupid, though. He didn't get the impression Lestrange could tell him anything he would think was stupid.

"No, that makes sense," he said with a nod. "Quidditch pitches do all look the same," he said with a smile. "But I wasn't going to say it."

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Cash grinned. "Well, thanks for not judging me," he said easily. He took another sip of his drink, and made a mental note to ask the waitress if he could buy them a bottle - he didn't want to be drunk at the house, but it seemed like a good gesture. "I didn't go on tour, though, so I've been to - a few places very briefly. But not Ireland, outside of - Quidditch pitches." Cash didn't really think of Ireland as a vacation destination; still, though, he thought that Derry would be interesting, especially if the house was "haunted."

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A few places very briefly was more traveling than Ford had really done — he had never been beyond the reach of the floo network. It was probably more travel than Ford ever would do, too, unless he somehow managed to miraculously get all the girls married without a hitch and then his mother went to live with one of them, and he was allowed to actually spend some of the money he worked for. Even then, it seemed a bit far-fetched; most people in his social strata didn't travel widely except on their honeymoons, and Ford didn't really ever plan to have one of those. With how things had been over the past year, Ford sometimes found himself dreaming of such small things as being able to buy someone a Christmas present on a whim instead of after careful planning, or getting a new book from the bookstore instead of the library, or even buying the bottle of red wine himself — he was relieved that Lestrange had been the one to order it, though of course he wouldn't show it. When he was dreaming of things like that, things that had been normal before he'd become the head of the family, the idea that he might ever have enough money to do something more seemed, frankly, ridiculous. He wasn't going to get married, or have children. Maybe, if things worked out just perfectly for him, he might reach his thirties and buy himself a cat.

Probably not, though. If he managed to get the girls married, he'd start acquiring nieces and nephews at an alarming rate, he imagined, and he'd likely have too many obligations in the realm of Christmas presents, birthdays, and various outings to do more than keep his head above water. That, and his mother was never going to go live with someone else — he wasn't that lucky. She was probably going to stay in the house and keep spending his money faster than he could earn it until the day he died, and maybe she'd even outlive him. So no cat.

"Well, I don't know that one abandoned manor is going to be representative of the whole country," he said with a shrug before taking a drink of his wine. "But at least you'll be able to say you've been. Outside the Quidditch pitch," he added, with a slightly teasing smile.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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"Listen, at least most manors look different from one another," Cash said, "Unlike Quidditch pitches." The only Quidditch pitch he had any real attachment to was the Cannons pitch, and how much of that was just because he was a Cannons player, and therefor spent a lot of time there? (That most Cannons players did not sit in the rafters after bad practices or pick the lock on the door of the sponsor's office when they wanted to get a rise out of Gallivan was at the moment beyond Cash.)

Cash drank his wine, which he was nearly-but-not-quite done with, and again wished that he'd asked what Greengrass did for work when he had the chance. Or he should have checked, somehow, in the way that people checked these things. Now he suspected that asking would be somehow rude, and while he had a vague idea that it was something Ministerial in nature there was a lot of variation in those offices which would not help.

"How long has this one been 'haunted?' Or is that one of the things we'll find out later?" Cash asked; the manor was not rude and not small talk, and once they were there they would presumably have a number of fake-hauntings to talk about.

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Ford wrinkled his nose at the question. "Well, I've heard a bit — but I don't imagine I'll tell it half so... er, theatrically as they would tell it if we waited until we were there," he pointed out. He did not expect it to actually be haunted, after all, so was not putting much stock in the story. Even if it was haunted, the Muggles probably had the story all wrong. They had a habit of mistaking banshees and ghouls and things for ghosts, and thereby attaching some phony story to them to explain their origin, when in reality banshees had never been human in the first place.

He probably ought to have waited and let the staff at the manor tell the story, so that Lestrange could have the full experience, but he'd asked and they still had half a glass of wine to get through before they left, and they had to talk about something.

"So it's — allegedly, anyway — supposed to be this family in like, the late eighteenth century. So around a hundred years? But there's like five of them, I think, and they all died on the property and all in different ways. Little girl drowned in the garden fountain when the nurse wasn't watching, then the nurse got chased off by the mother and... died in the woods, somehow, I think," he said with a shrug. "Eaten by wolves? I don't know. They're very dramatic, Muggles."

  

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"That's bleak," Cash said cheerfully. And maybe the muggles were dramatic but Cash's mother had died by summoning a fireplace poker through his chest so - maybe he ought not be throwing stones from his glass house, or anything. People died in myriad and interesting and tragic ways all the time, and at least muggles got to live with the idea that they could talk to dead people who hadn't decided to stick around as ghosts.

"If ghosts worked the way muggles thought they do I wonder how many of those old magical country homes would be haunted. Other than the ones that are already haunted, I guess," he said. Plenty of terrible things happened in Fort Lestrange; it could very plausibly be haunted now except that no one had decided to haunt it.

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