September 14th, 1978
Who: Matilda Rowle and John Mulciber
What: Fighting. What's new?
Where: Mulciber mansion thing XD
It had been two hours since Matilda and John had been left alone in the Mulciber parlor, so they could talk, so they could share stories, so they could do anything but sit in silence and stare at the opposite wall. Of course, neither had spoken a word to each other since his father had shut the door, and Matilda was mentally trying to figure out when the house-elf would come to fetch her so she could go home. She and John had both made it obviously and painfully clear that this arrangement was entirely against their own wishes, but did their parents listen? No, of course not, when had they ever?
She almost felt bad for him, with it being so close to his brother's death. Almost. It wasn't as if she had chosen the day she turned twenty.
Her legs were crossed so tightly that Matilda was sure she wasn't going to be able to walk when the time finally did come to leave, and when she went to switch legs (even though she kept her arms stubbornly crossed over her chest) she couldn't help her eyes as they fell onto John, and her lips pursed greatly, turning her head away again.
Bloody berk.
"I cannot believe you would think I'd cause a scene at Anthony's funeral," she snipped, looking out the window and glaring at the black bird that sat upon the sill. She had an urge to pull out her hair clip and chuck it at the thing.
It had been two hours indeed. Two hours that had passed in steely silence, which was miraculous considering the pair who'd been shut in the close quarters of the immaculate parlor room. From the cream-colored furniture to the polished silver accents and candelabras to the intricate design in-laid in the dark oak flooring, John's mother was nothing if not dignified and tidy. The memories this room drew of his childhood home were of discipline and respect, not of comfort.
To be honest, John had given Matilda little notice from the moment his father had closed the door. He was relieved to be momentarily freed of the expectations as the now eldest son. The day so far had been positively draining. The mourning for Anthony had clouded any perception beyond his own thoughts. He'd been withdrawn to a numb sort of silence. Showing his grief and anger while in the presence of the entire Mulciber line would have drawn much disdain.
Having spent the majority of the two hours standing rigidly near the center of the room, eyes closed in meditative thought, jaw tensed and lowered, hands clasped and resting on the back of his dress robes, John was rock still when Matilda's voice cut through his thoughts. His chin raised slowly and his eyes opened to give the wall across from him a hollow stare. He gave no acknowledging glance to Matilda. Nothing more than a nuisance to him, John wished she had stayed mute for the remainder of their time in the parlor, but even he knew that was an awfully grand wish to have. Matilda Rowle simply did not tolerate being ignored.
"If you're expecting an apology," John began quietly with a hint of annoyance, "you're not going to hear one."
"I cannot believe you'd think I'd want one," Matilda snapped in the same tone, finally turning her glare from the black bird to John, letting a long breath out through her nose. For the most part, she just released her gripes without an actual reason, mostly to annoy other people because when she was annoyed, why should anyone else be in a good mood? Didn't make much sense to her, and Matilda uncrossed her arms and put out her hand, checking her fingernails.
She did hate getting dolled up. She didn't understand the need to get your hair done, or your nails, as it always ended up being blown into a mess or getting chipped---why waste the time, money, the energy into becoming some fake, 'pretty' version of yourself? If she ever felt the need to impress someone, however rare the occasion, Matilda hoped she didn't need to cover her face in makeup to do so.
Realizing that her parents would be rather miffed if she didn't have anything to tell them when they finally left the room, Matilda sat back in the chair, blowing some loose hair out of her face as she continued to stare at John as she tried to ready herself to speak. At least he was handsome, except he was constantly scowling. Anthony could scowl and look gorgeous at any time of the day, why couldn't it have been John that got caught?
"The nineteenth or the twenty-sixth?" Because if they had a date, then her mother could go and start the planning as she wished and Matilda wouldn't have to speak to her again for another few days.
John's eyes gave a little roll of annoyance as his lids closed. Matilda was insisting on turning a day of mourning his brother into a quibbling argument over his apparent misjudgment of her--ever the attention seeking bint. John found it to be quite childish, and extremely aggravating. Feeling the muscles in the back of his neck tensing, he released a nasal sigh of his own.
