February 14th, 1891 — Dom & Matilda's Home, London

Married life had not been the same since 1881. A decade had passed, but it didn't feel like it; she still remembered how she'd hugged a toddling Zenobia against her chest the night the scandal broke as Domitian had scrambled to separate the truths from lies. She remembered hoping the rumors would disappear, that their family could move forward without the stain of muggle blood attached to their name.

They never did. The rumors became truth and their family had never moved forward quite the same. Her marriage never did, either, and it was more apparent now than ever.

The silence in the sitting room was almost painful. Without their children around to talk about, evenings were often spent separate and dinners at opposite ends on the table. Every year she hoped, just a little, that this day—Valentine's Day—would be the one where Dom spent the evening at her side talking, laughing, and opening up to her. She hoped that every year would be their new beginning, that he would make an effort to return to the early years of their marriage.

He never did. She hadn't expected him to, and this year she'd accepted that he wouldn't—but as she was beginning to prepare for Mrs. Finch's garden party someone from the floristry had delivered a bouquet with her name written on a small tag attached to the string.

"I appreciate the roses," she said, the first word spoken in minutes. I wish you would have given them to me yourself, is what she wanted to say, but it might have started an argument, and Matilda did not like to fight, most especially with her husband.

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Domitian Zabini

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   Domitian Zabini

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Having survived the boggarts at the party earlier that day, Domitian was feeling relieved but also still a little tense, and he was already making plans for how he might spend the evening after dinner with Matilda. He had a new book he'd acquired earlier in the month, on the development of alchemic principles in Eastern Europe, that he might read. He had a bottle of liquor he could open to accompany it, or a humidor full of cigars. The more he considered it, though, the more he thought he might want to go out that evening. Ever since he'd become an animagus, the transformation was therapeutic. He couldn't manage it in London, of course, but it he went to the countryside he could indulge in a midnight hunt...

But first, getting through dinner. He looked up with some surprise as she commented on the roses. After so many years of marriage — particularly after nearly ten years of a marriage which was maintained, he was convinced, only for appearances and not for any genuine feeling — this was more of a tick in the box than anything. He hadn't even selected the bouquet himself, but had asked the housekeeper to pick something large and expensive. Something that fit their family's station — if their marriage was meant to maintain appearances, then appearances must be maintained very well. He had not expected Matilda to comment on the gift.

"Of course," he said with a simple shrug. Roses, hm? Typical, he supposed, but not particularly exciting. "I hope the color suits your room," he added vaguely. He wasn't sure what color the roses were. Well, red or pink, presumably, but there were shades within that — or perhaps there had been some other flowers in the bundle to add a little color. Hopefully there was some depth of color, and it wasn't a stupid thing to say.

  

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Bree made this!

Of course, Dom was not a woman and probably had no idea of color theory beyond what colors in his wardrobe did and did not match, but it still irked her when he mentioned the color. Her roses were red, and they would not look well in her bedroom. Her wallpaper was colored with delicate shades of white and peach, a mix that hardly looked good against the deep, dark red of roses. She had appreciated the roses for their meaning—romantic love—but from his tone it was clear that he couldn't have been any less sincere.

Now was probably not the time to mention that she'd gone into his bedchamber while he was out and laid a new pair of cufflinks on his bedside table, which she was sure would match whatever he wore. He always did like those sort of things; it was one of their many differences.

"I thought I placed them quite nicely by the window. Better than anything the maid could have done—" Her eyes flew up to meet his gaze, searching for a sign of anything. Fondness. Sincerity. Love. She'd always thought she was good at reading people, but he made it especially difficult.

"—if you would care to come and see," she finished.

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   Domitian Zabini

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This was all mundane up until the last half of her sentence. Domitian raised an eyebrow, unsure exactly what his wife was asking. Perhaps she was just making conversation, and she didn't really care whether he went up to her bedroom tonight or not. Perhaps she was asking for him to visit her bedroom in the conjugal sense. He certainly wasn't opposed, though it hadn't been the exact brand of stress relief he'd had in mind for himself tonight. It seemed unlike her, however, to come right out and ask, however coyly.

"— if you like," he said, pretending to turn his attention to the wine glass in his hand but watching her over the rim to see how her expression might change.

  

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Bree made this!

Her breath caught in her chest at the raise of his brow, but she kept her expression still. Painfully still. Was it normal for a wife to live in such anticipation, such fear, when it came to her husband? She was not scared of him, of course, even if he could be a bit broody and dark at times, but she had taken a long time to decide he was worth giving her heart to, only for him to push it aside.

And she hated it.

He did not smile suggestively. He did not smile at all. He didn't seem to wear any expression at all; Matilda might have even called it disinterested if she was being pessimistic. But that was life with Domitian Zabini, and she'd accepted it after ten years of straight faces.

She did not reply straight away and instead dropped her gaze to her plate, trying not to look downcast.

"You may do as you wish," she said. And then, under her breath, "As you usually do."

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That he could do as he wished went without saying, so the fact that she had said it was cause for some mild concern, even before she added the last phrase under her breath. She was far enough away, across the table, that he couldn't make out every syllable, but the meaning was clear enough even so. He looked up at her, still holding his wine glass as he contemplated how to handle this unexpected development.

Eventually, he put the wine glass down. He picked the napkin up from his lap and tossed it onto the table besides his plate, as though he thought he might leave the table. "You're upset," he said; not a question but an observation.

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   Matilda Zabini

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Bree made this!

