WHO: Gregory Goyle and Tracey Davis WHEN: Sunday evening. WHERE: Slytherin common room. SUMMARY: Everyone who's ever seen Tracey attempt to matchmake, appreciates just how good at Arithmancy she is. RATING: PG STATUS: Complete!
Tracey Davis was on a mission, and it was vital that her target not know what she was about. Spying Gregory at a corner table, she did the one thing which she knew was bound to distract him, to ensure that only half his attention - if that - would be focused on her and her interrogation.
“Latest package from home,” she announced. “Help yourself.” Then she pulled out her notes with all apparent intentions of joining him at the table to study.
Greg had been hard at work, rereading a bit of Wiztopia he had found particularly confusing. He was so focused, in fact, that he almost jumped in surprise when Tracey dumped the parcel on the table.
“Really?” he asked, a glint of greed in his eyes. “Cheers, Trace.”
Now, a normal 17-year-old would have found such a sudden display a bit suspicious. They would have probably asked what was going on, or what was the catch. However, Gregory Goyle was no normal 17-year-old. He was a hungry, growing boy. Well, he was hungry, anyway. And, as such, his mind was instantly on the blondies in front of him.
“They’re called blondies,” Tracey supplied casually, selecting one of her and nibbling at it a tad more delicately than Gregory. “Like brownies, but without the chocolate. Dad’s been experimenting with American baking.”
“Wonder why they’re called brownies,” she mused, giving hers a quizzical once over. “You’d think that if one was blondies, then the other would be ‘brunettes’ or something. It’s more symmetrical. Of course, that ‘gentlemen prefer blondes’ thing is a bit of a myth, isn’t it? There are many pretty girls with dark hair in our school, after all - wouldn’t you agree? Want another?”
“That’s Americans for you,” Gregory replied simply. He had nothing against Americans or American cooking, but he figured they were probably a weird bunch. Of course, he had no evidence that they were weird, but still.
Talking about food, however, was one thing. Tracey’s conversation about gentlemen, blondes and brunettes, however, went right over Greg’s head. “Huh? I mean, yes, please.”
Perhaps there was - as she had speculated to Millicent earlier - such a thing as being too subtle around Gregory. Tracey decided upon a more obvious tactic.
“Millicent and I were talking the other day, and well, we’re a bit sick and tired of how all of those songs and ballads talk about blondes and golden hair and whatnot,” she continued, breaking off a corner and nibbling at it, then nudging the bag over to Gregory. “I mean, we’re sure there are blokes who think brunettes are pretty, but they don’t see to write songs much. Or maybe they do write songs, but they’re never hits because gentlemen really do prefer blondes.” She heaved a sigh. “Do you think that’s true, Gregory?”
“I dunno.” Greg eyed her quizzically. This conversation was a bit weird, and definitely not the sort of thing Tracey - or anyone, really - ever talked about with him.
He grabbed another blondie, but paused before taking a bite. “Is this girl talk?” he asked. “Because I’m not a girl, you know.” He felt that much was obvious, especially for someone as clever as Tracey, but it was perhaps better to point it out, just in case.
“Oh, I do realise that,” Tracey said with a laugh. “And I know of at least one witch who’s definitely noticed that you’re not a girl. Do you think these would go better with white chocolate? The brown sugar’s meant to be the prevalent taste, but I think they need something to replace the cocoa, don’t you?”
“I like the way they taste, but white chocolate wouldn’t hurt…” He stopped. As usual, the part of the conversation pertaining to food reached his brain first, but the rest eventually got there - and it didn’t seem to make an ounce of sense. “Huh?”
“Speaking of,” Tracey continued blithely, “one of my friends has her eye on someone, but she’s nervous about approaching him. She’s feeling shy. Don’t you think that’s silly, Gregory? Girls worry about the daftest things, don’t we. I mean, all of my friends are pretty.” She leaned in confidentially, nudging yet another blondie towards him. “I’m sure you think that Opal and Daphne are both lovely looking. What do you think of Millicent? She’s not conventionally attractive, but I think she’s quite good looking. Of course, I’m not a bloke.”
This conversation was going downhill, Greg thought. He was starting to feel like he had fallen into one of those rubbish soaps his mum liked to hear on the wireless. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Trace?” he asked with a frown. “Millicent’s okay. All girls are, really.” This was starting to feel a little too uncomfortable, to the point he wasn’t sure he felt like eating any more.
Well, this was not working out. Perhaps, she reflected, she should leave potential matchmaking to Lavender Brown. “I’m bored,” she said with a shrug. “When I’m bored, I ask questions. And I’m a little stressed about this group project, so I suppose I want to think about something that has nothing to do with school. Everyone’s working very hard on it; I’m just not used to the feeling of responsibility, I suppose?”
This made sense, Greg supposed, but still. Crazy talk about girly stuff. “I guess,” he shrugged. “We can talk about somethin’ else, though? I don’ really get why you’re asking me all this when there’s other blokes who know more about it than me.”
“Yes, I just hope that if we don’t get a very high mark, Professor Carrow appreciates that we were willing, but it’s just not where our respective talents lie.” Much like her and matchmaking, in other words. “Gertie. How is she these days?”
“I’m sure she will,” Greg said. “Professor Carrow’s cool.”
His face lit up at the mention of his sister. Now this was a topic he enjoyed. “She’s doin’ great. Her classes are good, and she’s makin’ loads of friends.”
“Really. That’s fantastic, Gregory. Do let her know that I said hello, will you?” She turned her attention back to her book bag, when really her mind was on tasks - to the inner workings of Tracey’s head anyway - far more complex than Arithmancy. “Well then. These scrolls are not going to write themselves.”