March 18th, 1891 — Black's

Ford had survived dinner with Lestrange — and, despite all of their combined best efforts to make the dinner table spontaneously combust, all of his siblings had, too. That could be conservatively counted as a win, but he wasn't exactly convinced that his friend had come away with the most charitable impression of them all. It was a good thing that Lestrange was an actual friend, not someone Ford was trying to befriend in order to present them as a potential suitor for his sisters (Verity's comments about magical royalty aside). They could treat last night as a very rough trial run for any future dinner parties, and hopefully do a little better next time. In the meantime, he was eager to talk to Lestrange again — if nothing else, then just to let him know that no, his siblings weren't always like that.

The club was really the only place he could have looked. He didn't know what Lestrange did in his free time, except for the one excursion to Londonderry. He wasn't surprised when he didn't see him there, though, because Lestrange had mentioned before that he went to the club only sporadically, and their paths hadn't crossed there since January. Having arrived at the club and made the rounds, though, he couldn't just leave again without looking rude, so he supposed now he was stuck here for at least the next hour.

He ordered a drink — red wine, having learned his lesson from the first time he'd been here — and gravitated without really knowing why to the same set of armchairs he'd previously occupied for his card game with Lestrange. One of them was occupied already by an older fellow that Ford thought looked familiar, in the sort of way people looked familiar when Verity would have been highly offended that he hadn't already recognized them.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, indicating the empty chair.

Valerian Macnair Holly Scrimgeour

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   Cassius Lestrange

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In a week and a half it would have been a month since he proposed to his cousin, and that was probably the most absurd thought that had ever run through his head—and over the years Valerian had had plenty of absurd thoughts. He was not in love with his cousin, nor was he particularly attracted to her, and although that was not an uncommon thing with most women Valerian had always thought he would at least want to spend one single night in the bedroom with his wife. The entire ordeal had been weighing on him in more ways than one; once he married Tatty he would not have to worry about that aspect of his life, but there was a chance that he wouldn't marry Tatiana, and he was not sure which he dreaded the most.

The club had always been the preferred place to relax. He didn't have to worry about running into any of his brothers, whose schedules he carefully planned around, nor did he he have to worry about his mother accosting him about whatever problem she had. He was not there often, though, and because of it most of his time was usually spent in solitude with a glass of wine in his hand and his ears open for whatever gossip he could hear from the nearby tables.

"As long as you don't mind grabbing me the bottle at that table before you do that," he said with a crooked smile, craning his head around to look at the half-empty bottle of wine that he'd left at the table behind him. He'd been too lazy to get up—that, or he'd been too focused on the gentlemen's conversation at the table next to him to bother. "I'll share it, to make it worth your while."

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Oh — a bottle. Ford supposed he'd be here a little longer than the hour he'd planned, then, if they were sharing a bottle. It had not occurred to him that he could have refused — Ford wasn't really the sort of person who refused offers, generally speaking. He smiled, though not out of any particular anticipation for this little interlude, then retrieved the bottle.

"You'll have to give me a moment to catch up," he said, indicating his own glass of red wine that he'd gotten from the bar. "I only just arrived for the evening. Greengrass, by the way," he said by way of introduction, as he took a seat in the chair — the chair Lestrange had been in when they'd played cards in January, not that it mattered. Should he offer to play cards this time, too? He was a little less nervous about being discovered as a fraud who didn't belong here, by now, but he wasn't sure he could sustain a bottle of wine's worth of conversation without some kind of distraction. Then again, this fellow had just been sitting here doing nothing, apparently, so maybe he didn't play cards. Or maybe he had something else on his mind.

"You weren't waiting for someone, were you?" Ford asked, tilting his head slightly. "I won't be offended if you were."

  

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Valerian made eye contact with man the moment his hand grabbed the bottle, and the corner of his mouth slid up in thanks. "Don't worry—this is only my second glass," he explained, taking note of the name Greengrass. It was one of those old wizarding families, but beyond his cousin's husband he didn't think he'd ever met one of them before. He turned the bottle around in his hand, checking to see the name of it; they kept plenty of wines and liquors at home, but Valerian was always eager to get his hands on whatever new variety the club had imported.

