March 1st, 1891 — Lach's Home, the Hebrides

The moment he'd sent Miss Binns a letter offering his home as a meeting place he'd regretted it. He really didn't like bringing women to the Hebrides, even if it had happened on only a handful of occasions and each for entirely different reasons. He didn't watch his mouth in the comfort of his home—which was more often than not a bad thing—and combined with the self-consciousness that came with second pair of eyes invading his living space it made for a rather volatile environment. But given the nature of the scandal, meeting in a public place wasn't an option, and he definitely couldn't go to her home, so his options were limited.

He really wasn't sure how he was meant to prepare to receive her. It wasn't like a formal visit, but nor did he want to seem inhospitable (even though he fully intended on interrogating her once she'd settled) so he settled on heating the tea kettle and sweeping the small living room. He finally settled on the couch, the kettle whistling providing the only background noise on the otherwise quiet night. His hair was tied into a knot and Lach realized he ought to be wearing a coat or something over his shirt, but the moment he rose to grab it from the hook green flames rose from the fireplace and out stepped Miss Binns.

He settled back onto the couch. "It's almost 10 o'clock," he said, because he didn't know what else to say—yet.

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@"Juliana Binns"

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

Juliana was rather annoyed by this, honestly. The scheme was only half finished, or possibly less than that, depending on how quickly the rumor mill had been working since the article was published. Talking about it now was like letting someone read a half-written draft and offering feedback on it (not that she would ever have allowed anyone to look at one of her drafts; she was fiercely protective of her work). Nothing anyone could say would be useful, and it was only an unnecessary distraction to try and put all her thoughts into words at the moment.

But him sending her all these frantic letters wasn't helping matters, either. Luckily her family and coworkers had given her some space over the past two days, assuming she was shell-shocked from the article, but sooner or later someone would notice if she kept getting owls at all hours of the day with a man's handwriting on the envelope. If someone managed to see who the letters were from, that would certainly do neither of them any favors. So this was, she supposed, the lesser of two evils; meet him here, answer his questions, and then get back to work — hopefully in peace.

She hadn't changed after dinner — luckily, she was in the habit of forgetting to change when she got caught up in things, so it didn't arouse her mother's suspicion when Mrs. Binns retired for the evening and her daughter was still dressed. Her hair was down, but otherwise she looked just as she might when out and about conducting errands. She checked the bottom floor of the house thrice to ensure no one would see her before she snuck through the floo to Lachlan MacFusty's home.

"I did say after nine," she responded, with a shrug. She glanced around the room, wondering if he expected her to sit or whether this was meant to be a more short-lived conversation.

"You made tea?" she asked in surprise, noticing the kettle.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

She was almost unrecognizable her with her hair down, which only made him realize that he'd nearly forgotten what she looked like apart from her scrawny figure and wide eyes that never looked amused. Lachlan nearly opened his mouth to argue that he'd been waiting for her for nearly an hour, which is why he made tea (0r why he told himself he'd made tea) to begin with, but he remembered what he'd promised himself. He didn't want to turn their acquaintanceship sour; he merely wanted to come to some sort of... understanding. If that was possible at all.

"Um - yes," he said, pushing himself off the couch once more. He leaned over and grabbed the throw blanket that was slung over the back of the couch and threw it onto the nearby chair, clearing a space for her to sit while he went to grab the kettle. Was he silly for having made tea? Was that not done when inviting unmarried women to one's home in secret? It wasn't as if he could've broken out the bottle of scotch.

He returned a moment later carrying a tray with the kettle, teacups, and sugar and milk that he'd fixed just minutes before her arrival in an attempt to be useful so he didn't work himself up into a state of anxiety. There was no telling what she was planning to do, and even after rereading the article he couldn't figure out how it would help them, but he planned to get to the bottom of it.

... After serving tea, apparently, because he found himself pouring her a cup without even thinking about it. He passed it to her wordlessly and sat back onto the couch, his brows furrowed as he tried to figure out just what he wanted to say—but more importantly, what the best way to say it would be.

