Imogen wanted to cry. But that was self-indulgent and would accomplish nothing, she told herself as soon as she Apparated back home to the living room filled with Graham's things. So instead, Imogen tackled his sofa-bed first, pulling back the covers and the sheets and methodically folding them up to be washed.
"Oh, hi love," she said as Gilbert wandered into the room. "Sorry that I didn't hext, I got caught up."
Gilbert paused for a moment, head still swimming with the research he'd just been doing. It took moment for him to process what Imogen was doing, then he blinked. “Everything okay, hun? In the mood for laundry or...” He let the sentence trail off, wondering why she'd decided to start a load so late.
"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Imogen pulled off the pillowcases and added them to the neat pile before pulling out her wand and setting the sofa back to its intended state. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, sitting down at the table and pulling out the wand he was working on. Filing it down, he looked up and saw her collapsing the sofa. “I always forget how much bigger this room is when it's not a bed,” he offered. “Graham staying with a friend tonight?”
"No."
“So you're putting the sofa away because…” he asked, utterly confused.
Imogen cleared her throat, busying herself with the next task -- collecting Graham's dirty clothes and adding them to the laundry pile -- conveniently turning away so that Gilbert couldn't see her face. "He won't be staying here any more."
“He's… moving out?” Gilbert asked, still feeling like he was missing a piece of the puzzle. He'd have expected Imogen to be happier if her brother had found somewhere else to live - once he moved out Gilbert assumed that all three of their relationships would improve, now that they wouldn't be on top of each other all the time. “Imogen, love, what's wrong? Did you to get into a fight or something?”
She breathed in, like that would make it easier. "I'm fine, Gilbert!" Obviously, it didn't.
“No,” he said, standing up. “You're not. What happened?”
Imogen picked up the pile of dirty clothes and sheets and tried to push past her boyfriend. "Please, Gil."
“Imogen,” he said, reaching out for her so that she'd stop for a moment, starting to get legitimately concerned. “You're worrying me. Please, tell me what happened.”
"He--" She shook her head. "I can't."
“Is he okay?” Gilbert asked, voice rising. “Is he hurt? Just take a deep breath, love. Take a deep breath and say it, whatever it is,” running through possibilities in his head.
Imogen had been here before, on the reverse side of this scenario, only hours before. It had felt cruel in the moment to be left waiting for an answer, the three minutes of time that it had taken for Robards to show up at her house an eternity of what if's in her mind. Clutching the laundry pile tighter, her gaze fell so that she didn't have to meet his eyes. "He's a Death Eater. He tried to kill an Auror tonight and was -- unmasked when they dueled. He's in St. Mungo's right now."
She could understand now why Robards had stuck to the facts when he delivered the news. It was easier, simpler, cleaner.
Gilbert blinked. That hadn't been one of the possibilities he'd considered.
“He's,” he started, then paused. A Death Eater. Tried to kill an auror. Knew about his grandfather. Graham had known about Gilbert's grandfather, about all the angst and worry, and hadn't said anything. Hadn't cared. He'd been sleeping on a couch a room away from Gilbert and hadn't said a word.
“That bastard.”
"Will you please move now?" Imogen demanded, bristling though she didn't know why. She owed Graham nothing. He'd lied to her again, and again. He'd joined a fucking murder cult, and tried to kill someone, and god knew what else. How many times had he come home at an odd hour following a task for You Know Who? How many times had she just allowed that to fester in her living room, unwilling to see what was there all along, right in front of her? And yet she bristled.
Wordlessly, Gilbert moved so that Imogen could continue her tasks. He took a few deep breaths, fists balling up tightly and nails digging into his palms. Then he moved to Graham's things, stuffing clothes into a bag with far less care than Imogen was taking.