Buggering hell. The woman was a menace.
The question made John's brows knit in his attempt to guess Matilda's switch in topic, but having no patience for it, he simply shook his head. "For?" he asked with little interest, glaring at the wall once more.
"Could you be---for the wedding, Mulciber, so I have something to tell my mother before she starts harping on me for information."
She hadn't talked about the marriage out loud since it became official, and Matilda found herself slumping deeper into the already large chair. She wanted to disappear into the cushions of it, maybe she could just disapparate away and no one would ever be able to find her---except that meant leaving Mattias, and Matilda involuntarily straightened up.
The only reason she hadn't put up a fit with her parents about the engagement (she didn't even have a ring, that bloody didn't count as an engagement in her mind---) was because they'd threatened to send Mattias to St. Mungo's. Matilda had known that her parents really didn't care about her or Thorfinn, but it had hurt, it had physically made her sick to think that they'd use her brother for ransom, and she'd silently gone along with it.
"Just humor me, will you," she muttered, pulling her hair down only to fiddle with putting it back up.
The wedding. Of course. Such an appropriate topic for a funeral. It was so very tactless of her and it made the tension in John's jaw increase. He didn't want to talk about this now--actually he never wanted to talk about it, but especially not at this very moment.
"I believe the nineteenth will suffice," John replied, shooting her a sideways glance. He watched as her dark hair fell to surround her face and as an oddly wry smile flash briefly over his face, he blinked and looked away once more. "Sooner the better should appease both of our mothers."
In actuality, John did have a ring for Matilda. It had been handed to him in the same moment that his parents had told him the news of the betrothal. It had made the realization that he was engaged all that more real, and sickening. He had been planning to give it to his finacee as soon as he found an appropriate moment, but if she was going to continue to show him such irritating amounts of disdain then he would be holding onto it a little longer than originally planned. He felt he was quite just in doing so.
Matilda nodded, giving up on twisting her hair back up the way it had been and letting it settle on her shoulders. She wanted to take a page from John's sister Laura and chop it all off, but with the surrounding circumstances of Anthony's death, she thought that would be a little much. Maybe the night before the wedding, though, that would certainly perturb him and her parents...
Fiddling with her fingernails, Matilda kept her eyes down as they fell into another silence. How long would this one last? How long would this marriage last? Forever, she thought miserably; how terrible that she had to spend her life with someone she could almost say she despised? Matilda liked to think that she was above actually caring, that she would still be able to do what she wanted with whomever she wanted like so many of these high society pureblooded wives did, but if was truly honest with herself, she didn't want to feel the need to find comfort in someone other than her husband. She also didn't want her husband going off into another woman's arms, but she'd drawn the short end of the stick.
Having managed to further herself into a depression that was likely to intensify over the coming months, Matilda let out a breath and looked back out the window, silently cursing the stinging in her eyes.
"Sorry," she muttered, not really knowing what for, and hating the slight crack in her voice.
John finally swiveled to face Matilda, a perturbed brow arched slightly. The apology had taken him by surprise. For starters, he hadn't the slightest clue as to what exactly she was sorry for. Then there was the emotion that had crept into the simple word. He was suddenly at a loss for where her thoughts could possibly be at this moment.
"Why are you sorry?" he asked quietly with a curiosity that could easily be mistaken for concern--though would be quite wrong to think so. At least, that was what John was telling himself. He felt nothing but contempt for Matilda and expected full well that she held him in the same regard. Yet, he still couldn't help the mild attraction he had towards her. John had always had a taste for brunettes.
Of course he had to make this difficult; he was John fucking Mulciber, nothing was ever easy. Matilda sat up, shoulder slumped because she didn't particularly care anymore about he or anyone else thought because her life was basically over, so what need was there to impress? He didn't want her, her parents didn't want her around anymore, and the one person she wanted to show that he cared was literally souless and had no idea she even existed.
Beautiful.
