Two can play that game Matthieu and the senior members of the school Quidditch team, those who were also old enough to use magic at home, had begun showing off their best Charms and Transfigurations. Dorian decided that this was a good moment to slip outside, before they moved onto hexes or decided that levitating him was a good way of proving their strength. For all that his parents were keeping an eye on the party, he’d rather be a safe distance away from the army of gorillas with wands.
He stepped out onto the terrace, which was bounded by a warming charm and thus kept the chill of a December night in Québec off him. And the other guest who was lounging against the low stone wall at the end. It was a boy he didn’t recgonise. He considered turning and going back to the party - being alone had seemed preferable, but being in a busy room was better than being alone with a stranger. However, the snap of the door as it swung shut behind him alerted the other boy to his presence.
“Good evening,” the stranger offered with a smile. One that seemed genuinely soft and friendly, unlike the smiles of Matthieu and his friends.
“Good evening. I’m Dorian Montoir.”
“I guessed. You look a lot like your sister. And, uh, a bit like Matthieu. I suppose. I’m Jean-Loup Arceneaux.” He held out a hand, forcing Dorian to step forward, away from the easy option of bolting back inside.
“Oh. You are…. Related to Charlotte?” Dorian asked, as he had a second to process and realised why the last name was familiar - it was that of his sister’s best friend.
“Yes. She’s my little sister.”
“I didn’t see her at the party.”
“Unfortunately, she’s had a bad cold, and mother says it’s not suitable to be seen out with the steam still pouring from your ears. She’ll have been sorry to miss it. Anyway, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“From Matthieu or from Émilie?” Dorian asked, pretty sure he didn’t do a great job of hiding that that was a pretty loaded question.
“Second hand, from Charlotte, which I would guess means it comes from Émilie. Does that make much of a difference?”
Dorian tried to shrug noncommittally at that.
“If it helps, I’ve heard that you’re really smart, and that you go to school in America because you’re good at languages. If it helps even more, I was sort of surprised to be invited to your brother’s party. But I guess it’s one of those things where you invite everyone, regardless of how much you like them.”
“My brother doesn’t like you?” Dorian asked, the hint of curiosity in his voice suggesting that this interested him more rather than put him off.
“Same position on rival Quidditch teams,” Jean-Loup shrugged.
“Oh,” Dorian’s eyes flicked up and down him and he took a subconscious step back. “You play Beater?”
“Yes. Though Matthieu and I have very different opinions on how it should be played, which is one of the reasons why we’ve never got along,” Jean-Loup replied, easily noting the change in tone and body language. “He prefers the offensive game. I prefer defensive, and I play because of Charlotte. You know she’s our Seeker? I like to think of myself as my team’s protector, and hers in particular.”
“Oh. That’s… cool.” The first word that had sprung to mind was ‘adorable’ but boys did not really call other boys adorable.
“You don’t play, right?” this was said amicably, with none of the scorn usually given to his non-participation, and Dorian felt comfortable enough shaking his head. “Probably smart. Is it true you speak like… four languages?”
“No. I study Russian, but I’m really not fluent.”
“Can you say….. I thought this party would suck, but it’s turning out kind of fun?”
“Not in a way that my friend wouldn’t laugh at,” Dorian demurred, though his eyes were making that subconscious gesture of scanning upwards, as though searching his brain. When he glanced back at Jean-Loup, he found him watching, and raising his eyebrows slightly, as if to say ‘go on.’ “Ya dumayu… eta vecherinka budet plokhoy. No eto veselo. I mean, the tenses are messy, and a lot more simplified-”
“And how do I say ‘I agree?’” Jean-Loup cut him off.
“Soglasen,” Dorian supplied.
“Soglasen,” the other boy smiled at him. “Your girlfriend must be a good teacher.”
“Friend. Not girlfriend,” Dorian corrected him. And was it his imagination, or did that get a rather pleased-looking smile?