indignatics-blog

[indignatics-blog]

hopcfulheart.

     “Nothing goes unnoticed by you, huh? I suppose if I had a dance partner, I could be persuaded.” 

“In that case, consider yourself partnered. Come on, you have to come bust a move now that you’ve made a deal, Griffiths.”

[indignatics-blog]

scarmacnair.

“It is rather shapely, but men who are so easily intimidated by an ambitious woman aren’t worth my time. Well, that’s not totally honest of me, depending on a few other variables that I probably should not mention while in the company of polite, elite society.”

“What are the headlines going to read tomorrow then? Pureblood wedding goes off without a hitch? What a snoozefest. The most captivating story will be about how the bride was upstaged by various other female guests, among them Thea Macnair and Persephone Nott. It really does leave you to wonder what their motive was for this open invitation. I’ll admit I was a skeptic to believing it was altruistic.”

Valentina couldn’t help it; she cackled aloud. “Polite, elite society, my aunt fanny, Scarlett Macnair. You’re a shameless, horridious cow, that’s what. Although I can’t say I disagree. Some people do quite make themselves worth their while with how well certain, ahem, aspects compare to their company.”

“I mean, yeah? I was skeptical before, but now I’m just downright confused. Not only do they have every single person and their grandmother here to share their special day — which, I mean, not that I’d be stupid enough to consider actually having one, but does not seem the way I’d choose to have a wedding at all. And then there’s so many fine forms of human here. Even Zach Zabini’s blowing the poor woman out of the water, never mind the spectacle he and Thea and Seph make together. Not to mention the brides own cousins looking miles more glamorous. What was she possibly thinking?”

[indignatics-blog]

liammatheson.

“A con? I don’t have any idea what you mean. I would never. Can’t a guy just ask his best friend to dance?”

“A guy could, but you’re not as pure as you make it seem, sly little Liam Matheson. Something is up here. And then, aren’t you just as charming and innocent as I am?”

[indignatics-blog]

adaranott.

“I needen’t have worried about the cold standing next to you.”

“What, in this little thing? I just pulled it out of the back of my wardrobe. You know, as one does. Effortlessly fabulous.”

[indignatics-blog]

deliberatc.

Valentina was wrong. Richard was every bit his father in the ways that mattered.

After all, until the day when a child could stand tall on their own, they saw the world through the eyes of their caretakers. For the first nearly five years of his life, Brent was primarily in the custody of a houseelf and his mother. Richard had no time to waste on a child that wasn’t useful. When he became the age where he was more self-sufficient, able to stumble after his father’s looming, threatening shadow as he was forcibly tugged along, he saw the underbelly of the world, ripe with corruption and strife that was led by those who were driven by greed. Richard paved his path through powerful strikes, only after slithering his way through the grass undetected. But Brent saw it all as he was forced to follow behind him, his hands bound and rendering him unable to do anything. This was how the world was, from a young age: unfair, bleak, dark. Injustices surmounted high without any chance of recourse and he could not see the sun rising on the horizon, inured to unpleasant realities and what appeared to be an endless winter that could numb hearts and chill blood.

There were those that saw the world differently, he knew. Optimists that believed that, no matter its shadowy corners, the world was illuminated in a light that outshone the darkness. There were those that were willing to fight for that belief, Valentina and Barbara among them. They dwelled in hope.

Brent reached, instead, for the gleam of possibility. The foundation of his upbringing had taught him that not all endings were happy, that nothing in life was guaranteed, not even the love of one’s parents. But that did not mean circumstances couldn’t be changed so long as one was able to discern the difference between what was possible and what was out of reach.

He had erroneously believed he could step outside of the labyrinth without there being a trap to lure him back in. He had underestimated Richard’s obsession with ensuring that his heir remain puppeteered by him. Disappointment had not been enough. His father had never been as furious with him as he had been when he’d announced Barbara’s pregnancy. The initial outrage had been enough to sever the chords momentarily. With Voldemort’s resurgence, Richard was empowered once more to yank on Brent’s chains, and this time he was equipped with the leverage that tipped the scale to his favor and ensured Brent’s compliance. 

They were two very different men, Richard Cantankerous Nott and Brent Richard Nott. Two very different fathers. 

But he was no less his father’s son, a product of harsh, frigid conditions. Hardened. He knew exactly how a parent’s influence could detrimentally affect a child and stunt their growth.

He refused to do the same to his own son, to burden him with baggage that would slow his progress and weigh on his steps. He would not set obstacles in his son’s path, whatever road it may be that Beau decided to walk. He wanted him to have as many choices open to him as possible.

He didn’t expect Valentina to understand. She was cut from a different cloth. Not just biologically speaking, as that scarcely mattered when they had the same parental figures, but they been molded differently and this was reflected in the shape of their outlooks on life. Valentina pushed back, tooth and nail, to the point of breaking. When she met resistance, she was not often deterred and was instead fuelled to be all the more aggressive in her pursuits. She was not made of glass like the mother who raised her. To her, this would look like Brent was giving up and of course this would not make sense to someone who could never rationalize that letting loved ones go was the better option.

“Have you forgotten that?”

What kind of a question was that? As if he could forget them. As if he didn’t weigh their importance into his decision-making. He knew well how his choices affected his family. His choices had nearly cost Barbara’s life. 

“No,” he replied simply, firmly, the word cutting through in an inflection that mirrored Valentina’s own. “Do not assume that I did not take such factors into consideration.” He spoke analytically, as if he were talking about an equation that was crafted to supply him with an answer, devoid of any emotion. As if the conclusion that he had come to was one that were purely logical in nature. 

His hands unfolded from behind him to follow after his sister, beckoned by a desire to draw the conversation to a close. That was what this venture was about: tying up loose ends. His sister would never understand his line of reasoning, but he would confirm to her that he was resolute in standing by his decision. 

