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Tweak says, "Christmas at ground zero!"

charlotte warrington, thank you very much. (sourness) wrote in buggerallrpg,
@ 2009-11-08 15:22:00

Entry tags:

charlotte warrington, peter urquhart

WHO: Charlotte Warrington & Peter Urquhart.
WHERE: Quidditch pitch!
WHEN: December 8th, very early morning!
WHAT: Peter is a biotch.
RATING: PG-13 for Urquhart potty-mouth.

Vanity.

It was the reason why Charlotte was awake before most of the other girls in her dorm had begun to stir – pulling herself out of her pyjamas and trading them for a black tracksuit and matching sneakers (with pink stripes, naturally!) that she tied up with such care that one might’ve thought she was wrapping a present. It was strangely common for people to assume that because she had zero interest in Quidditch that her interest in all athletic pursuits were similarly nonexistent, but the opposite was true; Charlotte was far too vain to let herself get podgy, and though it was a chore more often than not, she cared deeply about staying fit and healthy, and her sport of choice was simply something else. Had Hogwarts been a little more open to alternative sports, Charlotte would’ve made herself quite a dominant figure in a Swivenhodge league – but she was simply relegated to watching others master their own sporting expertise. She drank her green tea and her invigoration potion delicately, like the girl she was, and spoke briefly with Patrick and a couple of the other early-risers who had similar intentions of getting a bit of early exercise in, before leaving the commons with a water-bottle in hand.

Back home, the Warrington grounds were expansive enough that Charlotte – and her father, and her brother, and her sister (if she felt so inclined) – could run perfectly through a safe, beaten track through the trees that nestled beside their house, warded against snow and ice; here, Charlotte’s first step outside was on such a slippery foot of cold frost that she almost tripped. Almost. Catching herself at the last minute and jumped forward to regain her balance, the eighteen-year-old scowled hatefully at the space of slippery cobblestones behind her before pushing off again. Charlotte, a jock? No. Somehow, she was able to make jogging a rather girly activity – what with her sunglasses, and the way her ponytail slapped against her shoulders when her foot would land.

The air was icy and unwelcoming that slapped against her cheeks and hands, the only parts of her that weren’t covered by the fabric she’d riddled with many a warming charm, but heat worked its way through her from her legs that lead her, quite bouncily, in a wide arch through the area before the Forbidden Forest – not close enough for her to have been in trouble or in danger of being over-the-top with rounds – and around, around, around, toward the Pitch. Not her favourite place in the world, but it was useful. Charlotte’s pace, by then, had increased to an even cant, and her footsteps led her through the main entrance –

And then she heard the familiar sound of a bat against a bludger. Charlotte’s feet nearly skidded to a halt. She sucked in a deep breath and suppressed the sudden urge to groan.

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purquhart
2009-11-08 02:40 am UTC (link)

Peter was generally a slacker. He liked to sleep in as late as he could when it didn't matter. Typically, during the summers, he never woke up before noon. This was true as well during most of the off weeks that he didn't have Quidditch. But, as they had a game coming up later in the next month, and the holidays were soon upon them, he was knee deep in a daily exercise routine for Quidditch. Practice was never easy, and if Peter didn't actually workout, it'd probably be even harder. He knew he'd slack off and eat too much over Christmas anyway, so he had to make it count now. Having gotten up at the crack of dawn the last several weeks, it was becoming easier now that his body was used to it. The cold was still a discomfort, but it didn't sway his decision to get out of bed anymore.

Dressed in dark sweatpants and a t-shirt, one would assume Peter was freezing his ass off. Thankfully, the jog to the Pitch had gotten his blood flowing enough that it wasn't a problem. He had discarded his windbreaker in the stands, already having a cool sweat clinging to his warm skin. The forward and back motion of his body as he stood on the ground, hitting bludgers like they were baseballs, was enough to keep circulation at a high.

The brown, squirming ball that he clutched in his hand was tossed up into the air. It let out an angry sound as it plummeted back down, as if attempting to hit him. Instead, he hit it with a strong, fluid motion that sent it whizzing away. With a smirk, he lowered the bat to tap against his leg as he waited. Soon enough, the whizzing sound came back, getting louder and louder as the ball came flying back for revenge. Reading himself, he considered catching it, but settled on giving it another smack.

This was his exercise. It was all he needed. A beater just needed strong arms. Sure, he was lean enough, but he didn't give a shit about that. He could fly, he could hit, and he could hit people. Speaking of people. Charlotte? Unless she sounded like a stampeding elephant, Peter didn't even know she was there.