"I'm not really that daft," he said, which is something he'd been meaning to say. It was a sentiment she'd repeated more than once now: once during their first meeting, then again during the letter, and even a few times in the article she'd written, "But - you have to realize how strange it is to publish your own scandal in a magazine. You do realize that, right?"

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She'd had her mind made up about this meeting and how it would go before she'd even agreed to meet him, but the tea was an unexpected development. She found herself sitting in the spot that he'd cleared and watching him with barely concealed bewilderment as he fixed her cup. Milk and sugar, too. The only thing missing was the biscuits. She almost asked about them, but stopped herself — she didn't want to get too comfortable here. Just as she'd told him it was better for the sake of the plan if he was caught unaware by the article, it was better if they didn't know each other too well. If she could have reached into his head and removed anything he already knew about her that he might potentially let slip to a conversation partner, she would.

When he spoke it jolted her back to the present moment. The tea in her cup smelled rather nice. "Of course I realize that," she said with a nod, raising her cup so she could breath the scent in more deeply. She loved the stream that rose off freshly poured tea. "That's why no one will suspect either of us is behind it, so long as we don't give them any special reason to."

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

There was no of course about this, and he might have pointed it out if Miss Binns hadn't seemed so sure of herself. If he'd had that level of confidence he would still be beating bludgers on the quidditch pitch instead of hiding away in the Hebrides under the guise of dragon-keeping. He'd told himself over and over that the moment they settled he would grill her, but he found himself strangely placid, albeit a little bewildered.

"So you want me to memorize your article? What if people ask things that aren’t referenced?” There were plenty of ways they could potentially mess up their story, even if he did memorize each and every line.

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

Juliana frowned. Memorize was the wrong word; it couldn't sound rehearsed. It needed to sound like the truth — which shouldn't have been that hard, really, because it was the truth. Or, at least, it was part of the truth. She'd left out some of the more incriminating details, like her ripped dress or the fact that in the immediate aftermath they'd both used she was dying a moment ago as their only defense. The idea was that she'd put in enough for people to believe the account, but left out anything that might discredit Mrs. Finch's story of its own accord. No one was going to believe that Lachlan MacFusty actually tore her dress open in a garden at a society function, because without the context that was patently ridiculous. People who were having affairs didn't literally tear each other's clothing off — and now, if Mrs. Finch said anything about it, that sort of comment would only seem like a desperate attention grab. Something to distract from what the article had said about her and her daughters.

(She did feel a little bad for bringing Dorothy Finch into things, but it had been necessary; it was the avenue in which Marianne Finch had the most to lose, and she needed to be reminded of her vulnerability in that area).

"What would you have said if someone asked you about it before the article?" she asked. "You ought to do the same thing now. Change the subject, dodge questions, let your cheeks flush. Eventually, if they press, tell the truth. Or part of it, anyway." Hopefully he'd know which parts to leave out. She considered listing them off, but he'd just said he wasn't daft, so she didn't want to insult him. She thought what was appropriate for public consumption and what wasn't was rather obvious, and if he needed a reference there was the article.

She sipped her tea. It was good, but not sweet enough for her liking. "May I?" she asked, which a gesture towards the tea tray, but waited only a second for an answer before getting into the sugar bowl herself. This tea set was strange. Nothing about it was strange, save the fact of its existence. He was a bachelor living alone in the Hebrides. Did he often have company? The sort of company for whom he would serve tea?

"Whoever talks now loses," she said, sitting back with her newly sweetened cup of tea. "If we're lucky, Marianne Finch will do a lot of talking. She'll try to get her side of the story out in front of everyone. Compared to the article, her account will seem ludicrous, and she'll seem desperate."

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Everything sounded well thought through in theory, but Lachlan knew how scandals worked, having been in the middle of one less than a year ago. A scandal could spread to areas of their lives they'd never thought of; Lach had lost friends after the Quidditch World Cup, he'd lost his career, the Prophet had lost a reporter, a quidditch team had lost a sponsor and a player. He wasn't even sure how far the scandal had reached, but he was certain Fitzroy Prewett had received an earful at work, and there was no telling what the Minister himself had gone through.

