WHO: Ursula Flint and Tracey Davis. WHAT: Tracey gets an invite to her cousin's party, brings Ursula along. Marcus ruins it. WHEN: Friday night. WHERE: Gwenog's flat, somewhere in Wales. RATING: Marcus? STATUS: Complete
Her first summer when she was of-age, and yet she was scarcely permitted to go anywhere. Not that this resulted in a change beyond how Tracey had intended to spend the summer of her final year, bent over a desk and pouring through her books, but it was the principle and the inconvenience of it. However, Gwenog was throwing a party at her flat, bestowed an invitation upon Tracey, who had extended it to Ursula. Gwenog had raised an eyebrow at the surname “Flint,” but had otherwise made no remark upon the extra guest as her cousin introduced the pair to each other.
Clutching her glass of elf wine, even a hardened Quidditch non-enthusiast of Tracey’s ilk was feeling a little star-struck as those passing through the lounge of Gwenog’s house read like a who’s who of Quidditch Quarterly. She could only imagine how Ursula was feeling…
There were very few words. Somewhere between the self-important glow of Tracey having invited her over any of her other friends and the growing excitement in the pit of her stomach at having the opportunity not only to meet Gwenog Jones but to be known and introduced to members of the professional Quidditch community - all of whom were milling around her, she was sure - Ursula had been relatively speechless throughout the process of her and her friend getting ready to attend, albeit with a grin that made her look as if she’d slept with a hanger in her mouth.
It had been a feat to convince her parents to let her out of the house with all that was going on - she had ended up appealing to her father, the easier parent by far, with pleas of how rarely she was invited anywhere, how Marcus constantly flaunted the rules yet she obeyed them, and was triumphantly rewarded the next day with promises wringed out of her by her mother that she would go nowhere she hadn’t told her about, and that she would be with Tracey the entire time.
But here she was, smiling broadly even as she and Gwenog had a polite but relatively involved conversation about the merits of the currently rankings of the Holyhead Harpies and, with some shyness on Ursula’s part, even the mention of her hope to play for them someday. She had only just mentioned this, to a polite smile from Gwenog, when a snort sounded behind her. “Aren’t you a little inexperienced for those kind of hopes?” came her brother’s voice from behind her.
Speechless and aghast, the younger Flint at the party turned to face him and outright blanched.
“Not all girls have the opportunity to play Quidditch at school.” Gwenog, noting the Eurasian features of both siblings and making four in terms of connecting them to each other, gave the older Flint a coolly appraising look. “Slytherin doesn’t let them onto their team at all, I believe. Weren’t you the captain for several years?”
To Ursula, she added, “Don’t let what people say put you off at least giving it a go. I’ve had all sorts of people telling me I couldn’t play-” another cool look at Marcus “-when I was younger. Excuse me. I had better see to my guests.” A subtle emphasis on that last line implied that Marcus certainly wasn’t one of those. She gave Ursula one last smile, closed lipped but sincere, then melted back into the gathering.
Tracey, across the room and conversing with the Harpie’s healer, observed all this with a smile of her own. Her cousin had got the measure of Marcus right away.
Cheerfully, Marcus waved in Gwenog's direction as she swished off away from him and his little sister, turning his attention to the still somewhat stunned younger Flint: between being called inexperienced by her elder brother in front of her idol and Gwenog's sharp defense of her abilities, not to mention the rights of girls to play Quidditch as well, it was a wonder she wasn't wobbling in her platform heels.
"Fancy meeting you here," was his greeting, as if he hadn't just insulted her and her career dreams in front of a potential connection: not just a potential connection, but the potential connection. He was dressed up. He obviously had been invited by someone. Her mind was reeling; why hadn't she heard? Why hadn't she known? There was a strange look on her face as the fury built, as she tried to control it, tried not to make a scene at the party she'd been thrilled beyond belief to be at just moments before, to not embarrass Tracey or the host who had come to such glorious and unexpected defense of her.
"What," she began in a low rumble, anger simmering in her eyes, "are you doing here?"
"I was invited," he said breezily, then held a hand to his heart and gave a mock wounded look. "What are you doing here?"
She only looked over his shoulder to meet the eyes of her friend, where her barely-contained rage laid untouched. When Marcus caught her gaze, he looked back to find Tracey's undivided attention, and repeated the cheery wave he'd offered Gwenog's back shortly before.
Tracey returned the wave with a much briefer, less showy one of her own. Picking up a champagne flute from the table next to her and leaving the healer with a noncommittal assurance to chat later, she threaded her way over to the Flint siblings.
“Is everything all right here?” she queried, falling into line next to Ursula. Her friend’s platforms meant that for once, they were of a similar height. She regretted not wearing heels herself, but then, she hadn’t counted on having to face down older brothers. The smile she presented to Marcus was polite enough, but somewhat guarded.
“Of course it isn--” Ursula began, anger getting the best of her before Marcus cut her off with a genuine and polite smile, all eyes for Tracey and announced broadly, “Everything’s fine here. I was just telling Ursula how I was surprised to see her here, but of course, it makes sense now that I realize you’d be here.” With a cheeky grin that showed barely a hint of twisted teeth, he went on before the once-again speechless Ursula could continue with a, “You look very nice tonight.”