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sourness
2009-11-08 03:08 am UTC (link)

It annoyed her that the Pitch was taken – which was ridiculous in itself, as Charlotte was neither a player nor an enjoyer of the sport it was built for, but it was a large stretch of flat ground that was far more protected by the wind than the fields around the castle. It was still cold here, but not quite as cold as it was outside of it – and even more tragically than that, with the distance that thankfully kept the Gryffindor away from the practicing player, she also didn’t have an instant lock on his identity. Separated by a good fifty feet, it looked to Charlotte to be just another nameless boy with floppy brown hair and a good arm-swing; the angle wasn’t generous enough to give her a view of his face.

And so, with a sulking purse to her mouth, she continued to walk further in. Her arm lowered so one hand could rest comfortably on her hip as her lungs emptied and refilled themselves with beloved, if a little over-cooled, air. Her second rose for a moment, pushing her sunglasses up into her hairline, as her left sneaker dragged childishly on the grass, digging into it slightly with the pressure on her flat sol. Unobtrusively, at least in her standards which were comically hypocritical and sometimes a little off, she continued approaching from the side, watching as the bludger was struck a second time.

She was familiar with this exercise. Her brother had played at it often.

“Oh, good hit there,” said Charlotte, wonderfully oblivious, all too capable of speaking to anyone; pointing her finger up to where the bludger was currently in the middle of flying off. The sun was out and in full glare, causing her eyes to need the protection of her hand across her brow in order to focus properly, as they were still adjusted to the milder light of her shades. “That wasn’t too bad at all.”

And then her eyes slid sideways. There, in a flash, recognition. Her tone was lower and much more sour as she added, “Almost as good as Cindy Dingle, it’s a crime she’s not first-string.”

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purquhart
2009-11-08 03:28 am UTC (link)

Peter stood in his spot, once again tapping the bat against the outside of his thigh, as he watched the bludger zoom away again, becoming nothing more than a speck in the sky. Of course, his admiration was interrupted by... praise? A brow arched as he looked around to see where the female voice was coming from. Who the hell was up this early? On the Pitch, no less? He saw girls around from time to time, but none of them tended to talk to him unless it was Teeny or Lynne. He could make out the hair color and height from the distance, but that was it. Thankfully, he didn't respond to what the girl was saying, instead watching as she drew closer and her figure became easier to make out.

Soon enough Peter was incredibly thankful that he didn't react to the phrase, almost as much as Charlotte probably regretted saying what she said. His eyes narrowed at her scathing remark, her words causing him to scoff. "It must have to do with the fact that she's a girl," he snapped, glaring at her. At the back of his head, he heard his mother chiding him, but tried to ignore it. Insulting a girl for being a girl was easy enough, though one of his mother's pet peeves. She might have raised him right, but he still mouthed off when he needed to, which was all the time.

"What're you--" his sentence trailed off as his ears picked up the loud whizzing sound of the bludger returning once again for revenge. He turned his head just in time to catch sight of the brown ball hurdling toward him. "Oomf," was the only audible sound that came from him as it smacked him square in the chest, successfully knocking him back and leaving him winded. The bat had instantly been dropped, both hands flying up to wrap around the ball, holding it against his chest for his own protection - they liked to bounce.

"Ugh," he shook his head, wet curls flopping about his forehead, as he tried to regain his concentration and ignore the intense throbbing in his chest that reduced his breathing to shallow gasps. His face screwed up in an expression of mild pain as he struggled to lean down and shove the bludger back in its case for safe keeping until he could beat the shit out of it like he wanted to.

"Why don't you piss off before you get hurt?" He growled in her general direction, obviously blaming her for what just happened. Peter stroked his chest roughly, trying to paw the pain away.

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sourness
2009-11-08 04:34 am UTC (link)

Charlotte didn’t realise what a mistake she’d made until the bludger impacted Peter’s chest with an audible slap, similar to what she imagined hallow wood may have sounded like if it was whacked against flesh. The sarcasm on her face was removed in an instant – leaving her wide-eyed and cradling a screeching gape with both her hands wrapped over her mouth. It sometimes made her jump when players were hit with bludgers during games, but that was different; they were in those padded things and she was far enough to not feel very affected by it – unfortunately, having it happen right in front of her, and in part because of her, meant the very opposite. Very rarely stuck as the person who didn’t know what to say when they were stuck in an awkward situation, Charlotte temporarily forgot about the sardonic retorts she had stored up in response to Peter’s sexist comment and instead stood where she was, a proverbial deer-in-headlights, for a blank couple of seconds.