Matilda had always been guarded in their marriage, if only because it was not one of her choosing, but she liked to think that she was honest with her husband. She did not make a habit of lying to his face, nor did she go out of her way to avoid telling the truth.

Except where her feelings were concerned. She did not regularly allow him to see those.

Her gaze snapped up, brown eyes meeting brown, and she softened her brow hoping it would make her look less tense.

"Not upset," she disagreed, her voice even, "simply... unsurprised."

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Domitian was equally unsure what to do with that. Surprises were uncommon in a relationship with as long a history as theirs, and Dom was perfectly content without any. After 1881, he would have preferred never to have been surprised by anything ever again — which was why he worked so carefully to plan for every possible scenario, though he did so in secret. He was never going to be caught off guard again — at least not by his family. Once upon a time, he would have considered his family the people closest to his heart, and he still cared deeply about each of them — but that only meant it was all the more important to keep them at arm's length. Letting anyone closer only meant they had more capacity to hurt you, if it came to that.

"And you were hoping to be... surprised?" he asked, leaning one elbow on the arm of his chair and putting his hand on his chin as if contemplating this development. Really, he was only trying to figure out what it was she wanted. It was in his best interest (and the best interest of his children) to keep her happy, especially with Calliope's pregnancy progressing smoothly. If there was anything he could do to appease her, he would — though he did not think it would make much of a difference, if he and Nicodemus were disinherited.

Time was ticking on getting things arranged. He needed to be more aggressive about it, he suspected, despite how young the children were.

  

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Bree made this!

Matilda sat back in her chair, her back straight and her chin slightly elevated. She disliked when he looked at her like that, like she was a mystery to be solved rather than a woman to understand. He'd stopped trying to understand her a long time ago—assuming he ever had at all.

"Perhaps 'surprised' is the wrong word to use," she responded. She didn't like surprises; that was the many developments to her personality that had occurred after finding out her future bloodline had been tainted. She looked at him with a look that might be perceived as disdain, only it wasn't. She was frustrated and disappointed and really, really wished this year was not like the last. This was the first year they had no children to use as an excuse to keep their feelings to themselves inside the home, the first year they could have tried to be a proper couple after years of tension.

"But do not worry, husband." It was easier to use that word. If she used his name it was too easy to attach emotions to it, emotions she didn't want to reveal. "No need to concern yourself with my thoughts," she added dryly.

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Domitian pursed his lips. She wanted to end it on this note, then, and she'd made that fairly clear. He was far from satisfied, but wondered about the wisdom of pushing the issue. It might have been easier if she'd come right out and said what she meant, instead of this veiled conversation, but did he want to hear it? If what she really wanted to say was I wish you wouldn't give me so many new reasons to be disappointed in you, what would he do then? If she came right out and admitted, over the dinner table, that she despised him — if she said she resented him for whatever role he had to play in locking their children out of the same life she had always envisioned for herself — if she resented him for being her husband and ruining her life through her association with him — what was he supposed to do with that? Nothing that he wasn't already doing. Quietly planning for the worst, and biding his time.

He could have just let the comment go, finished his dinner, and moved on.

After a long moment, he decided not to let it go.

"Should I concern myself with your words?" he asked, tensely. "Or would you like me to pretend I don't hear those things you're saying under your breath?"

  

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Bree made this!

Matilda narrowed her eyes. "I don't know why you would concern yourself with my displeasure about our St. Valentine's Day arrangements," she said, as if it was less important to her than it was a moment ago, because it suddenly was. There was a tension in his voice that sounded out of place, like he was making assumptions. Men—they never could quite grasp what women wanted, could they?

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"I concern myself with your happiness," he said shortly. Which was true, though it came less from any sort of sentiment and more from a desire to keep her content enough that she wouldn't jump at the first chance to take his children away.

Still tense, Domitian moved his hand to his fork and grasped it, though didn't return his attention to his food yet. "I hope you would tell me if you were unhappy, Matilda."

  

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Bree made this!

Matilda did not believe the words as he spoke, as much as she wanted to. His tone lacked the softness of a concerned lover and instead came across as tense. She looked away from him, stabbed a piece of meat with her fork, and put it in her mouth so she would not have to respond.

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Dom watched her chew in silence. He still had one hand on his silverware, but didn't pick it up.

"Matilda," he said in a measured tone, intending to provoke a response. He couldn't do anything with that, the fork stabbing and the angry chewing, but if he could get her to say something else, maybe he could use it to navigate his way through this conversation.

Or maybe not; maybe this was the end. Maybe she wouldn't even wait for the baby to be born and the disinheriting to become a reality before she asked for her divorce.

  

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Bree made this!

Matilda chewed her food in silence, taking the chance to consider what she would say—and what she would not say. With every year it grew more apparent that her husband did not feel the same towards her as she felt towards him, and it wasn't as if she could vocalize that. She could not—would not—put herself in such a vulnerable situation. Not when he was already so distant.

She finished chewing and set her fork down. Avoiding his gaze she removed her napkin from her lap, covered her full plate of food with it, and sat up straight. "I think I'm going to retire for the night. Your gift is in your bedchamber." She looked up at him, straight lipped and tense, and moved to get up but hesitated at the last moment. "Goodnight, darling."

In her fourteen years of marriage, Matilda had never liked to part for the night on bad terms. She did not want to argue, she did not want to leave him to fill his mind with assumptions. She simply wanted to go; perhaps he would understand her frustration one day.

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