Who: Blaise and Morag Where: Random abandoned classroom When: Thursday evening What: High Tea. At least, Blaise's idea of it. Status: Complete Rating: G
Every so often, Blaise latched onto an idea, turning it over in his mind until it was fully formed and ready to be executed. Thus it was with the idea of tea with Morag, unsure if the rumours now swirling about the school about he and Tracey had made an impression -- that on top of the surprising news about the Dueling Team. He was pleased to have been chosen, but would willingly give his place to Morag, should she wish it. With these thoughts in his head, he dismissed the House Elf, waiting until the appointed time (written in his own handwriting, in an approximation of a formal invitation) given, hoping that she showed up, because there was a lot of food. He left the door to the classroom slightly ajar, listening for the sound of echoing footsteps as they reverberated down the corridor.
... and echo they did. Morag's flats tapped smartly against the stone floors as she strode down the hallway with Blaise's invitation in hand. Finally finding the correct classroom, she stood in the doorway and gave the parchment a noisy rattle. "What's the meaning of this?"
He paused, turning from the window where he'd been watching the darkness. "I wished to have my wicked way with you and this was the only way I could arrange it." Hands tucked into trouser-pockets, he stood, completely at ease.
Blaise's deadpan tones never left her on many avenues as to how he was to be read. But she smiled, nonetheless. "So I see. Do you think I'm so easy, to be taken with a pretty invitation and a feast not prepared by yourself?"
"I was hoping you'd take me on looks alone." He put hand to chin, stroking softly. "Next time, I shall invade the kitchens and prepare you a meal worthy of Dionysus himself." He nodded sharply. "Do sit."
Pressing the invitation onto the table, she did as he asked. A vague smile flickered upon her lips. "Blaise Zabini, Dionysian."
Only then did he sit. Disdaining to burden Morag with the task of tea-pouring, he did it himself, going vaguely by memories of watching his mother. That vague thought brought with it a pang of worry; he stiil hadn't heard from his brother. Forcing himself out of a contemplative mood, he smiled slightly. "How was your break?"
" ... fabulous," was the immediate, breathless reply. Any chance to talk of Lewis and reminisce upon her family drove away the anger of something so small and trite as the Duelling Club.
Putting a delicate cup of the fragrant tea in front of her, he nudged a plate towards her. Eating was serious business, and he treated it that way, always. "I've never been that far north. Padma enjoyed herself."
"You even smell southern," she agreed, feeling her grin widen as he mentioned Padma. "She did. Padma is the friend of my life." Pause. "And your break was ... ?"
"Probably sound it, as well." His smile turned genuine on its own, a rare treat and seemingly only reserved for very few anymore. "My break was... Hm." He shrugged. "Eventful is possibly a good word for it."
She did not press for further information, feeling it inappropriate for her to do so. Only a brief nod and a slow drag upon her tea.
He chewed thoughfully, not minding the silence between them. "I am sorry you were not chosen for the Dueling Team." He spoke of this from nowhere, having had no intentions on actually speaking of it until later.
Her response was less quick, more thoughtful and cadenced carefully. " ... so am I. But that is how the cards fall. Thank you."
He shook his head. "I am unsure why Professor Williamson chose me. You were the obvious choice, Morag." He paused. "It is yours, should you want it. Complete with duel to convince him."
It was amazing, the way that the young man before her seemed to allay her anger. "No, no, Blaise, no," was her immediate response as she leaned forward and placed both of her palms on the table. "He saw something in you -- and you deserve the position."
Blaise met her eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you. May I call upon you, then, as a practise partner?" He had no doubt she wouldn't hold back, and all the better for him, really.
"Of course you may," she replied in kind, finally glad to feel this anger as something in past tense. There would be thanks to Blaise later, for his kind treatement. "Thank you for asking."
"You may attribute it to my Slytherin sensibilities, if you wish." Teasing, then, and relief. Friends and allies were to be treasured, now. "May I ask a favour?"
"Ask away."
Realising that he may very well be stepping on toes, he took his time in formulating his request. "Do not truly believe all that you see and hear of me."
The tip of her finger tapped gently against her lips. "Granted."
"You're a peach, Morag MacDougal."
"And you, a lime, Zabini," she said, placing either hand upon the table to scoot back her chair. "See you at practise?" She laughed. "Maybe I'll let you beat my arse ..."
He rose when she did. "You do that, I promise you it will not sit well. When I beat you, it shall be fairly, or not at all." Drawing himself to his full height, he bowed.
Blaise's formality made her grin as she stepped forward and peppered a kiss onto his cheek. "Fair enough."
Blaise laughed, hugging her in return before turning her loose. Returning his attention to the table, he plucked a grape and pressed it into her hand. "Give this to Padma and tell her that I know where the rest are, if she cares for them." Thus saying, he picked his cup up and prepared to return to the window.
Morag's palm couched the delicate fruit, and she smiled at his token toward her friend. "I shall. Goodnight, Blaise," she said, and just as quickly was gone.