There were many things that she was, but sadistic without reason wasn’t one of them. Peter might not have been her favourite person in the world, or the school, or his house, or even his dorm, but she wasn’t the sort of person who couldn’t have felt a stab of concern at such a moment. Her first words weren’t as elegant as she’d have preferred them to be, hissed with her mouth behind her palms, “Oh my Merlin,” as Peter tried to correct his breathing and place the bludger back in the case. She repeated the phrase one more time, under her breath, as she awkwardly removed her hands from her face and tried – tried — to near him enough to reach out with one arm and flatten her palm against his shoulder. Her touch was tentative, however, as the chances of him whipping her limb away with a jerk of his own arm were so high. “Are you okay? Can you breathe? I’m so —”

Piss off?! The words sunk in belatedly, but with great effect. Charlotte’s nose wrinkled and she shot him a wildly frustrated glare. “Excuse me?” she exclaimed. “How was I supposed to know this—“ and here, she gestured at his chest with both her hands, fingers outspread, with obvious incredulity – “was going to happen? Don’t talk at me like it was my fault; you’re the bloody Quidditch player, why couldn’t you have spoken to me at the same time as doing whatever it is you do with your thingy.” The bat? Charlotte spotted it on the ground, and in an impulsive fit of helpfulness, she picked it up and held it out for him.

“Is your chest alright?” – An instant later, she was solemn. Her eyebrows knitted together and she eyed the patch of skin that’d been hit, through the fabric of his t-shirt. Inwardly, Charlotte cursed herself for having her potion materials so very far away from her person. “Your ribcage?”

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purquhart
2009-11-08 04:49 am UTC (link)

Peter, not expecting her to try to touch him in any sort of way, jerked his shoulder back, causing his torso to twist awkwardly, sending a sharp pang of pain into his chest where he had been hit by a bludger. Normally, Peter didn't jerk away from the touch of a girl, but this was Charlotte, and he already had a bruised enough ego over the fact that he just let a damn bludger hit him. Easing back into a straightened position the best he could without wincing at the groan of his ribs as they were pushed upon by his muscles, he looked at her with what was best considered a grimace as she started to go off on him for telling her to piss off. It figured.

He didn't even bother looking at her for the whole rant, instead taking focus on his chest as he became less cautious and started to proud about with his fingers to see if anything was broken. No jagged bones were protruding through the skin, obviously, so that was a semi-good sign. Each poke sent a sharp, slicing sensation through his muscles, but it wasn't overwhelming. He could recall the first time he got hit in the head with a bludger - there had been the extreme sensation of oncoming vomit as bile collected at the back of his throat, but he had blacked out before that could even happen.

Momentarily distracted by the fact that Charlotte was handing him his "thingy", he didn't know what else to do but take it. He couldn't help it, but there was a split second flash in his mind of him hitting her with it. Instead of doing that, which he really wouldn't, he instead tossed it over next to the box where the bludger still rattled in its restraints.

"It's fine," he lied, turning away from her enough to give her his shoulder to look at instead. Lifting his hand to the collar of his t-shirt, he pulled at it to peer down at the large, puffy red spot over his left pec and where his ribcage came together, bruising already starting to form. He'd been hit enough times during Quidditch that this was no longer alarming. In fact, it was a little comforting to know that he wasn't on the ground, bleeding internally, or anything like that.

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sourness
2009-11-08 05:40 am UTC (link)

Charlotte didn’t expect a warm reception for her display of concern, but Peter’s avoidance did nothing but irritate her further. The corner of her mouth stretched into a bitter sneer that he would’ve likely not noticed, what with most of his attention being on his injured body – and with distancing her from said injured body. She’d have liked to have been able to whine about how he was being a big baby, a whiner, a child, but she didn’t have the energy for exaggeration when the good half of her mind was still locked in on making sure he hadn’t broken a bone. He wasn’t making this mission particularly easy, not with the way he refused to allow her to touch or see him; which in any other situation, she’d have been absolutely fine with.

