August 30th, 1888 — Aphrodite Soiree, Destiny Hotel, London

He had survived dinner, and at least half a dozen dances afterwards — mostly with precocious young women who had taken his fascination with the novelty pocket watch to mean he was actively seeking a dance partner and had decided to introduce themselves. They had been largely disappointed to learn during the course of the dance number that rather than a wayward bachelor looking for love, he was in fact simply a married eccentric who had made it his goal for the night to trace out the exact nature of the spell placed on the watches, just for fun. At this point in the evening, he was looking forward to the fireworks that would announce it was time to depart — though he did have to admit, at least privately to himself if not to his wife, that the event hadn't been quite so bad as some others he'd attended.

At least, he thought so until his pocket watch informed him that he had been selected by the hostess for a dance. It might have been a mistake — Miss Valentine's matchmaking talents would have been wasted on him, after all, for even if there was a such thing as a soul mate and his was lurking somewhere in the crowd, Rufina did not seem disposed to disappear at any point in the foreseeable future — but after checking the watch, he thought it more likely that this was some sort of joke. Was it possible that his wife had paid Miss Valentine to slip a name onto his card, perhaps as punishment for some social oversight he'd made earlier in the night? He wasn't sure whether Rufina was so malicious or not, but this certainly was someone's doing.

He knew the woman in question, unfortunately, but had no desire to dance with her. The best way he could think to describe her was like an overweight fish — her mouth was always gaping, her eyes were always wide and blank, and he was entirely convinced that instead of a brain she possessed merely a rudimentary nervous system to keep her corpulent body animated. Anyone who had seen him interact with this woman would surely have gathered how much he disliked her — he took no pains to be subtle, since it seemed unlikely she would pick up on even the strongest of hints — and the idea of sharing a dance with her was simply torment.

Could he flatly refuse, if she found him? Probably, but it would go much smoother if he already had some reason in hand — and to that end, Ernest's eyes flitted around the room in search of the first even mildly familiar face.

"Mrs. Pettigrew," he called to the nearby blonde. "Perhaps you would allow me to steal your next dance?"

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   Hannah Pettigrew

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The Aphroditie Soiree had been touted as the social event of the summer. Given that the fog had taken a chunk of Britain out of the eyes of society for a matter of weeks, Hannah did not think that title was difficult to boast but was, nonetheless, actually enjoying herself—a far cry from the dread she had felt when returning to the stage that was magical society some months prior. Gone was the ennui with which she had approached life and in its place was a very close approximation of the girl she had once been, before her father and before her miscarriage.

The champagne did not hurt matters, and Hannah had imbibed a perfectly respectable single flute since her turn about the dance floor with her husband, and a second rested, full, in her hand when Mr. Mulciber called.

Her first reaction was one of puzzlement. They were, of course, acquainted, but that he would ask her to dance—entirely harmless, mind, given they were both ostensibly married quite happily—struck her as odd indeed.

“I should be happy to,” came her answer, after a fleeting survey of the room determined her husband was deep in conversation with one of the other quidditch sponsors and should hardly miss her.

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

Ernest felt a wave of relief at her assent — something that was most likely visible on his face, since he took no pains to hide it. He would not have bothered to explain himself, since he doubted Mrs. Pettigrew cared, but he had only just had time to offer her a brief smile and a word — "Delightful," — before he spotted the woman he had been avoiding, moving around a nearby circle of guests with a slight frown on her otherwise bovine features.

"Just in time," he muttered to himself, though loudly enough that his dance partner would be able to hear quite clearly. He would have taken her hand and pulled her off to the dance floor that very instant to avoid the inevitable conversation when his intended dance partner found him, if it were not for the full glass of champagne. It would have been poor form, he thought, to cause her to spill her drink all over her skirts by forcing her to dance with a full glass, particularly when she had just saved him (albeit unknowingly) from a rather unpleasant experience.

The fish-lady found them, and Ernest offered her his not-quite-sincerest sympathies, but explained he had just promised his next dance to Mrs. Pettigrew ("Ah, me, I'd forgotten about the magical dance cards — I'm afraid I simply didn't check,") and of course could not now disappoint her by leaving her in the lurch ("But perhaps if you do find any open spaces for the rest of the ball, you'll come and find me to make up for it," his words, in this case, not at all matching his tone, which clearly said I expect to be busy all night, so perhaps you should contrive to be busy as well, and we'll just agree not to talk about this.)

That interaction completed, and the woman sent on her way, Ernest glanced at Mrs. Pettigrew — who had been, either in solidarity with his plight or through shock at finding herself his accomplice, Ernest neither knew nor particularly cared which, silent through the conversation. "Right, then," he said briskly, as though he had just dispatched with a particularly unpleasant memo from his work desk and was ready to get down to proper business. "Shall I fetch a glass of champagne, to give you time to finish yours?"