Their relationship wasn’t marked by emotional revelations poured out to one another. If they sought reassurance from one another, it was subtly requested and received. Perhaps this was why they continued to turn to metaphors, their play metaphor stretching into the kitchen. The change of scenery did not change the circumstance, Brent surveying Valentina as she worked to brew the tea. He needed to ascertain the best method of breaching the topic of hand while satisfying her need for resolution. No matter how he approached it, he knew that she wasn’t going to be satisfied. 

Especially when putting into consideration her premise: And you’ve never been one to disappoint. That was not enough to coax Brent, considering he had disappointed people already. He was sure that Valentina herself could be included in the growing count of individuals that were upset by his departure. 

Brent didn’t feel compelled to explain his rationale to her, but she did deserve a surface explanation, if nothing else. “There was a closing scene,” he corrected coolly as if he were narrating a fictional story rather than recapping a personal experience that had left him shaken. “You were merely not in the audience when it occurred. Let me set the stage for you: the rising action that had been presented in this performance was a war. Lines were drawn, decisions were made, and it was all about to head toward its peak point, toward resolution for better or worse. A revelation was made from one character to another, a confession of sorts that led the heroine to confront the villain.” The last words curled around his mouth with a bitter aftertaste, ripped out sharply, “The scene ends in blood, and the curtains close on the final scene of the closing act.”  

He took the cup of tea that he was offered, made to his preference. The siblings’ dispositions were revealed through the appearance of the liquid. His was bittersweet and tart, hers was frothy and comforting and far easier to swallow. “If you are expecting a soliloquy from me, then you are bound to be disappointed once more as you know that I have never been the sort. This is not a story that ends in complete tragedy, but at the very least, the villain did not emerge as the victor. Richard is no longer controlling my actions. This is a conclusion that I wrote with my own hand. There was a semblance of justice and a character transformation, but the moral to be drawn from this story is up for interpretation.”

There was hope to be found, as Valentina lamented on. He met his sister’s gaze, his own just as incisive. “Mm, the war is over, the sun has risen, and it is time to usher in a new age, correct?” He gave a wave of his free hand, drawing the cup upward to take a sip. “While Richard is – for now – incapacitated, it is the perfect time to begin the production of the next saga to this family drama. But you misunderstand my role. While it is true that our generation is not similar to the one before us, less fragmented and less self-serving, I am merely a stand-in orchestrator. Among the rest of you – Uncle Henry included, should he wish to be involved – you can decide what you will do going forward. I am not doing this his way. I am not doing this at all. Being the Nott patriarch was never a role that I was particularly interested in. Quite the contrary, it was one that I wished to reject. I am here as a favor to those of you that remain, as the one who was legally next in line and thus inherited the wealth and the array of businesses and responsibilities that came along with it.”

If Alastair had not sought him out, Brent would not be there. The rest of them could figure out how they would handle the future. “I am not following in Richard’s footsteps.” Neither as Nott heir or as a father. He would walk a difference course, even if it was still not one that he preferred. “This generation can decide what they want to do with each business endeavor. I assume that Theodore will want to take the helm of his mother’s business, as is his right, and as for the rest, that can be discussed among all of you. We can hold gatherings here over the next couple of weeks so that it can be decided on how the responsibilities will be divvied out. I suggest that if no one wishes to take the role as sole proprietor of the estate that you all consider the possibility of hiring outside the family. Others can run the business operations while family members can remain as Board members or as CEOs. I will sign over any rights that I have, but I do not intend to leave the rest of you scrambling to put it all together. That is why I am here. No other reason.”

Defensiveness edged onto the tail-end of his speech, meant to serve as the denouement of the play they were constructing. He did not want the conversation to meander back into other territories and it was clear in his body language. Despite their proximity, he was bridged far enough away from Valentina that he was out of arm’s reach, his eyes breaking contact as he stared down into his tea.   

Sometimes, Valentina admitted, she could cross a line.

Sometimes, she was no less righteous than the peers she found so tasteless, a little too judgemental about people and their choices, especially considering what house she had come from. Raised around people like Adolina and Brent, she should have understood that compassion was a dish best served warm, because more people’s choices made sense if seen through sympathetic eyes and it was easier to judge them less harshly.

Brent, especially, deserved gentler rulings. He had seen enough in the little of life he had lived yet to deserve more consideration than the average person. ( Or rather, maybe everyone did, if she didn’t know where all of them had come from either, but a single person did not have enough empathy for the whole world. That way lay madness. ) Parenting, however, was the one area where she herself had been astounded to discover how deep her opinions ran.

They had surfaced suddenly, the first time she had picked her nephew up for a day at the park following the realisation that her brother seemed to be gone for good. It had sunken in, then: Brent was gone, and Beau was still here. He was leaving his son behind, completely this time.

It was not acceptable.

She should maybe have filtered her fire a little, tempered the intensity of her opinions. But it was just not acceptable, not when one was capable – in sound mind, body, finances, emotions – of taking care of their children. Leaving your kid behind in any other instance was nothing but selfishness. Of course, that might have been her own childhood speaking, blurry half-memories of parents from the past of she didn’t even remember nor have any mementos from, poking insistent fingers into her present. She had been Valentina Nott for as long as she could remember, but the edge had never dissolved. This tiny, infinitesimal line that had persisted – the distinction between brown and not, Korean and not – had kept her well aware of the difference all her life. That she had once had parents,real ones instead of these frigid imposters, and they had chosen to not have her be part of their family. Had willingly relinquished her to the orphanage.

It was an awareness she couldn’t imagine somebody as sweet as her nephew having to feel, even fractionally. The human personification of sunlight that was Beau Griffiths deserved better — deserved more. And if that meant her tone came out a little steelier than expected? Well, surely Brent should have expected no different?

“Do logical deductions count as assumptions? Because see, you have disappeared entirely, there is no contact with either Beau or Barbara, not to the best of my knowledge, and you do not seem inclined to establish any with anyone right now either. Those factors do not lead to many other directions from what I can see. But of course, you take such factors into consideration.” Her words twisted into a frail mockery of imitation, impersonating his tone cruelly. As if an act so infantile could fracture Brent Nott’s resolve.