Indeed, when he turned around so she had nothing to look at save his shoulder and the patch of skin on his lower back that was left bare when his t-shirt was tugged up in its front side, which Charlotte couldn’t see, the girl sighed whiningly. “That’s such a stupid bloody lie, don’t be so ridiculous,” she nearly spat the words out, venomous as they were and accompanied by a disbelieving squint of her eyes and a deep frown; the Gryffindor didn’t pretend to know a lot about Quidditch as a sport, but there was certain second-hand knowledge that came from having a brother and close friends – and ex-boyfriends – who’d come into contact with bludgers. She didn’t turn him around or stomp around so that she could help with his inspection, however – instead, quite smartly, Charlotte shrugged her shoulders to dislodge the small bag she carried on her back, her wand and water-bottle nestled inside. Lowering to one knee, she flung the filled bottle onto the grass and tapped it twice with her wand – her wand, which, with her number of petty enemies, she refused to leave the common-room without – in order to coat the lower, flatter, stronger, portion of it with a good block of ice.

“Are you bleeding?” She still couldn’t see – she had to ask. She held the frozen bottle out for him. “Is anything broken? Stabbing pains?” Her eyebrows rose, bunching high in the center of her forehead. “Should I get the nurse?”

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purquhart
2009-11-09 12:50 am UTC (link)

Peter would have glared at her, had he been facing her, but settled for glaring at the ground so he didn't actually have to move. His prodding turned back into soothing paws at the spot, now able to feel the large whelp the bludger had created. He tried desperately to ignore the fact that she was still there, or the fact that he looked like a clueless idiot that didn't know how to catch a fucking bludger. It was so embarrassing, but he wasn't about to show that he was actually embarrassed, determined to remain pissed off about the entire thing instead. It wasn't like it was the first time something like this had happened to him during his practices, but Charlotte Warrington had never been there to see it before. Or any girl that wasn't on the team, for that matter. No one judgmental and bitchy.

He ignored the sounds behind him of whatever she was doing until he couldn't ignore them anymore. Half-turning, he was greeted with the frozen bottle (at least it wasn't the damn bat again). He eyed it a moment, as if scrutinizing it, and then begrudgingly took it from her. Putting it between his knees for brief, safe keeping, the younger boy then reached both hands behind his head and tugged his t-shirt up and off. Back muscles rolled as the chill of the winter wind instantly hit his skin, raising goosebumps. He shuddered as he tossed his shirt down and pulled the bottle up to press it against the spot on his chest.

"No, I'm not sodding bleeding. I don't need anything. I've got two fucking legs, I can walk to the Wing on my own, if I need." He wasn't typically civil, but he was even less now.

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sourness
2009-11-09 05:10 am UTC (link)

The arch of Charlotte’s scowling lips only became more exaggeratedly displeased of look when Peter snatched the bottle out of her hand as if it’d been a small offence for her to have offered it to him in the first place. In this instance, she was undoubtedly concerned about his well-being – but she was no Mother Teresa, no sweet-hearted do-gooder who showered an individual with care only to receive slaps in the face as repayment. She was a quiet, disapproving, cloudy presence beside him as his shirt was removed and her charmed bottle used as it was intended to, to sooth.

“Don’t swear at me. Or is your brain simply incapable of stringing comprehensible sentences together without at least two pieces of profanity”— such was her absent rant, pronounced with Charlotte’s typically clipped accent that exaggerated each syllable as if they were crispy blades. Lowering to her haunches a second time, she grabbed her bag, empty now, and her wand. The former was pushed up so she could rest it, with one strap, on her left shoulder. Her wand, on the other hand, remained in her hand as she tried to stretch her leg out to the side so she could adjust the angle which she was standing on – and better take a look at Peter’s wound. Although partially covered by her bottle, and somewhat obscured additionally by his bare arms, Charlotte could see the welt in all its angry glory. She sucked in a deep breath through her teeth.

Thankfully, it hadn’t aimed for his face – thankfully, it hadn’t somehow decided to come at her. Charlotte didn’t even want to think about how her reaction might’ve been if she’d been on the receiving end of one of those hateful little balls. She eyed his bruised skin and inwardly reeled at the absurdity of her current circumstances. Never in a hundred years would she have ever expected to be standing in close proximity to a half-undressed Peter Urquhart, no matter the reason why. He didn’t want her there, however, and he wasn’t grateful for her assistance, so her plans were not to remain for long. She frowned pensively, and her stare narrowed over his arms and back, but he was right; if he wanted to see the nurse, he could do it himself.

But still, it was freezing out and she wasn’t entirely without sympathy, despite her instinctive desire to wrap her hands around his neck and choke him. She lifted her wand a second time, this time to the air above Peter’s head, and she casted a warming charm three times over. A repeated swish and a flick of her wand, a mumbled incantation; it prompted the area around them to rise in temperature, if only temporarily.