"Because---" ugh, she really didn't want to explain herself, then he'd think she was some weakling of a girl that he'd be able to take advantage of, something that she definitely didn't want, and. Matilda quickly pressed her hand to her eyes before slapping it down to her lap, and let out a breath, still not looking at John. "Because everything's shit. Anthony shouldn't have died, that bitch shouldn't have bragged about it---we shouldn't have to get married, and---it's--just--it's shit."
The words stung like a slap. She was taking the burdens he'd been carrying on his shoulders--Anthony's death, Meadows existence, the panicked decision his parents had made to continue their family--breaking them down so simply and putting them on herself. These were his to carry, not hers. Anthony was his brother. The betrothal had been initiated by his parents. Matilda had nothing to feel sorry for. The gall she had, it was maddening.
John stared at Matilda with a certain caution, knowing what he might say or do if he didn't take careful control over himself in the next few seconds. Taking a breath, he leveled his eyes onto her face. "Don't make apologies for what you could never change," he said evenly, watching her face for further reaction.
She opened her mouth to retort, but shut it, finally looking over at John. He sounded---well, no, his voice was hiding what he really felt, but it wasn't the reaction she'd been expecting (and maybe looking for) and Matilda couldn't help the slight glare that slid across her feature for a moment before looking away again. Here she was trying to show some compassion, she felt sorry for him, was that so fucking wrong?
Of course it was wrong, anything she said or did was going to be wrong. There was no winning for Matilda, never---not anymore, anyway, and she should just get used to the glares and hard stares because with the way things were progressing (if you could call it process) it was going to be a long fucking lifetime.
"Fine," she responded, sitting up straight and feeling herself fall back into the stoic, perfect lady.
The look Matilda gave him made John sigh in frustration. Why did they have to do this now? It was certainly not the time or place to be discussing a relationship. At a funeral. Honestly.
He wasn't trying to aggravate her, he really wasn't, but of course, that was exactly what was happening. Even he was beginning to feel his anger twitch through the heavy, foreboding sadness that hung in the air. It was remarkable how should rile him in a time of mourning.
Taking a step before toward her before he realized he had, John hesitated before the words edged out, "I'm not trying to make this difficult."
John gave Matilda a hard, unyielding look when she raised her hand in defeat. "How very kind of you," he replied darkly, feeling patronized. Though he did wryly remind himself that he was generally more tolerant of a strong woman with a quick wit. It was the bubbly and clueless ones that drove him plain mad.
He scowled as he looked past her and quickly moved to the window. Outside there was two couples dressed in black robes talking in whispers near the dragon fountain on the front lawn. It was not the grieving relatives that concerned John though. He was focusing on the movement near the front gates. There was two, no three figures also dressed in black robes that stood across the road. Though they made no movement toward the Mulicber estate, they vigilantly watched the comings and goings.
Ministry. They had to be. Probably Aurors or Hitwizards. They were sent to watch. And take names. At a funeral. At his home. It was fucking rude. Full stop.
The muscles in John's jaw tightened until he was beginning to grind his teeth and there was a dull ringing in his ears. He was too angry to speak or think. His large fingers of his left hand surreptitiously reached into his robes for his wand and began to twirl the piece of ash wood in agitation.
She'd always been a curious girl, especially when there was a chance to annoy someone with her inquisitiveness. If John's face hadn't taken on such a look of anger, Matilda would have made a blatant show of getting a look out of the window herself, but she wasn't completely out of her mind.
It took a moment or two after he started to fiddle with his wand before she stood, and having been so close to the window in the first place it wasn't hard to see what had captured his attention. She'd seen the Aurors (at least what she assumed them to be) during the funeral, and she bit back a sigh.
"Not today," she murmured.
"Then when?" John growled and cast a glare in her direction before looking back out the window. Anthony deserved vengeance. If the Ministry was going to be this arrogant and blatant about their stance, then they needed to be brought down a peg, or two. John was more than happy to oblige.
"I could kill one, maybe two, before they even realized what was happening," he said lowly, studying then scene. "The gates should provide more than enough cover."