But Valentina was not quite sure what might.

Sometimes, she wonders if things might have been different had they been the kind of siblings who could do this kind of shit. They weren’t — they never had been. Not emotionally connected so much in words than in unspoken sentiments, more liable to debate about politics and academia than to mention their personal feelings. She knew it wasn’t an inherent flaw: the latter came easy as breathing to her with Scarlett, even though the girl was only a self-proclaimed sister. But somehow, it was easy to just say things to her best friend. With her brother, it was like prying teeth. Emotions could only be revealed in iambic pentameter, in borrowed words, in subtle prose that barely hinted at the truth.

And so it did.

Valentina did not see reason to moderate her words, not when what they were really discussing was so carefully wrapped up in metaphors that it could hardly be seen anymore. “Mhm,” she replied, echoing Brent’s cool tone, rolling her eyes at it. “No offence, but we can all thank our lucky stars that you are more academically inclined, because wow, would you get yourself egged at curtain call for that. I’m sure they could excavate even Christopher Marlowe’s grave this minute, and they’d find a single tear rolling down his face for how legitimately terrible this play sounds. That is not how the Freytag pyramid functions, brother mine; there needs to be falling action before the dénouement and your story makes an appalling fit.”

Leaning against the counter furthest from her brother, she traced the rim of her cup, then took a careful sip. Perhaps it was too much, too wrapped in symbols, too edged in unkindness. It would do to be a little more observant and edge forth in tiny steps instead of bulldozing ahead, arguing blindly, no matter how tempting it was to act otherwise. She softened her tone then, just a hint, and sipped at the hot liquid again before replying. “So we have the climax there, right? Tables turn, the heroine faces off against the villain and shit goes down. The scene ends in blood, but also with the scene set to vanquish the villain, and the hero and heroine surviving his clutches. That’s your falling action. Where, then, is the conclusion? The hero leaves the heroine, to… What, atone for his sins in being related to the villain? Nobody wants that ending; it cheats the audience out of a satisfactory conclusion. You can either give them actual tragedy, which – thank all deities in the world – you didn’t, or you give them a happy ending. And if tragedy has been avoided, the latter is the resolution that they want. None of this half-baked bullshit. Nobody came to this production for possible soliloquys, well aware of your potential as a storyteller, but this elusive, ill-conceived crockpot of vagueness is seriously under-delivering on expectations, I have to say. People want more than just the villain being vanquished, at this point. Your subtly established character development and moral are not what they want, nor will they want to settle for just contentment. They’ve had it hard, a long, cold winter, so to speak, and they’re hungry for more — for happiness. So no, your shitty conclusion doesn’t work. We want better. And you can choose better, pick whatever role it is that you want, even one in the background, as long as it isn’t leaving. Leaving is the coward’s way out, and you’ve always been far more lion than snake, babe. Who are you, if not an arrogant bastard kicking down doors to pave your own path?”

Because that was what was most jarring: the apathy. Valentina had known many an avatar of Brent Nott in her life, but this cold, detached version was a person she had not encountered in years. It left her unsettled, winding her impassioned speech abruptly with a terse, “So, financial matters, legal technicalities, inheritance issues. That sort of thing. Right, of course.” For most other people, that conclusion would have fit perfectly, based on what they knew of Brent as a person. It was exactly as cut and dry as he seemed. But those who had known him longest and best saw otherwise — saw a boy, perhaps, who did not reach for companionship or affection when he probably could because it wasn’t an idea he had ever encountered in his upbringing, a concept as foreign as snow in July. Valentina understood that; even though she chose to overcompensate instead, to cling to connections that had seemed impossible those first few years.

Even their odd little relationship was testament of that, of how she hasn’t yet been able to say those three little words that might just make a difference. Because it’s not them, it’s not something that they have ever been before. But she should. If there’s a snowball’s spitting chance in hell that it will help, she should.

She looked down at her own tea, maybe for a little courage, unknowingly mirroring his motions. But then – because she was not a coward, never has been – she also looked up at him through her lashes, head still tilted down, to gauge his reaction when she said the rest. “And what about the rest of it, Brent? The human side? We— I missed you.” It came out awkward, rusty, like words she had never used before. Valentina wasn’t sure she had, used to keeping the people she loved at the end of her sleeve. She said it anyway. “How much does that matter?”

[indignatics-blog]

scphiisms.

Despite how nonchalant she appeared to be, Persephone was a curious sort with an ear for gossip. So, naturally, she would have loved to ask Valentina about her tense conversation with Brent—if only to push buttons,

But, sometimes, she could keep her mouth shut.

“My glass is empty. That’s the true tragedy of the evening, isn’t it?” she answered facetiously. “The champagne really isn’t that bad, though.”

Of her cousins, Valentina knew whom she was definitely comfortable with –loose and easy in a way that was distinctly different from her invitingextroversion to most others, in a strange way – and it wasn’t the girl beforeher now. Not in the least. But then, the girl’s twin was different and Val hadalways known that. Much of the gap existed mostly because she did not quite understandPersephone. Her younger cousin was a complex puzzle.

It was one she was still attempting to assess.

“The worst,” she agreed mildly, the beginning of a smile quirking hermouth up. “But yes, it’s surprisingly good, isn’t it? A person could haveeasily expected them to cut corners with how big the affair’s gotten,but they’ve managed to do pretty well. Are you enjoying yourself?”

[indignatics-blog]

deliberatc.

“My patriarch then,” Brent acknowledged the correction, the possessive determiner curled with a faint level of disgust that he was no longer obligated to mask. It was not as if Brent had wanted the man to claim him either, but ultimately, Richard and Adolina were the stock that he came from, weren’t they? If nothing else, he could not deny their biological claim on him. But that was as far as he extended them any credit. There was a vast difference between a child being yours to nurture or yours to manipulate as one pleased. To think, Brent had once sought their approval and affection. It had been nearly a lifetime ago now, when he was small enough to not recognize that what he felt for his father was fear and not respect and what he longed for from his mother was protection rather than love.