  

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This entire interlude was one that the witch found confusing, though it drew more sharply into focus as Hannah surmised that Mr. Mulciber’s intent had been to avoid a dance with Miss Monroe. Frankly, the blonde could not blame him—she had seen the woman, two seasons her senior, on the dance floor, and it was not the prettiest sight to behold. She smiled brightly at the woman, who departed somewhat reluctantly, before turning back to Mr. Mulciber with rather an accusatory smile.

“Mr. Mulciber, I shall not hold it against you if, without an immediate threat to your feet or dignity, you should rather not take a turn with me,” Hannah offered politely. “Though I confess, I am rather perplexed as to how you became engaged with Miss Monroe in the first place!”

True, it was generally impolite to pry into such matters, but it was a trivial detail, and she had just saved him.

  

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

She had found him out, though Ernest wasn't surprised by that. He would have thought her a bit daft if she hadn't managed to piece it together, given the suddenness with which he had asked her for a dance and the scene that she had just witnessed play out following. She hadn't accosted him or begun to berate him, however, which meant he saw no particular reason to take the out she'd offered him. He had to do something, after all, or else risk seeming blatantly rude to the now-adrift Miss Monroe, and dancing with Mrs. Pettigrew was not the worst possible use of his time.

"Now, now, you'll rob me of my excuse," he said with a wry half-smile and something of a shrug. "You've helped me through an awkward moment, Mrs. Pettigrew, and a dance seems the least I can offer in exchange. As to Miss Monroe —" (Ernest could not help but reflect on how unfortunate it was that he knew this woman's name, and that it was necessary in society for him to have so many interactions with such an unpleasant a creature that he was able to recognize the name in his watch and connect it to a face — surely there was some more useful knowledge he could have been occupying that particular portion of his brain with) "— I can only guess that someone thought it might be funny to play with Miss Valentine's operation at my expense. And if that's the case," he said with a polite smile, "I imagine the prankster will be quite put out to see it result in my dancing with a pretty young blonde instead."

  

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A faint pink tinged her cheeks at the compliment, but Hannah had spent enough time in the halls of society not to remark upon what was, ultimately, a perfunctory nicety.

“And if it was not a ruse?” she inquired pertly. “I daresay I might be keeping you from true love’s embrace—though I imagine,” Hannah added after a moment, “That Mrs. Mulciber would thank me for that.”

  

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

Ernest let out a curt burst of laughter at what, from his point of view, seemed very clearly like a joke. "I doubt she'd care much one way or the other," he quipped back. "Love and marriage have so little to do with each other."

The thought that she might not have been joking — that not everyone was as intimately familiar with his relationship with Rufina as he was and she might not have realized how ridiculous it was to imply that they loved one another — occurred to him only after the words had left his mouth. While his tone had been too cheerful to imply anything sordid or scandalous was afoot, it perhaps would be better to watch what he said around young women he hardly knew.

"I'm sorry," he said with a gracious but brief frown. "I hope my cynicism isn't dealing death blows to any of your youthful ideals." And at least a part of him did mean that. Naivete was one of the most alluring personality traits of the younger generation; their ideas were like fresh snow. Useless, for the most part, but satisfying in a scenic sort of way. Pleasant to have around, in small quantities. On the other hand, a small part of him was wondering if he needed to go to such lengths to characterize his feeling towards marriage as jaded cynicism. She was married, after all — did she really love Mr. Pettigrew? Did anyone in their social sphere marry people they loved — and a better question still, did any of them still love their spouse after a year?

These were not the sorts of questions that one could ask in polite conversation, however.

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   Aldous Crouch

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Hannah was admittedly taken aback by his response. True, she knew enough of the world to appreciate that love and marriage did not always go hand in hand—her own romance was something of an anomaly among her peers, though the shaky ground it had landed on was a bit more par for the course. Nonetheless, to have Mr. Mulciber be so open about the lack of love between himself and his wife struck her as rather…callous. Hannah was not well-acquainted with Rufina Mulciber, but thought she knew enough of the witch to suspect she would not care to be spoken of thus in a public setting.

For all these thoughts waltzing through her mind, though, Hannah’s smile faltered only momentarily.

“If they were so easily slain,” the witch returned wryly, “then they would not have been particularly ‘idealistic’ to begin with. I must confess that I am rather a stubborn woman, Mr. Mulciber, and so it will take more than a remark from you to sway me from my positions.”