“Oh, sod off,” as Ursula found her voice, glaring up at him with the threat of losing her cool clear on her face, anger rampant in her next somewhat desperate question. “Can’t you let me have just one night?”
“You’re too kind, Marcus,” Tracey interspersed quickly. The hand that wasn’t clutching the champagne flute slipped behind Ursula, gave the younger girl a reassuring pat on the back. “I likewise am surprised to see you here. I don’t recall you on the guest list?” Her tone was friendly enough, her brown eyes widened in subtly feigned innocence. But Marcus, if he was any sort of Slytherin worth his salt, would not have been fooled.
Without missing a beat, he replied just as cheerfully as he had been since Tracey arrived, “I don’t think any of the Flint family members are quite right to be present in this company,” and Ursula bristled beside Tracey, tension emanating even as he went on, “But a mate of mine,” and he gestured vaguely in the direction of the bar where several hulkish looking young men Marcus’ age and elder sat, “had an invitation and the right to bring a friend.” He spread his arms in an oversized shrug, flashed a little smile at her. “So here I am.”
“I was invited,” came his little sister’s hot reply, angry and dripping with venom. “I was meant to be here.”
For the first time since Tracey stepped up, Marcus’ eyes shifted to his little sister, gained a little chill in his voice as he asked, courteous as he could be, “Does Mum know you’re wearing that short of a skirt?”
“I doubt that Mrs. Flint is aware, no,” Tracey rejoined before Ursula had the chance to reply, and things got very ugly indeed. Her lips thinned to a tight smile. “Especially given that it is my dress.” Just try and charm your way out of that one, she thought with a sliver of smugness.
Without even a moment of uncertainty, he smoothly replied, “Mum’s a bit more traditional than you’d think nowadays - if she catches wind of Ursula wearing that out in public, there’ll be downright hell to pay.” Sidestepping the issue of why he’d brought it up at all - and, of course, Tracey being too polite and well-mannered to inquire - he went on, “But I’m sure it’d look very flattering on you.”
Ursula cut in again, this time with a waver in her voice that spoke to some sort of pain underneath the fury, “That was Gwenog Jones I was speaking to. You know who she is, I know you do, I have her bloody poster on my wall.”
He shrugged, his only response a simple, “You need more practice.”
“I’m sure that if you asked Gwenog, she would say that she herself needs more practice too.” Tracey gave Marcus an assessing look, wishing that he hadn’t sidestepped the dress remark so neatly. He was certainly less idiotic than most outside of Slytherin considered him to be, and she would be foolish to believe otherwise. “Apologies if she was short with you earlier. She’s not especially fond of Quidditch players from our house. Slytherin was actually the Hat’s first choice for her, but she was very vehement about wanting to play Quidditch instead. She argued that yes, it might be the house best suited for those with ambition, but it would hardly help her if her ambition was to play Quidditch, and she would be kept off the team by a bunch of boys who weren’t man enough to take the risk of being shown up by a girl. Her words, not mine,” she added with only a rudimentary contrite air.
She took a sip of her champagne, decided to put him rather than Ursula back on the defensive. “Of course, I understand the importance of tradition. If there’s no tradition, then there’s no heritage. But logistically, one could argue that by ruling out half your eligible players even before the season’s started, Slytherin commences on the back foot?”
“Sure,” was his response, acknowledging the apology, but for the most part, he shrugged off her little speech about Slytherin, citing the well known line, “It’s not us who make the rules, the players, the captain. What the alumni want, the alumni get, so what Head of House wants, Head of House gets.” Then, with another shrug, “Good for Jones.”
As to the last bit, he grinned as she asked despite the glare from Ursula, who - rather than unleash her fury on him - had clenched her hands and was standing rather stiffly in the embrace of Tracey, growing more and more irritable every second she spent listening to him slip smoothly in and out of the traps she was trying to weave for him - the young Ravenclaw was finished, done, having been humiliated enough for one night, flustered by his appearance, frustrated by his pursuit, and even more than that, pained that even then, his attention to her was fleeting: he couldn’t even embarrass her with enough punch to make it clear it was about her.
“I have to go,” she finally said, a combination of sharp and uncertain, glancing to Tracey and then sweeping away from her brother with a sort of finality to her exit.
“Ladies’ room, I expect,” came Marcus’ bored tone, reaching out for a champagne flute from a nearby waiter and moving it to take a sip - he looked mildly surprised when his strong grip burst the glass and foamy beverage splattered all over his shoes, lifting his hand and glancing around as if someone might have done it deliberately.
To her credit, Tracey managed to hide her amusement. She doubted Ursula was behind the event - non-verbal spells were only introduced at sixth year - but she would not have blamed her in the slightest if she had been.
“Crystal flutes,” she remarked blithely, producing her wand and casting a reparo on the vessel. “They’re very delicate - they need to be handled carefully.” A glance down at Marcus’s suit. “I would clean that off, if I were you. It can ruin the sheen of the fabric.” Her tone hinted that she wasn’t especially concerned by the fate of her companion’s attire. “Please excuse me. I had better check that Ursula knows her way around. It’s been lovely speaking with you.”