He’d learned young that a house with two married parents, and an adopted sister added along the way, was no guarantee of home or family in the truest sense. The parents didn’t know the meaning of the word family, and the sister, he knew, had never stopped searching for a proper one. She seemed to have found it in the circle of people she surrounded herself by, and along the way, what they had formed felt more akin to what a sibling relationship ought to be like. The good-natured teasing, the exasperated eye roll, the compromise of how to allocate their time when they had varying interests. The concern that stemmed from a war on the horizon that had eclipsed them back into shrouded darkness. It hadn’t been expected, the evolution of their relationship.

Neither had he expected to have a family of his own, separate from the one that he was born into. Yet there he was, twenty-two years old and the puppet strings finally severed, standing in his old prison rather than being with them like he wished to be. Maybe Valentina was right and that was the crux of the tragedy. All that work that he had believed was upward movement had instead been circular, winding up where he began. By choice, technically. He did not have to be there, but he was compelled to be. Just because his future was lost from his view did not mean that he should punish the rest of them with the same fate. He was done being a weighted anchor strapped to the feet of those around him.  

The interlude had not been his time in hell, but the brief lapse of time outside of it. There had been moments of respite, moments of comfort and contentment captured where he could breathe fresh air before he walked back into the labyrinth. That, too, had been a choice, hadn’t it? The alternative to not following his father’s directive had merely been an unacceptable one. But the hell hadn’t ended with the Battle of Hogwarts or with Richard’s imprisonment. The hell swarmed around him, a blistering cold storm rather than a boiling heat. An avalanche was not an inaccurate perception of the situation. The mountain that he had attempted to climb was unsteady ground, and the only way he saw to prevent others from voyaging to him, from trying to reach him, was to stay behind the surmounted walls rather than attempt to tear them down. It was too risky.

Brent’s moves were always calculated ones, weighing the consequences of each step made. He’d made his decisions. Now he had to live with them. “But they are my choices to make, are they not? It does not matter how you – or anyone else – views them.” For the first time in his life, Brent was not prey to ultimatums. There was no longer a towering, threatening shadow looming over him. He could withstand Valentina’s judgment, her resentment, so long as she was deterred from attempting to sway him.

“The interlude may be over.” And they may disagree on what that interlude even was. “But there is still the closing scene. The final bow, as it were. The stage has been cleared of the props and all that remains is to close the curtains on this performance. After this? No encores.” This would be it. He would be done. His involvement would no longer be required, so long as he set up the next chapter properly. If they so chose, they could recast his role or they could merely continue on without him.

“Wrapping up this particular production may not be riveting enough to keep you on the edge of your seat with baited breath, but you cannot predict what happens next, can you?” His expression was clouded, unreadable. A hand slipped into his pocket, weight shifting from one side to the other. “Richard, as we both are aware, was capable of anything. A dangerous prospect, perhaps, but even that had its air of predictability to it.” At least they could anticipate that, whatever their father may do next, it was bound to be for his own gain.

Brent had nothing left to gain. Nothing left to lose. “It may not be an enthralling performance, but I was cast to do it regardless. This family has always been more about business than artistry. And you, too, are a stakeholder in it. Richard may not have claimed you, but I did.” She was just as much family as the rest of them, and was owed her due. “As the current owner of the Nott pocketbook, I am the decision maker. My first motion,” he revealed, “is to liquidate the family loaning business.” It had always been a scam to pawn on the poor. He would forgive any outstanding loans, and split the remaining assets evenly. “A quarter portion of the profits will go to Theodore, Uncle Alastair, and Uncle Henry. The remaining fourth will be split between you and me. You can do what you want with the money, of course. I will not dictate your choices.”

“Right, and he shouldn’t be yours either. He’s not, really, in anything but name.” And even that was a tenuous claim at best now. There were other Notts – better people, although it wasn’t hard if compared to Richard – who could claim the name and connect better associations with it, who could ensure that the name Nott was not synonymous with frozen. Richard Nott, the eldest brother and heir, seemed to have taken his late father’s purist ideals to an entirely new extreme and it was he who was best known out of the family. It was his wife who was pitiable, sure, but just as cold as him, unable to muster even the slightest evidence of spine to shield her only son. Even the children, different as they were, seemed to have emerged from that tundra armed with their own shortcomings. There was no reason to hold onto that family now, not now that they had already escaped once and had a clear path to do so again.

Besides, there were better members of the family. Members like their twin cousins and youngest uncle – who were certainly no model citizens, but lingered nowhere near the valley of gloom that was Richard’s branch of the family. At the end of the day, they had something Valentina could envy: they had love. Both middle Nott brothers had affectionate relationships with their wives and children, and until recently, even elusive Uncle Henry had shared his life with a boyfriend and a cat. For some unfathomable reason, it was only the one off-shoot born from the seed of Cantankerous Nott that had reached this level of rot; just one branch that took all of the putridity that flowed in Nott veins and channelled it into a single person.

Valentina supposed that the better members of the family just proved that being a raging fuckwit was not hereditary, then, and that it was possible to choose what one had to be — man or monster. Richard had certainly chosen, and so had his son.

There were few people as important to Valentina Nott as her brother and nephew individually – maybe two others qualified – but Brent and Barbara’s family as a unit was hands down Val’s favourite thing in the world. Proof would always be inconclusive, she supposed, and there was no way to say for sure, but Valentina was, surer than life that the B3 family had to be one of the warmest, most inclusive units in the world. For a relationship so undefined and right damn confusing enough for her to never even have asked, even a stranger could be embarrassed by the subtle undertone of regard the two regarded each other with. And then their son was another story entirely, a sparkle so bright that it scared her sometimes just how precious the tiny little human was to so many of them.

Valentina had never stopped wondering just how Brent could have quit on that, not once in the past nine months, and she wasn’t about to start now. There was logic missing in the entire equation: the sum of its parts did not equal into the final answer, meaning something was missing. There was a component she couldn’t see, and she would be damned if she couldn’t find something so simple.