That was enough. “Fine,” she said snappily, and her footsteps began to lead her backward a couple feet. “Fix yourself, by yourself. And invest in some bloody protective gear, for Merlin's sake, does this happen often to you people?"

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purquhart
2009-11-10 12:16 am UTC (link)

Her angry and haughty remarks went without much reaction from the boy, still too into himself and his situation to listen to whatever she was saying. It was the typical rant he received from her daily, anyway, and he was pretty sure that if he wanted to - he could recite it back to her tenfold. If she wanted to have a career as a professor - or someone like Headmaster Ogden - she certainly had the necessary skills (e.g. bitching, nagging, an air of self-importance, etc.,), as Charlotte annoyed Peter about as much as sitting through seven hours of classes did, in a lot less time.

His attention didn't return to the Prefect until she was quietly casting something over his head. If he didn't think she had too much respect for her position of power, he might have assumed she was hexing him in some way. Instead, the air, quite harmlessly, got warmer around them and the wind didn't cut through like it had been.

Peter turned his gaze to her as she started to back up, increasing the space between them. He rotated the bottle against the bruise, taking an inward breath and holding in a wince as pain shot through his ribcage. Most of him didn't want to even respond to her question. Most of him wanted her to leave so he could gather his things and hightail it to the Hospital Wing to make sure nothing was cracked or broken. Getting hit had also given a blow to his ego, he didn't need his hand held on the way to the Wing to make him feel utterly useless and pathetic. He also didn't need any questions being raised about why her.

"In game? Yes. During exercise? No." He finally replied, jaw rotating around and setting in a frown as he looked at the ground. The muscles around his jawbone flared as he narrowed his attention to a spot on the ground.

"Thanks,"

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sourness
2009-11-13 01:38 pm UTC (link)

There was only so much a person could do to help another who didn’t want their assistance – Charlotte was smart enough to know that. It was incredibly hypocritical of her to chastise Peter for his stubbornness when she, herself, was a known product of the characteristic, but of course there were certain parts of her that was nothing if not a little one-eyed. One tended to sympathise with their own situations better than other people’s, after all. Her temper cooled somewhat as her trainers took her through to the boundaries of the thick bubble of warmed air she’d formed around the Slytherin boy, still dragging her body backwards slowly enough that she could continue to watch how he tended to his bruised skin with sick fascination and uncomfortable sympathy for a few more moments.

Images flooded her memory in those lingering beats – all the spectacles of Peter’s obnoxious swagger, all the perverse exercises in written form he’d executed in the recent months, all of the insults she’d endured (like most of the student body) and the ridiculous invitation for sex. Then, more vividly in her mind, were the details of their last physical discussion which had ended with Charlotte angry enough to have slapped him had he stepped within reach. She didn’t pretend to know Peter very well, and she was truthful in that there’d never really been instances where they’d found themselves alone together for long periods of time, but she bargained that she’d seen him in various states of irritation and frustration and arrogance – but this was the first time she’d ever seen him hurt. Too hurt for snickering, too sore for wise-cracks, too pained for perversities. Beneath the apologetic tendencies and instinctive need to fix what was injured, there was a piece of her that found itself to be somehow satisfied with this. Quite pleased, quite glad, quite fascinated.

Charlotte stepped to a stop and thought on that for longer than was necessary. Her fingers clenched when she stepped out of the warmth completely, causing her to readjust to the new temperature, but she was eventually distracted by her need to speak. “Then wear padding when you’re exercising,” was her retort, matching his voice in tone, with her eyes making an arch to his face when the latter of his speech registered in.

Peter Urquhart, thankful? Charlotte blinked – quite surprised – then squinted, zooming in on his expression, her shrewd glare searching for signs of sarcasm. She found none. “Well.” It was a lame syllable, one with a flat tone that didn’t know what it wanted to be – cross? Receptive? Suspicious? Haughty? Charlotte wasn’t sure. – “Alright.”

A beat pause, and then she turned around and made her way out of the Pitch properly, with long strides and a rejected impulse to look over her shoulder for a final check. He needed nothing more from her, and she was grateful that his age meant she didn’t have to see him in class, although meal-time was always a certainty. Later in the day, she would coincidentally visit the Hospital Wing with a “message” for the nurse and would casually inquire about whether she’d seen Peter at any point that day, in order to make sure all was well – but that would be that. And he wouldn’t know.

And that was how Charlotte preferred it.

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