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   Ophelia Devine

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

"Ah," he said with a quick but sincere smile. "I approve of stubborn women, generally speaking. I've never met a woman who was worth having a conversation with who wasn't stubborn, in one fashion or another." Rufina was stubborn — enough so that he took care not to have opinions, when he could avoid it, that conflicted with hers, since it was usually more trouble than it was worth. His mother was stubborn, too, but of a different sort. Any woman determined enough to have a career in the Ministry and be considered his coworker had to be stubborn by definition. Women who were not stubborn rarely held his interest for longer than it took for introductions to be complete, and since he had never mustered enough of an interest in social affairs, the acquaintance lasted only as long as it was forced on him.

"Of course," he added with a twitch of a smirk, "The same can be said of men. Anyone with such changeable ideas must either be unfeeling or unintelligent," he pointed out. "Anything worth having an opinion on is worth having a definite opinion on."

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   Hannah Pettigrew

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"But do you not think, Mr. Mulciber," Hannah inquired jovially of the wizard, "that one must make the distinction between stubbornness and bull-headedness? I am quite sure that what I remark upon in myself—and what would, in a man, be considered merely stubborn—is bull-headedness, I am sorry to say."

That same bull-headedness had 'saved' her, in a way, from the unpleasantness, but also made many a barrier more challenging to overcome than it might otherwise have been.

Ernest Mulciber/Ophelia Devine

  

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

"And why should stubbornness in a man be bull-headedness in a woman?" Ernest quipped back. "If you mean to imply that men are not equally capable of such negative traits as women are, I will have to take offense. Your gender hardly holds the monopoly on being difficult for the sake of being difficult — though if you have never personally had an opportunity to discover examples of it in men, perhaps you are merely lucky," he said lightly.

  

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Hannah could not help but laugh at that. Ernest Mulciber had always seemed to her to be rather dour—or at least, standoffish. And yet here he was, proving not only to be enjoyable company but to have a good sense of humour, too!

"Touche, Mr. Mulciber," the blonde allowed once she had regained her composure. "I will gladly concede that you are just as likely as I to tend towards bull-headedness," Hannah added wryly. "I am sure your subordinates shall rejoice at the news!"

Ernest Mulciber/Ophelia Devine

  

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

He'd made her laugh, and what a delightful sound it was. It had been so long since he had actually enjoyed a conversation with anyone outside of work that he had nearly forgotten that social engagements could be fun.

"I'm afraid it won't be news to any of them," he said with a grin. "But all Unspeakables are bull-headed to some degree, you know — the things we do are not always thought possible by those outside our department," he said a bit coyly. He loved talking about his work, but he also loved pointing out that he wasn't allowed to talk about it, whenever the opportunity arose. "And it takes a fair deal of bull-headedness and an over-large portion of pride to do the impossible."

  

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How curious she was to know just what "the impossible" was—but alas, Hannah knew enough to know that answering the question would have been itself impossible, and so the witch resisted the urge to take the bait. Unspeakables, she thought, were either the boastful sort or the intellectual sort, and she was enjoying Mr. Mulciber's company that she would not see it tarnished by discovering he was the former.

"Perhaps I should have been an Unspeakable," she joked instead. "By the sounds of it, I certainly have all the right characteristics!"

Ernest Mulciber/Ophelia Devine

  

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —

"Perhaps you wouldn't have been out of place," he responded with an amiable shrug. "When I joined it would have seemed rather unusual, I think, to see a female Unspeakable, but times have changed. We have several bright young women working there — and Mrs. Lestrange has been the head of the department while having a child," he pointed out. Not that he thought having the chief Unspeakable taking a break from work to go into labor was ideal, by any means. If cornered and forced to give an opinion, he probably would have confessed he thought it rather haughty of her not to have retired the position when she learned she was pregnant, given how the rest of the department (and himself particularly) had had to compensate for her absence by taking on more of the administrative tasks while she was recovering. It was rather pretentious to think that she contributed so much to the department that she was still a benefit as its leader even given that she had to take weeks away for family matters. She ought to have resigned already — but she hadn't, and she was still his boss, and so Ernest had taken the diplomatic position of having no opinion on the matter at all.

"But it's a rather large time commitment," he pointed out to Mrs. Pettigrew with a lighthearted tone. "I'm sure your husband would miss you terribly if you were to try to take it up."

  

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"He would indeed," she agreed with an amicable smile, though she was not wholly convinced. She and Thom were at their best as husband and wife on evenings such as this, and things between them truly had improved, but when Hannah had been at her worst, he had been largely content to leave her that way. Was it only the bubbly, boisterous Hannah her husband loved?

Regardless, the witch had never seen a career as in the cards for her; wealthy pureblooded girls simply did not have careers, not the proper ones at any rate. In another life, perhaps...

"That must be why Mrs. Mulciber is such an accomplished hostess—she needs a distraction from your absence."

It was meant more as an observation than a commentary on the Mulcibers' marriage, and only belatedly did Hannah, in her good spirits, realize it could be taken any other way.

  

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— Beesets are the gift that keep giving ♡ —