Perhaps it was that confidence – that she knew something wasn’t right – or merely her convictions that bled into the timbres of her answer, abrupt and dismissive when she spat, “Bullshit.” The word reverberated in the foyer of the Nott estate, escaping harsher than she intended, echoing ever so against the entombing marble surrounding them. She reiterated, tone brokering no argument. “You cannot even argue it. People like Scarlett and I can afford that sort of thinking, the carefree life of the unattached. But not you. We don’t have children, you see, and you do. It’s unfair that you can’t make choices that don’t matter to others, maybe, but it does matter what your family thinks. And you have the best one possible in the world, Brent; the two loveliest people on the planet. Have you forgotten that?”

As much as Valentina spoke, she was incapable of silence even when words were not pouring forth from her. Her body language spoke volumes about what she thought and felt, telegraphed plainly for those who knew her, unless she was consciously censoring herself for professional reasons. And in that moment? Every single pore of her oozed discomfort and uncertainty, more explicitly than the tapping toe of her boot, a look she did not wear well. There was some unspoken foreshadowing in Brent’s words; an ominous aura that underlay within the implications of his words, threatening but hovering out of reach.

It was there, just out of her grasp: something about how Brent was approaching her sounded frighteningly conclusive – final, in a way – and she refused to accept what that implied. Instead, she forced a laugh, downplaying the creeping sense of foreboding. “Fuck off, nobody said you could hijack my metaphor, cheater. Besides, it’s too Monday for this discussion. As we speak of interludes, let us segue into an intermission. Come, I’ll make us tea.”

And with that, she walked past him and off in the direction of the kitchen, not waiting to see if he followed. Even if she had no charm left to beckon him forth, she thought the curiosity might. He may just follow only to know the rest of what she had to say, but it wasn’t nothing. Besides, standing in one place worsened the jittery crawling in the pit of her stomach that warned that something was wrong, leaving her antsy and uncertain.

Walking into the estate’s kitchen, something she hadn’t done in at least five years, was just as foreign a feeling, but in a manner that was closer to unfamiliar than sinister. A kettle was a kettle, and it wouldn’t be the first time she would put one on to boil in the kitchen. And the secrets that were hidden so, looming but invisible, might be more likely to slip out with a nice calming side of freshly brewed tea. As well as a fondness for the beverage, however, an element of curiosity also lingered as a common factor between the siblings – one of the few, actually – who had found their first common ground in muggle literature.

As she hunted down the other necessities for the perfect brew, Valentina spoke, brushing the discomfiting notions under the rug in sharp, jagged motions. “So what I’m getting from this is that you don’t remember anything about storytelling at all, apparently, because that makes zero sense. You can’t just shift from the interlude to the final bow, there needs to be an actual scene to make the closing scene qualify as one. And you’ve never been one to disappoint. You wouldn’t want to start now, would you? Everybody loves a happy ending, Brent. The villain is about to get his comeuppance, if I’ve been keeping up with the case right. The next step is the hero getting his happily ever after, normally. Not riveting, no, and a bit predictable, perhaps, but it would be the nicest, wouldn’t it? And now that Richard is gone, the possibilities of nice are rife.

She looked up over the milk she was pouring into her own teacup to find his gaze if she could, pointed. “Of course we knew, you and I. He was capable of anything. But you’re right, he was predictable: those capabilities never involved anything the least bit good and offered no departures from his crippling selfishness. And look where it got him. All of us are still here, and he’s not. Look at the hope in that.”

Brew finished – one black, the other slightly milky – she placed both cups on saucers and offered the one in her right hand to him. Black, unsweetened, with lemon. The manner she addressed him in was the polar opposite: sweet and bright. “Incorrect, actually. Maybe Dick’s generation was – another reason why Henry never quite fit, possibly – but there is no way in hell ours is? You, me, Persephone, Adara, Theo — you know we are not a business family anymore. Not in ways that count. I can’t speak for myself and Theodore, of course, but you count for even him and we work as one. This generation of Notts is absolutely a family. So yes, you have been cast to play the part of Nott patriarch for now, so to speak, and you have been raised to do so beautifully. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it his way.”

Valentina wouldn’t lie to herself; it was that one sentence that may have fuelled her diatribe about the Notts as a family. Richard may not have claimed you, but I did. Oof, just repeating it in her head gave her chills, born of a warmth that reached a place too deep within her to be defined. There was validation attached to it, affirmation that there was still something that she could connect to, some detached thread she had only to locate and reattach.

She nodded. “There is nothing else in your life that you have followed him on, not where you have had autonomy, so why should this be any different? But I’m glad you’re dismantling the business built on blood money. It’s a good plan.”

[indignatics-blog]

scarmacnair.

“Ooo, I really need to bank that one for use later. Way better than the sloppy shit that men come up with on the fly.”

“Do I hear a scandal? Too bad you don’t write for one of those trashy rag magazines. You would have a real hot piece of information on your hands with that. As crowded as this place is, you would think there would be more entertainment. But you can’t teach an old, repressed dog new tricks.”

“Obviously. They couldn't possibly approach an intimidatingly hot woman sober and drunk twats are too wasted to appreciate anything more than your butt. Not that that isn't perfect, but you know.”

“Right though, this place should be ripe for scandal, even the investigative type, but people actually seem to be behaving? Just when they needed to not too, what sort of treachery is this? The least we could be gifted is the father of the bride splitting his trousers but nope. Gotta suffice with champagne and people watching and bad dancing. It's almost like they...don't want scandal. What a thought.”

[indignatics-blog]

liammatheson.

“Someone has to show all miserable looking sods here how to have a good time. Look how sad that dance floor is looking, c’mon.”

“I see through your long con here, Matheson. Looking sad, he says.”

[indignatics-blog]

deliberatc.

The silence that stretched between the two siblings was a deserved response for the abrupt severing of a connection of communication that had otherwise been kept up well enough. There had once been correspondence between them that was stable and frequent, meetings and dinner theatre excursions, discussions that could draw on for hours. 