"Macnair," he said, uncorking the bottle so he could top off his own glass before it ran dry. "Valerian Macnair. And don't worry—I couldn't plan to meet with anyone even if I tried." And he had tried, plenty of times before. Back when he was younger and more socially-inclined, he'd tried to schedule nights with his friends only to be kept at the hospital a little too late to enjoy himself when he arrived.

"And what what you? Waiting for someone or simply enjoying the atmosphere?" He held up his glass and moved it in a swirling motion to indicate his meaning.

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Second glass, and he hadn't even finished the full thing yet. That was good, because on the handful of occasions Ford had been with friends who were either dramatically more or less intoxicated than he was he hadn't enjoyed it at all, but this wasn't much of a discrepancy.

He noted the name — Verity would definitely have been cross with him for not recognizing him, which was one of a great many reasons he was glad she didn't have access to Black's. Before he could think too much about that, though, he was mildly distracted by the man's next comment. That was sort of a weirdly antisocial thing to say. Was it a joke? Should he laugh? The stakes were higher if he laughed and it wasn't a joke, he decided, because it might seem like he felt superior or was making fun of the older man. If it was supposed to be a joke and he said nothing, the worst he could be accused of was not having a sense of humor.

"The atmosphere," Ford answered with a grin. Of the two options it was a slightly truer answer, he supposed, because he wasn't waiting for anyone. If Lestrange was going to be here, he probably already would have been. That said, he couldn't claim he really loved the atmosphere of Black's, unless he had the right company. "It's a nice change from a full house, anyway. Quieter."

  

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"I'll drink to that," he said in response, lifting his glass and taking a sip. In truth it was not his house, but Valerian's life that was always too busy; between the hospital and whatever work was relegated to him by his mother when he returned home, there was rarely any time to sit down and just think. The Inverness home was large enough to find a quiet corner, especially with his youngest brother at school and the other two slaving away at their Ministry work desks, but not large enough to escape the nagging thought that there was something he could have been doing with his time instead. The club was different. It was safe. No one else was being productive, and no one was encouraged to be.

"I take it you live with your family still?" Greengrass looked young—not terribly young, but younger than him. Too young to be married with a family of his own, in any case. "I do as well. They're all younger, though—most of them by a great deal." Apart from Agrimony, who had already moved out; Valerian rarely saw him nowadays, which was disappointing given that he was the closest to him in age.

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His question made it clear that Macnair knew nothing whatsoever about the Greengrasses, but he could be forgiven for that. Ford was not magical royalty, as Verity had said about Lestrange the day before, nor did he have any particular desire to be. It was bad enough that he was apparently a notable enough figure in society that Witch Weekly could go speculating about him shacking up with Begonia Belby. He certainly didn't need to be recognized on sight by the members of the gentleman's club.

"I think technically they live with me," Ford said with a shrug. Noble would have had some words to say in response to a comment like that, and Ford didn't really feel it was particularly true, but it was the sort of bravado he thought he ought to put on in the gentleman's club. Head of the household, and everything — no imposter syndrome at all, and he definitely felt as though he belonged here. Sure.

"My father died last year and left me with the lot of them," he said, with a disaffected tone that was more or less a complete reversal from how he actually felt about his siblings. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to put on a show of not liking them. Maybe it was something in Macnair's words or his body language that made Ford feel the other man might like him better if he was more aloof. Maybe it was the conversation with Noble from the night before, bleeding through to the rest of his life — if he was pretending with Noble, how could he have been honest with anyone?


"But at least none of them are a great deal younger." This, at least, was a genuine sentiment. He was managing the finances only because he was sure the girls would be married soon enough. If they had still been in the middle of their Hogwarts education when his father had died, there would be no way he could see them through the end of it. The worst, he suddenly realized, would be if he had any much younger siblings, like Lestrange had — his younger sisters could be trying, but at the end of the day he was still their older brother and didn't need to take on the role of parenting them, whatever he'd said the night before.

