After being subjected to relentless questioning at the hands of the Ministry, Alice is having trouble settling back into routine. Usually, a creature who thrives on habit – she’s completely off kilter due to this endless waiting game. How is she meant to return to normalcy when, at any moment, her own co-workers could come to seize her. She’s innocent – proclaimed that all through her interrogation – but even knowing that, there’s still a sense of fear that’s built a home at the very core of her.
She’s usually focused – diligent in her work ethic – but for the past few days, her head’s been up in the clouds. Rather than the pleasant act of day-dreaming, it’s nightmares that she sees flash before her eyes – perhaps she’s found herself caught in the eye of a storm. The paperwork that hit her desk hours ago remains untouched – she’ll get it done ( she always does ), but she can’t seem to bring herself to even lift a quill to it.
The greeting takes a few moments to register, as she lifts her head & clears away the fog. She’s expecting a fellow auror, perhaps one of her superiors, but instead she’s met with a face that’s meant to be friendly.
“You really shouldn’t make a habit of popping in for a chat when I’m on the clock.”
There’s no bite to her words – in fact, there’s not much expression to them at all. The fire has been put out, bright eyes dulled down to a fraction of the passion that usually swims beyond the surface.
He took her words as an opportunity to seat himself across from her. Coming to the Auror office is hard for him, too many memories. Too many ghosts. It’s like seeing a lover after a breakup and years spent apart. Bittersweet. Melancholic. Tilden takes a moment to admire his surroundings. It’s not like he hasn’t been here recently--what with his gesture to Alice, and his recent questioning--but it’s different to see it from a visitor’s perspective.
“They owe me.” He murmurs, shrugging a dismissal. They do owe him. Not just for implicating him, but for the other stuff too. The getting his dad killed stuff. There’s a bitterness in his voice that is so uncharacteristic he surprises himself.
They could all rot in hell, as far as he was concerned. Part of him died when he rounded up his family and told them to stay in New York. The softness that had once served him was now in the hands of Daisy, who never cared enough about him; in the hands of his mother, who was a thousand miles away. Unreachable.
He pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his flannel and lit it lazily with the tip of his wand. Bad habits. What had he become? The plants hadn’t even been bringing him joy lately. It all felt artificial. Superficial. Nothing truly sunk in.
“D’you want one?” Tilden pulled the box out of his pocket and offered her a cigarette. “We ought to go to lunch, don’t you think? Misery loves company and all that? Can’t speak for you, but I’m bloody... well, let’s just say it hasn’t been easy.”