Then there had been nothing, what had been built between them shattering as if it were made of fragile glass rather than the steel that cemented their iron wills. 

Their choices had been vastly different, and Brent supposed it made sense that as a result, so had their outcomes. Their circumstances had been juxtaposing from the beginning, from the day that Valentina had first walked into the doors she had just entered. It was near this very spot, if memory served him correctly, where they had first been introduced before they were each tugged away by the parent that claimed them. Where Brent was tugged along by a chain connected to Richard, Valentina was given disregard. Where Valentina was whisked away to a party and doted on like a doll by Adolina, Brent was given a meek turn of a head to ensure that their gazes wouldn’t meet. Brent was given too much and Valentina was given too little. The balance had never been evenly scaled, and even now, it was not tipped in either of their favors. Brent should not have expected for it to be. Justice could not properly be served in this situation, regardless if Richard was behind bars. For now. He did not hold steadfast to the hope that he would remain there. 

Hope, and any optimism that could be attached to it, had bled through his fingers. 

That was what led Brent to act fast. It was his responsibility, after all, as the one who was reared to lead this family after his father’s tyrannical reign was over. It was a role that he had wanted to reject,, and in a way he still was as he would not remain in England, but he owed it to them, his cousins especially, to right what he could of his father’s wrongs and ensure that there was more stability in the Nott family’s various entanglements. He owed Theodore his mother’s potioneering business, as Brent had failed in being able to prove that Richard had a hand in Theodore’s parents’ death. He owed Persephone and Adara possibility which was lost to him, options that they could take should they so wish to. Should Persephone ever find the motivation to pursue a passion.

But then there were those, of course, who he owed but he lacked any recourse for. His Uncle Henry who suffered a long list of wrongs because of his family, primarily his eldest brother. All Brent could offer him was information on a professional level, but that was nothing compared to the grievances that had transpired against the older man. 

There was Barbara, who was not even part of the family but had become entangled in the Nott labyrinth because of him. And she, too, had almost been lost to it, had come too close to being suffocated by the darkness for Brent’s comfort. He should have known that he could not keep her separated from it forever, that he had let himself rely too much on the fact that she had a kind heart. It wasn’t enough to overpower the empty chasm in his father’s chest, even if it had been more than enough to compel Brent to the realization that he was not his father in that regard, that he too had a heart that beat, that could be thawed from its iced containment. She deserved more than being forced to raise their son alone despite his promise to be there. Much like Beau deserved a far better father than one who believed all he could offer his son now was a reprieve from his presence and all the weight that was strapped to it. 

There was Valentina, who stood before him now simmering with justified anger and tossing mockery at him as if he were strapped to an olden stay stock and she was throwing fruit at his face. Appropriate, Brent thought, considering he felt trapped, considering he felt as if the fruits of his labor and life’s work had been rotted to its core. He could not offer his sister anything for what she had endured. And he knew that, really, she didn’t want anything. He could have given her his regard that she had long since earned and he had once handed out, but it didn’t have any worth anymore. Not after what he had done. Not after what he had become, far from the man that he sought ought to be. And if he couldn’t give her that, then he could offer fuel to her fire, those flames that never ceased to burn and the very light that had kept her going. 

“Do you think that’s the biggest tragedy in this family then?” There was a validity to the claim, as it had been Richard’s hand that they all had been forced to endure for so long. “With our patriarch not here as you yourself have observed, I am left with matters to take care of as the one who was meant to succeed him. I only plan on staying until those affairs are all tied up, then I shall be making my leave and this place will once again – what was it you said – lack demeaning dicks once more. Whether you choose to schedule your time here around that or not is up to you. You are not an interference, so long as we both stick to our own objectives rather than bother with  trifling conversations such as this one. You came here for Adolina’s company, after all, not mine.” 

Letters were truly an incredible invention. For anyone who could put thought into words, they encompassed everything one could possibly need to communicate. Valentina was good at them, having learned the fine line to establish between funny and serious, meagre and tedious, to find the balance needed to pen good, solid letters. And for the first few years after she had graduated, a flurry of them had been exchanged with her brother, hers admittedly far more animated by comparison but in a manner that charmingly betrayed the characteristic differences between the siblings. After years of trying to get them somewhere, they had finally arrived at a destination; a place where two children from a fractured foundation could find themselves growing into mature, ambitious adults with a healthy, respectful relationship.

If it was a little less exuberant than most of her friendships, it made up in spades for the sheer satisfaction of having a family connection. A dream had been crafted in little Vally Luna at an age too tender to know better, one that wished for doting parents and loving siblings and familial warmth, and Valentina Nott had never truly learned how to let go of that. She had decided not to accept the half-baked farce of acceptance this family excelled in if they would not embrace her of their own accord; she would find a way to get it where she could. And they had finally gotten there. Before the war. Before the divisions. Before letters grew terser and terser until they abruptly ceased, silenced by a war they had both known was brewing but had refrained from mentioning to one another. It was understandable, really. They had known.

At best, she might have anticipated neutrality from the boy who organised his life in a network of analytical logic, who might find no sense to war. But she also knew Richard Nott well enough to knew where the family allegiance lay and so, the reality that followed had always been a very real possibility. Valentina had not begrudged Brent. There would always be people who would, she knew, but she understood that there were circumstances in their exclusive society where one had little choice.

The righteous world of the completely detached had that advantage: they could afford to judge everyone. When one’s own uncle brother cousin friend would up being one of them, that was where the war started. Days of uncertainty and anxiety, when nobody knew who to trust or who to fight, when all lines between loyalties were blurred, those had been the worst. With every person who had fallen, her blood had run a little colder. Any one of them could have been one of their own, a soldier of the Order. Any one of them could have been Brent.

But it hadn’t been. Every single person she loved had lived and, in the beginning, the relief had been a lingering cloud of molasses she could almost taste in the atmosphere. And then her owl had kept returning empty-taloned. Letters went unanswered. Visits bore no fruit. It had been weeks then before it had truly sunken in, that Brent had just disappeared. Not just on her, who had been on the opposite side in the war, or Barbs, who he was a great dealer closer to but who was admittedly too pure to be implicated with the Notts. He had also disappeared on his son and country and just— He had been gone.