This scandal was, in theory, less damning—no one had died, at least, nor was the scandal visible to thousands—but rumored sexual impropriety (as silly as it seemed) was more socially damning than accidental manslaughter. So forgive him for being so worried about how it could possibly spiral out of control. Shouldn't she be the one most concerned? As a woman?

Watching her reach for the sugar bowl was probably the most ridiculous thing about this, because here they sat, alone in the privacy of his home, casually discussing matters over a cup of tea like this couldn't ruin her life. She didn't seem to see it, either.

"You act as though people are chess pieces. Who knows what Mrs. Finch will do—who knows what anyone will do?" Let alone himself. He wasn't daft but he also had never been good at dealing with problems like this. He always shut down and closed himself off, and he would put money on the guess that it would make him look more guilty than innocent. Miss Binns didn't know him. He doubted she knew any of the people whose reactions she was already making assumptions about. "Not everyone reads the magazine, but people will hear about it from people who do. Do you think someone's going to take the time to recount the whole story when they could just say, 'Did you know Lachlan MacFusty and Juliana Binns were caught alone together in a garden?' Because that's exactly what I would say if I spent my time gossiping."

He grabbed the extra teacup and poured himself a cup. He was anxious and he wasn't doing very good at hiding it.

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   Fallon Gillespie

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

Juliana frowned at his comment about chess pieces, but not because she took issue with his simile. It was more of his tone; he thought treating people like chess pieces was a problem, as though it doomed her to failure. What he failed to realize, apparently, was how good she was at chess. Or how good she presumed herself to be, anyway. She'd never had any desire to fully engage in the social season, but that didn't mean she was oblivious to the way it worked. If anything, she thought her distance allowed her to see everything more clearly, and to look objectively at which pieces were on her end of the board compared to those on Mrs. Finch's side, so to speak.

"I've planned for that," she said in response to his remark about not knowing what Mrs. Finch would do, though she did not bother to elaborate.

"And yes, some people might just say that," she said with a shrug. "But some people were going to be saying that anyway. Some people were already saying that. But it's so much less interesting now, don't you see?" she continued, stirring her tea to dissolve the sugar better. "Everyone assumes they know all the details already. But why was Reuben Crouch seen on Marianne Finch's front step? And what's going on with Miss Dorothy? People don't know that, yet, so there's room for speculation." She took a sip of her tea; much better. "That's what they'll talk about. That's what's more interesting. Is there bergamot in this?" she asked suddenly, of the tea. It wasn't an uncommon ingredient in English teas, but it surprised her. It seemed too delicate a flavor for a man who had played Quidditch beater for years and now tamed dragons for a living.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

He had to admit that she had a point, but that would mean letting down his guard and every time he did that it never ended well. He just knew something bad was going to come from this, and he wasn't yet sure what it was.

"You seem to have a lot of plans," he remarked dryly and took another sip of his tea. He probably should have added some milk, but he felt too weird to reach for the cup of it. In fact, this whole conversation felt weird, but he wouldn't say anything. It was even weirder because he barely knew anything about her bar the few secrets she'd shared in their first letter exchange, and even those felt like they'd been shared terribly out-of-context.

"Have you considered the worst case scenario here? Did you even think about it, or did you simply assume everything would go according to plan?" She was throwing caution to the wind, brushing off his every concern. They definitely wouldn't have to worry about the irreparable social damage, but Ben Crouch (an old friend of his, but he didn't bother vocalizing that) and Mrs. Finch would? Being seen on a doorstep with one's mother-in-law seemed infinitely less interesting than anything that had happened between them, truth or cover story. She didn't seem concerned about any of that—no, she was more interested in the tea.

He gawked at her in silence, considering saying something snarky like yes, I'll send you on your way with a tin of it, but it wouldn't do him any favors. She had the quill and the plan. He needed to stay on her good side, didn't he? "Would you like another cup?" he asked instead, only realizing a moment later how ridiculous he sounded.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

"Of course I've considered that," she said, a little sharply. "I've considered everything." What part of trust me didn't he understand?

But, of course, he had no reason to expect that she was trustworthy. They didn't really know each other, and most young women did not have the particular set of skills she did. Most young women had not spent half a decade conducting secret research and then the past year writing under a pseudonym.

