May 24th, 1895 — Goshawk House, London

The butler had been the first and last person, it seemed, that Erasmus Goshawk had told of Albion's arrival.

Alby had arrived at the impressive London residence at the appointed hour, been greeted by the butler, and then immediately encountered his sister—not Hettie, but an altogether different creature. He had watched Ursa Goshawk's expression go from curious and interested (he did sometimes have that effect on young ladies) to disbelief to something akin to rage, but the simmering sort, as she had run off, no doubt to alert her mother.

Lenore Goshawk had been even less enthused.

Four hours later, Alby had survived what had to be the world's most uncomfortable dinner, his father willfully ignoring the silent seething of the women in the room, his half-brothers floored, though less venomously so. All the while, the same thoguht pirouetted through the American's mind: he had long heard stories of his half-siblings, their successes, their mishaps. Not only had they not heard of his in return, but they had not even known he existed.

What in the hell was he doing here?!

The meal concluded, Alby was beaten to his feet only by his father's wife, and his efforts to see himself to his rooms to retire for the evening found him instead in a billiards room.

At least the brandy was of good calibre.

He set his crystiline glass on the edge of the billiards table as he moved to take a shot, hoping that one or the other would help to clear his mind.

Leo Goshawk

  

There had been a moment, early in the evening, when Leo had been quite sure his mother might commit murder. Certainly, he had never seen her so poised and pristine in all his life and that had terrified him more than any rages could – she was hardy demonstrative at the best of times and tonight she had been so cold behind the eyes he had barely recognised her.

Although she was still more familiar than his newfound fucking brother!

Was it not bad enough that he was cursed with a squib and a ghost? Now he had to have an American too?! And an American who was helping himself to the good brandy apparently.

“You’ll never make the cannon from there,” he said by way of greeting, eyeing the set-up quickly and focussing on balls and pockets rather than the fact that his half-brother had the audacity to look more like their father than he did.

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   Aldous Crouch

The wizard startled, and the cue stick slipped from his grip, shooting the ball at an odd angle.

"Not now, no," Albion agreed, returning to his full stature to greet the stranger.

And it was a stranger—and was not, at the same time. Leo Goshawk was Alby's younger by a few years. How happy the young lad had been to learn he had a brother, how excited. The face looking at him now, though, was all but foreign; there had been little resemblance that Alby had seen when he had observed the other man during dinner. At least he was not presently in possession of his mother's sneer—thank Merlin for small mercies.

How did it feel, he wondered, to think you were the eldest for the first quarter-century of your life?

Of course, he still was—bastards scarcely rated in America, and did so even less here across the Atlantic. But eldest was not quite the same as being first.

"I—I didn't know that you didn't know, you know," he offered, setting the cue stick down on the felted table.

Leo Goshawk

  

Leo considered leaving the room rather than engaging in the conversation he had walked into, but sitting just below his anger at his father was a curiosity about this brother he had never known. He had never exactly been close with the brother he had, so what was it about this man that he found fascinating? Perhaps it was because he was older? Perhaps it was because his actual brothers were a pair of fucking losers?

“I know,” he said as he poured himself a large measure of brandy, laughing at the nonsense of the situation they were in and pouring another for his brother. “Pater has always treated news on a need-to-know basis.”