To find him now – and to do so in the house that had never given either of them anything good – was a blow Valentina had not been expecting to shield. It landed at its intended target, she was sure, leaving her stinging for the bruise it had left on her sternum. The proverbially battered area rose on a deep, fortifying inhale, Valentina biting down on her bottom lip to tamp down on her temper. It wouldn’t do to lose it so soon.

There were dots that did not connect: the earlier cessation of communication made sense, with the war looming and them on opposite sides, but this didn’t. And Brent Nott was nothing if not logical, even if things only made sense in that strange, strange brain of his. The fact that this situation had no obvious rationale meant that she was missing something, a detail she would absolutely miss if she let her temper get the better of her.

Still, there were details that could not be missed. Valentina empathically rolled her eyes, the very implication drawing dry sarcasm from her. “He’s your patriarch, Brent,” she corrected, tone wearing no heat and all weariness. “As we both are well-aware, the man has never laid any claim to me, nor could he have. Maybe that is the tragedy; that you are still here, all these years later. By choice, it appears. The compulsion – your interlude in hell, so to say – expired on 2nd May last year, nine whole months ago. If you’re making choices terrible enough to warrant staying here now, you don’t deserve the pleasure of trifles to begin with. You’re dallying here, little brother. And aren’t you bored of being barricaded behind an avalanche yet?”

[indignatics-blog]

@scphiisms.

“Penny for your thoughts, precious?”

[indignatics-blog]

deliberatc.

The slip back into English was an odd transition for the first time in his life. Taught both at the same time, speaking English more fluently than an immigrant mother and Korean more fluently than a diasporic father who only learned the language once he was older, Brent knew well how to juggle the two. Primarily, Korean had been for home and English had been reserved for outside interactions. Frankly, he preferred Korean and its varying levels of formality, its usage able to distinguish levels of familiarity depending on what speech level he used. But those closest to him, outside of his blood kin, did not speak the language, making it a moot point.

Yet it had been Korean he had been strictly speaking the last nearly ten months. Even when reunited with some family members, his uncle in particular, or even with Mor, he could continue to use it. Valentina was the exception and signaled a return of sorts to his identity as a British Korean, a Korean Englishman, however one chose to spin it. It would not spur the return of him, however. His physical body may be presented in front of her, but a significant part of him had not returned from war. A part of him had been forcibly killed by his own hands. 

Hands that were clasped behind his back, posture straightened. Hands that no longer spun magic. Hands that, last he was in England, he had scrubbed raw to rid himself of the blood stains. It did not matter that the skin cells had long since died and been replaced. If it wasn’t when he looked at his hands, he would be reminded when he shut his eyes and the scenes played back through darkened eyelids. There was no escaping it. He may have not been in England, separated from those that he had once ( still ) held dear, but there was no running from himself. Much like there was no avoiding this conversation. 

“Go along, Mor,” Brent indicated to the houseelf with a nod of his head, the elderly creature looking between the two cautiously before he bowed and vanished. “Do not use that name,” Brent began dismissively, similar to how he would have years before. “If you are going to insist on such pleasantries, you could be the polite one as you claim and address me properly.” He could read her face, the jutted line of her jaw. It was not an unfamiliar expression. He was merely not accustomed to it being directed at him. “As you can see for yourself, not dead. Quite busy, though, so if you could make this brief, Valentina? I admittedly was not expecting you, but I also do not check in with Adolina to run through her plans for the day. She does have her own autonomy, after all, surprising as that may be. As do you. Yet here is where you choose to be?”

Silence followed Brent’s response, so deep one could hear her necklaces tinkle as she shifted and they tangled. Valentina was not one easily taken to affront – she was much too offensive to far too many people to have so thin a skin – but the frown that accompanied was near audible in its presence, level and deeply displeased.

This really was adding insult to injury.

Because she hadn’t held anything against him. There were choices one had to make, she knew that, knew that in the Nott household, noncompliance held a heavy price and there were situations where the hardest choices caused the least upheaval. And that was fine. Allegiances in a war didn’t come nearly as easily as one might assume they might: there were hard, hollowing decisions to be made sometimes, ones that lingered in the grey. It was squaring off at wand point against a child one might have tutored in Charms, for example, or not knowing if it was one’s brother or uncle under the mask and cloak of a soldier of death. But the war had been compulsion. There was none left, not now that it had been over for the better part of a year and the wizarding world was well on the way to reconstruction. Well-deserved peace had been a long time coming. She had just expected her brother to return from war alongside it.

That was part of why it irked her; she had expected better and she really ought not to have. Brent may have far exceeded expectations all his life, but that hadn’t made him soft by any measure. He still was whom he had always been: a force to be reckoned with. It just so happened that Valentina Nott had been born with iron-lined bones that refused to be trifled with.

Gone were the days where a curt word left the bubble of her hope deflated or an act as simple as a change of languages could make something small inside her cave in on itself. That had been something only a child could have weathered, borne on the hope of a brighter future. The woman she was maturing into was just as resilient, but far less patient towards the curt dismissals the Nott family favoured. They were almost deserving of a patent, to be owned only by this family of emotionally constipated, arrogant and belittling bastards. Val was done with them.

She deserved more than this. Affection was not imparted with expectation – at least hers never had been – but it had been a lot. Years and years and years of chipping through his walls to get to the warmth sequestered at the heart of the fortress, of near-constant nudges at the door until she could slide her way in. At some point, there had to be an indication that it was working, at the very least. There had been once, but the past few years of relenting seemed to have been wiped away completely in the past few months of silence. And honestly? Valentina was tired of trying so hard for no response.