"Yes, please," she answered, her tone softer but still not entirely devoid of irritation. She raised her cup to finish it off, then leaned forward to put it back on the tray. "With about twice as much sugar as before, if you would."

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Lachlan poured her tea, looking mildly irritated the entire time, but passed her her cup of tea—with plenty of sugar—with an even hand. If only he'd remembered to grab the bourbon from the liquor cabinet to steep his tea in he might have been on a path to feeling a little calmer, but now he was frustrated, confused, and—apparently—brimming with curiosity.

"You seem like you have experience covering up your problems," he said, followed by a choked chuckle. He sipped from his teacup, his eyes still on her. "I don't think you ever told me what you do. You don't seem like the type to sit at home doing nothing." He quirked a brow in challenge, fully expecting her to contradict him with some rambling about how women didn't have to work to be intelligent. She did seem like that type, didn't she?

(He really needed to stop putting himself in situations with women who thought they knew better than everyone else. It never ended well.)

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   Noble Greengrass

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

Juliana hesitated. This was the sort of thing she'd wanted to avoid, in coming here. The less they knew about each other, the better, because the less chance they had that one of them could accidentally slip up and say too much in a conversation. If their interaction at the party had merely been that she fainted and he tried to wave some air on her to wake her up, or something, he would have no reason to know where she worked.

They were imbalanced, of course. She knew a good deal about him. There was a wealth of public information on him, owing to his role in the death of Edith Turnbull last fall, and she'd poured through it all when crafting her letter, so that Meredith Watchword seemed as though she knew him. She knew more than someone could only from reading, too. She knew the way his jacket smelled and the sort of tea he drank and how the furniture in his living room was arranged. She knew two of his secrets, and in exchange she'd given him three facts that, while true, said absolutely nothing about her unless one knew the context.

The difference was, though, that she knew her own acting abilities. She knew what situations she could put herself in, what she could say and keep herself from saying. She didn't have the same implicit confidence in him. He would slip, where she wouldn't. It wasn't that he was daft, either, though if pressed that was probably what she would say. It was that he was sincere. It was dangerous, given their current situation.

"I think it's best if we don't discuss personal matters anymore," she said, with a trace of sympathy in her tone.

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   Cassius Lestrange, Lachlan MacFusty

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

So, what, they were going to go their separate ways and never see each other again? For some reason the idea bothered him, not because he enjoyed her company or anything (no, she was irritating and arrogant and made him question himself) but because she was the only other person who knew about what really happened at Mrs. Finch's party, and the person who had crafted a plan to keep their reputations in-tact. He didn't want to be shoved into public, blind to whatever strings she was pulling behind the scenes. After the Quidditch World Cup he'd learned his limits. Rumors took a toll on him, even if he tried not to show it.

"I disagree," he replied, brows raised slightly.

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   Juliana Ainsworth

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

She pursed her lips. Why did he care? Asking once was understandable; it might have just been an offhand comment or a way of making conversation. Asking a second time, even implicitly as he had done, meant he really wanted an answer.

On the one hand, her job was fairly innocuous; everyone who visited the House of Lytton had seen her there, so he might have learned of it from anyone. She didn't want to open the door to other questions, though, to things he had no easily explained reason to know.

"You're entitled to your opinion," she replied, sipping her tea.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Lachlan narrowed his eyes, not in impatience but rather curiosity. Why was she so evasive about, well, everything? And stubborn and unbothered and way more invested in her cup of tea than their conversation?

"I'm more interested in why your opinion is different," he retorted, sipping from his own cup.

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

Juliana set her tea cup down. It would be better not to answer that, but she couldn't think of another way to dodge it without being even more obviously rude than she had already been. She ran her tongue lightly over the tip of one canine tooth and looked at her nails, considering.

"Because I don't trust you," she eventually admitted. "Which I don't mean as an insult. You seem a perfect gentleman," obviously: the tea. "But the situation we're in is... unique, and precarious. And — being a gentleman — you might get the both of us into trouble without meaning to."

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules