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Millicent Bulstrode (reinventingmils) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

"Some progress," Millicent said, putting her glass down to lean her hands back on the edge of the counter, tilting her head the other way as she thought quickly about what she could divulge and what she should probably keep close to her chest just now. It'd been so long since they'd chatted socially, much less talked for real, that she found herself leery about nattering on and chasing him away. "I had two interviews last week, with a PR office and a realtor, for an assistant position. I should hear back within the week, they said. And I saw that Rich Summerby at International Exports was looking for an assistant, so I may try to contact him and see if he still has a vacancy." That one worried her a bit, though -- Summerby wasn't someone she knew well, and she didn't know how he felt about Slytherins her age. But she had to try, she knew. She was good at what she did, and if House prejudices decided against her, that was out of her control.

Her eyes dipped down to his hand, and she opened her mouth to ask if he was right...before she suddenly clamped her lips back together with an unexpected horror. She'd thought he might have hurt himself, or needed a salve on skin chapped from Quidditch, but no. The area was too centrally placed, and too silver. Millicent shakily reached for her drink unseeingly, eyes blinking several times before they lifted to meet Roger's. "I think Pansy should have some salve, if you need it," she said a bit weakly, nodding faintly at his hands. "I, uh...we should probably go see who else has arrived, before Pansy tells us we're being anti-social."