Every movement betraying how supremely unimpressed she was, Valentina crossed her arms across her chest. Her tone came out bathed in sardonic rancour, as quietly mocking as her words. “Why wouldn’t I choose to be here? It’s not a struggle — on the contrary, Adolina’s English has progressed quite nicely and there was a lovely lack of demeaning dicks in the general vicinity when I last checked. A real tragedy that nobody taught the men in this family common courtesy, isn’t it?” Anyone who knew her would be well aware that her current scowl was normally followed by a flying fist. This time, she replaced it with crossed arms tightening. “Will you be staying long? I can reschedule my next visit so as to not interfere with thou holy plots if so.”

[indignatics-blog]

deliberatc.

A few days back in his childhood home and Brent already felt stifled. Not that much of a childhood had been lived within these walls, passing by a darkened closet door as he headed toward the wing where the family archives were kept. He gave himself a month, capped, before he would return back to Seoul where he had been since May of last year. This was not home. It never had been. And the home that he had assembled for himself, filled with people of his choice, was in shambles, torn apart by his own hands. He hadn’t even glanced back at the rubble when he’d silently vanished. There were those he expected would be more understanding and not press the matter, such as Theodore who often kept to himself anyway. Then there was Valentina – who’s unexpected appearance in the house should not have been surprising. 

They were far from the same in perspective, after all. As he approached the two mingling voices, it was Mor who first addressed him. The wise houseelves eyes were wide, shoulders tense as he glanced between the two siblings.  “Master Hyo Jun, have you seen the Lady this afternoon?”

“I have not.” Brent scarcely paid attention to his mother, but his gaze was apt on the houseelf who had always held his respect. He drew his eyes upward slightly then, to his sister. “If she is not there, you may want to try the sun room.” He spoke of their mother like she was a stranger he was far from acquainted with, and that was true. But the same treatment that he handed his sister was a farce, one constructed by necessity. He could not afford to be budged from his purpose. 

The tableau arranged itself in her mind amid swift astonishment,the players taking their places and the scene setting itself within seconds, before she was entirely aware of what was happening. It should have been the play she had been watching for years now, the same scenes reenacted that they had been playing at since she left. What she found instead was an entirely new act, added unbeknownst to her, and definitely not appreciated for it. After all, she had only been prepared for one unpleasant meeting that afternoon.

In the few seconds it took Valentina to absorb who the elf was addressing and swallow the fact, the bile had already situated itself to somewhere nauseatingly high in her throat. Unexpectedly so. If there was a member of the Nott family who Valentina might have expected this staggeringly stellar level of disappointment from, it would not have been him. Maybe Persephone, who existed so far below her own potential, or Adara, who simply refused to spread her beautiful swan’s wings and take a leap of faith. Brent, on the other hand, could normally be different. Better.

But then, she had been expecting him to ease the newly constructed walls between them once the war ended too, and he had done the exact opposite. Though it rankled her to think it, maybe her hold on these tenuous relationships, her claim to these personally determined connections, was as hollow as she had always been assured it was. Maybe Richard Nott had been right about something after all. Even when it had begun to feel as such weeks ago, however, Valentina refused to let it go without a fight. That simply wouldn’t be her.

She rose.

“You heard the man, Mor. Would you please take this to her, if you don’t mind? The ice will melt if I pause to swap uncomfortable greetings with my darling brother risen from the dead, and one of us has to be polite enough to do so. Isn’t that right, Master Hyo Jun?” Her tongue twisted easily into the Korean syllables now, after a lifetime of hearing the language uncomfortable often. The presence of her brother didn’t sit quite so calmly on a heart already weary of war. Valentina cocked her head to the side, expression unmistakeably illustrating her displeasure. She was tired already.

[indignatics-blog]

It was probably too little, too late for this — there was something to be said for spilled milk and broken bones that could never be set quite right. Those were the messes that one set apart, left to their own devices when there was nowhere left to go. The Nott family had likely been one from the beginning, if she were honest with herself, but admitting that would mean admitting defeat, and Valentina never admitted defeat. Their shared last name may not have made the four of them family, not precisely, but it did warrant minimal concern, if only out of courtesy or a warped sense of responsibility. She couldn’t relinquish that bond, not yet. ( Not even when the implications of that truth, that the entire family – every single one of them – was incapable of extending the same courtesy. )

                      So here she was, just like clockwork: the fifteenth of the month, and Valentina was back in the house she had been only too happy to escape, customary bingsoo in hand, bending down to talk to a wizened old house-elf. “It’s great to see you, Mor. Is that a new hairstyle? Looks sick. Is the Lady in the drawing room today?”

[indignatics-blog]

scarmacnair.

“You don’t need to flatter me to convince me, but you also aren’t wrong. Moves so hot, everybody will be getting Scarlett fever,” she played off the medical pun of her name. With a shaky of her mane, she gave a shimmy of her shoulders. “You know these things always end far too early though. Feelin’ up to the pub after this?”

“But of course, have them dropping like flies from how hot it is. It’s the O’Hara Effect: they just can’t resist the heat.”

“Seriously, though, I’m bored already and you’re so fucking on. I think the most exciting thing that might happen here before the night ends is one of the bride’s fifteen billion cousins making off with the groom’s uncle.”

[indignatics-blog]

goldenhalc.

“No offense, but do you all have, like, genetic proof that you aren’t all somehow related?”

“I have yet to even see the happy couple, really, and I feel mighty awful about it. Bit like a mooch. But I couldn’t pass up this opportunity and it does seem as if the entirety of the wizarding community has come out for the occasion. Even if you do wonder their line of reasoning behind the open invitation.”

“You’d think that’s a joke, but not really, no. If we weren’t racially diverse, it might just have all been inbreeding and nobody would blink about it.”

“Hey, you work hard; you totally deserve to reap the benefits of generous rich people throwing a ridiculous party. Even if it does make no sense. As long as the drinks are free and the company isn’t stressful, yeah? The bride and groom might not have been that fussed to meet everyone in the first place anyway, considering the size of the party.”

[indignatics-blog]

liammatheson.

“Only if you come and dance with me. No dance floor is complete unless Valentina Nott is on it.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Liam, but they’re actually opening this reception to the public to decrease public riots. And you know I can’t do that.”