  

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Valerian was slowly figuring out Greengrass' entire deal, which was what he liked to do every time he met someone knew. Discovering people was a fun pastime; he'd figure out their position in their family, the kind of attitude they had towards life, the less meaningful details like where they worked and what they did for fun, and eventually whether or not it was a good acquaintanceship to keep.

Their situations were different, but also had their similarities. Valerian had a living father and was not responsible for the younger, but he was the eldest, and through much of his life had been expected to be the natural leader among them (an easy feat, given that most of them picked unimpressive paths).

"The lot of them," he echoed, one corner of his lips sliding up into an easy smile. "How many have you got, then?" If none of them were a great deal younger, he couldn't have more than a handful of them; even if Greengrass was in his early twenties, a thirteen or fourteen-year-old sister would have been a great deal younger, if not by age than by maturity and phase of life.

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That slight smile meant that his show of being unaffected had paid off, and Ford felt a slight jog of satisfaction at that. He didn't necessarily enjoy putting on a facade, but he did enjoy feeling as though he'd managed to get someone to like him, through whatever means that was. Not that he would pin too much hope on half a smile, but it was a start.

"Four," he answered, taking a drink of his wine. "Three sisters, one brother. And —" here he nearly said Mama out of habit, but at the last moment wondered if that might betray his charade of distance. "— my mother," he concluded instead, which was safer. "My youngest sister is just finishing Hogwarts, and the older two will be out this season. Now that we're finished mourning," he explained lightly. This was the sort of detail he expected Verity or Mama would have wanted him to work into the conversation sooner or later, and he was feeling rather proud of himself for having done it so seamlessly. He'd only been sitting here two minutes, but Macnair at least didn't dislike him yet and now he knew he had eligible sisters. He was doing exceptionally well at the whole being responsible for their futures bit (at least when it came to the girls); maybe if this continued to go well, Verity would forgive him for yesterday's dinner party. And Noble... might forgive him sooner or later. He hoped.

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   Valerian Macnair, Verity Swann

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Perhaps they were more similar than he'd thought—four siblings, all who were younger, the only difference being their genders. He took a mental note of the two younger sisters, although pending Tatiana's response to his proposal it might have been out of habit more than anything. He would need to be married eventually, and if not to an alluring woman than to a respectable one.

"My condolences. I didn't know it was so recently," he said, more out of politeness than out of a genuine caring. So many people died every day—family members, family friends, patients. He'd accepted death as an inevitability, and it was much sadder to muster true empathy hearing about the death of a father than it was hearing about the death of a brother or a son. "I have four siblings also." He grinned behind his glass as he took another ship. "All four are brothers, though. One still at Hogwarts and the other right out of it. My brother Yarrow—" It did not dawn upon him until that moment, but it Greengrass looked like he could have been around Yarow's age, maybe a tad older. "—works at the Ministry, and Agrimony is... well, whatever Agrimony does." He did not mention Betony; talking about him or his death was not something Valerian enjoyed doing with those closest to him, let alone a near stranger. Neither did he mention Tatiana; it was best to stop referring to her as a member of their household and more in spousal capacity now that his proposal was up in the air.

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Ford nodded at the condolences, but otherwise let them pass unremarked on. He was familiar enough with the sentiment now to know when someone was being genuine and when someone was only saying that to be polite, and thought this was most decidedly the latter, which meant it didn't bear commenting on. Not that he was at all disappointed that a practical stranger he'd just met at the club didn't want to sit around unpacking grief with him. This was why society had established the whole concept of being polite; so that you didn't have to talk about uncomfortable things.

"I think I may have seen Yarrow Macnair at the Ministry," Ford said with a light shrug, as though he couldn't be sure. Yarrow Macnair was Noble's age, and though Ford didn't know him well he'd gotten the vague impression that he was sort of a prat. Probably best not to mention that to his brother, just in case they were close, or in case Valerian Macnair was the sort who would feel obliged to defend a sibling even if they weren't. "And where do you work? Or do you?" This last had occurred to him only after he'd started talking; Macnair was the eldest son of a family who had actual money, and significantly more of it than the Greengrasses were even supposed to have had before their father had lost it all in bad investments, so Macnair probably didn't have to work if he didn't want to. That was an utterly bizarre concept for Ford — that people might just do nothing. Well, it was bizarre when thinking about men, anyway. Women mostly did nothing, and they seemed to enjoy it just fine.

  

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Greengrass seen Yarrow at the Ministry, and he was still talking to him? He nearly smiled. Of course, Valerian didn't think his brother was that terrible, but it was impossible to ignore the reactions he evoked from the people he knew. He'd heard a handful of things - about his pettiness, his pissy attitude, everything. He supposed middle sons had to find some way to distinguish themselves. It seemed Greengrass had made a life for himself outside of leisure, which wasn't uncommon among eldest sons but was interesting enough to spark his curiosity.

"I work in the Potion and Plant Poisoning ward at St. Mungo's - as the assistant head," he said with a humble smile despite the pride he took in his job. It was the position once held by his mother, and was the position he'd strived for as a boy and then a young man. He would not likely take over the healer-in-charge position anytime soon still being under thirty, but he kept an eye on it. (If anything, the hospital director knew he would not take kindly to be overlooked for a promotion in the event their healer-in-charge ever left the ward.) "And you're at the Ministry." He took another sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair, making himself more comfortable. One leg came to rest across his lap, and one arm propped up lazily against the arm of the chair. "Let me guess..." His eyes flickered up and down Greengrass, like he was trying to figure out what he did for a living, which he was - but his eyes also lingered on all the parts of him Valerian usually found attractive in a man, just looking. He liked to look. "Magical Education - no, Transportation?"

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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Assistant Head was a little impressive, because Macnair didn't look that old. Older than Ford, sure, but still in the same general age bracket that Ford considered himself and Noble to be in, and not in that other one, with people who were real, actual adults. Nevermind that Witch Weekly seemed to think he was enough of an adult to write stories about him, and nevermind behind the head of his family; Ford still felt like he was a bit of an overgrown teenager, sometimes (particularly when he had to act the head of the family). He didn't know exactly how old Macnair was, though, so maybe it wasn't as impressive as he thought. He didn't really know much about hospitals, either, except that Noble sold potions to them and apparently some of their healers were a little unhinged (but Darrow didn't work at St. Mungo's, did he? Ford didn't think he did).

Macnair leaning back in his chair and crossing his leg had an almost magnetic effect on him; his insides tugged a little in a way he didn't understand. He looked so effortlessly confident, sitting like that, as though he were the uncrowned king of the gentleman's club. Ford had already decided earlier in this conversation that he would like Macnair to like him, but before it had been mostly for the girls' sake, because it would have made Verity happy. As Macnair looked him over, though, taking stock of him, Ford realized that he quite desperately wanted Macnair to like him just for his own merits. He wasn't sure if he wanted to befriend Macnair or if he wanted to be Macnair, but he did know that if the other man finished his inventory of Ford and declared him wanting in any significant way, he would be utterly devastated.

"Spirit Division," he supplied, a little too quickly. He was nervous now, and he wanted to recall that disaffected air he'd had a moment ago when talking about his family but he didn't know how.

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   Valerian Macnair

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Spirit Division. Hm. Valerian's eyebrows shot up and his bottom lip jutted out slightly in what could best be described as intrigue and curiosity. Of course, as a healer Valerian had no reason to pay attention to the various Ministry departments, but as a gentleman he was obligated to know enough about them to hold a conversation on politics. However, he'd never paid much attention to departments that were generally not involved in scandals or major political feats - and the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures wasn't one of those. He didn't know much about what went on there, but Spirit Division in itself sounded like an interesting division. A smile slowly crept to his face.

"So you like ghosts, then?" he inquired, the corner of his lip twitching as he tried to keep his thoughts to himself and off his face. e readjusted his arm so his elbow was propped up and his jaw resting against the base of his palm. Either Greengrass liked ghosts or his hatred of them had fueled a desire to go into a position where he, what? Got rid of them? Handled them? Whatever that meant, because Valerian couldn't quite piece together what the job description of a Spirit Division employee would be - and truthfully, both prospects were equally amusing. "Or are you more just the adventurous type?" Greengrass was not classically handsome or striking in any particular way, but he was cute - his brown curls were much bouncier than his own and Valerian swore he could see a cluster of faint freckles on his cheeks. In any case, he didn't look like the adventurous sort, so he was almost hoping that he was.

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As soon as he'd said it Ford had wondered if he should have said something else. Not that there was anything else to say, because he couldn't very well lie about the place that he worked, but maybe he could have tried to put on a tone that implied he didn't much like it, like he'd done when he was talking about his siblings, if that would have gone over better with Macnair. Would Education or Transportation have been better? Had Macnair said those things because he thought they were good departments to work in, or was it the opposite? Maybe he'd been sizing Ford up and already making fun of him by assuming he worked in some boring division. Maybe Macnair had already made his judgements and decided Ford was beneath his notice, and that had been a subtle way of letting him know.

But then he smiled. It was a slow smile and in another context he might have recognized it as a worrisome one, but after fretting over whether or not he'd made some irreparable blunder by announcing his choice of career Ford was too relieved by it to notice. The follow on questions had him all nerves again, though. Which was the right answer? He knew from experience at Hogwarts that it was not cool to like ghosts, but — well, he didn't particularly think he was the adventurous sort. He'd chosen Spirit Division in part because it was the least likely to put him in harm's way, in the course of typical duties, and he'd never been the strongest with practical magic. He wasn't going to run off an be a cursebreaker, that was for sure. But — would Macnair prefer if he were adventurous?

He took a drink, both to buy himself a second to think of what to say and to steel himself. He was going to lie, he was fairly certain, and he wanted to do it with enough confidence that he could fool the other man. If that was even possible — the way that Macnair had looked at him just a moment ago, when he'd leaned back in his chair, made Ford feel as though he could see too much of him, and he wasn't sure he was actually capable of pulling off a lie when he felt this exposed. Maybe not a lie, then — maybe a nonanswer instead, but one that implied a lie.

"Adventurous is just a matter of context, isn't it?" he asked, and he had no idea what he was even saying or if this even made sense but he was trying to infuse as much fake confidence into it as he could. "It's not a label anyone can put on themselves. So if you're curious —" his heart stopped before he said this next bit, honestly it did, but he said it anyway because he was trying to ride this fake confidence through and hope that it got him to the other side of this interaction and made Macnair like him "— you'll just have to stick around and find out."

  

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Valerian chuckled from his chest, barely any noise escaping his lips, and he moved to take a sip of his own drink while he tried to figure out how to respond to that. It was a non-answer if he'd ever heard one, which made Valerian wonder what he wasn't telling him. He'd thought his questions were fairly straightforward, even if the latter had been laced with a second meaning that Greengrass hadn't seemed to reacted to in any way.

"I like you, Greengrass," he announced, as if he'd finally made his decision - although he'd admittedly decided that from the moment Greengrass hadn't made some snarky comment when he'd asked him to grab the bottle. He liked people that were easy to be around and did not make it their life's goal to make other people share in their crabbiness. He had enough of that at work. Greengrass being funny was only a bonus.

"But," he began, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as his smile slowly spread, just a little wider, "you didn't tell me whether or not you like ghosts." For some reason he'd deemed that important - maybe not because liking ghosts said much about Greengrass, but it said something about his priorities. Did he pursue passions? Choose it for the hell of it? Do it because it was easy? Those were the important things.

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