| Details for Cauldron Cakes and Viper Tarts |
| Summary: | Tempers flare in the Great Hall! |
| Date: | June 14th, 1941 |
| Location: | Hogwarts, Great Hall |
| Related: | — |
| Characters |
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Will exams ever be over? There's no end in sight at this stage. For some, that's stress-inducing and painful. For others… well, not so much. Seated about two thirds of the way along the Ravenclaw table, Morrow Selwyn is idly perusing the book she holds in one hand, her thumb daintily keeping the pages ajar, while with her other hand she picks morsels from her plate and pops them into her mouth, chewing contentedly. Remnants of a cauldron cake, by the looks of it. Around her are the usual gaggle. Her henchmen. Minions. 'Friends', on a charitable day. They chatter and laugh animatedly amongst themselves; a rare selection of red, yellow and even green accented uniforms seated companionably.. though all Pure-Bloods, of course. But their brunette leader seems detached and engrossed in her reading. Potions. Blah.
"Audra, if you like him that much…" Eventually, she interjects, sounds supremely bored of the discussion around her. Boys. As usual. "..then why don't you just ask him." The skinny redhead shifts awkwardly, singled-out for blathering on about her latest Quidditch-jock crush and fumbling for a response. "I'll put in a good word for you if you like." Warming to her topic, Morrow looks mischievously over her book toward the other girl. Well, who's going to say no to that? Shaking her dark hair back, she casts her gaze up and down the hall, over-dramatically searching for someone in particular.
Exams are things that other people deal with. Anson certainly took the exams, is still taking them, but he doesn't seem to be touched by any particular stress over the fact. No. He swaggers into the Great Hall as though he expects the other Gryffindors to rise to their feet and applaud. In fact, he stops in the doorway, perhaps consciously causing himself to be framed in backlit glory. But, no, he's just speaking over his shoulder. "Listen, I'm sure she's brill, mate, but you know I'm not looking to get tied down right before summer. I mean, who knows who we'll meet at Quidditch Camp."
And then he's moving into the Great Hall proper, followed by several other young men. It's obvious from the way that they drop back in a 'V' formation who their Alpha is. Casting a look right and left along the tables, he makes his way too-casually past Morrow's gaggle of companions. And chooses a chair at the Gryffindor table just behind Morrow herself.
The clip of feet on the stone floor can be heard as a small den of Slytherin girls enter the great hall, some holding books as they chitter and Walburga walking with her small sharp chin held upwards and a look of general displeasure across her features. But there's something that she heard, and she says "I look forward to having my opponents go to Quidditch Camp this summer, I need -someone- with ability to play against instead of all these mudbloods and blood traitors. Honestly, there really ought to be a rule to prevent such things from mixing with proper society." Off she shoots a barb to no one in particular.
"No, no, really… that's ok. I'll do it." As Audra protests, flustered, Morrow casts her a sardonic look, arching a brow. "I will!"
"Tonight."
"But… he….. okay." The redhead fails utterly to argue with the ultimatum, settling to chewing on a thumbnail and happening to look up as Anson Abbott saunters by, relenting to a half smirk and a glance to her companions. Actually, all four of Morrow's friends glance his way, some more subtly than others. The brunette herself has returned to her reading with a satisfied nod and predatory sort of half-smile playing about her lips, not acknowledging the Gryffindor jock in the slightest. Old news! Perhaps she'll change tack if he speaks to her directly? For the moment, she licks chocolatey crumbs from her fingertips, savouring the teeny tiny fragments, before turning a page. Apparently finding something worth noting, she murmurs aloud to herself, tracing the words lazily with a well-manicured fingernail. "..powdered unicorn horn… turquoise blue… Hmm. Maybe we ought to slip some of this in your tea, first." she muses, teasingly, to the group at large, drawing their attention back, thank you very much, from the golden-haired boy. Mildred Gibbon is the first to do so, easily enthused, as usual, by any chance to show off her academic prowess. "Draught of Peace?" A nod of response elicits a smug smile.
Tiring of the revision, or of looking like she's revising, Morrow closes the textbook and lays it down, folding her arms atop it in order to address her circle conspiratorially. And by that measure, of course, she's speaking just loud enough to be easily overheard by the group of boys nearby; deliberately teasing with the lack of detail. "Well, he is pretty gorgeous. I don't blame you. Though… I did hear a rumor about him and some Hufflepuff…" Leaving that dangling in the air, to any who were listening or eavesdropping, the Fifth Year then turns her head at the sound of Walburga Black. Hard to miss those dulcet tones. Unlike some others who gasp or cast awkward glances sidelong, Morrow simply greets the rigidly-postured Slytherin with a genial smile, looking vaguely amused if anything.
"She's mad about you, mate! And I heard she let Perry—" The speaking Gryffindor, a young man who is most certainly a Half-Breed, falls silent in the face of Walburga's opening salvo. His face falls.
Anson pivots in his seat to take in the sharp-featured Slytherin, casting his head back and lifting his chin. It's an imperious gesture, the sort of thing a certain type of teenage boy practices in front of a mirror. "I look forward to playing against you too, Walburga." His voice is haughty, not at all amiable, not at all amused. "And so will all my Half-blooded and Muggleborn friends." He sniffs the air. "Did you just come from Care of Magical Creatures? You reek."
He sits back in his chair smugly. And, very slightly, the Gryffindor jock turns his head to take in Morrow's reaction. He says, after a moment, and sotto voce — though loud enough to be overheard — "Or is that your new perfume?"
Walburga looks over to the Gryffindor table and at Anson's jeer, she smirks and says "No, it's the smell of all the tears from you losers losing the only thing you're normally good at, you know…using the brawn instead of this muscle." as she taps the side of her head. There's laughter from some Slytherins. "A Gryffindor team not good at quidditch, it's like a Hufflepuff that's skinny!" she says to her friends and laughs as they sit down at their house table, Walburga purposefully making one Slytherin lower year move. Catching the smile from Morrow, she says in not an entirely irritating tone "Your house is doing pretty well this year, Selwyn. It's good to see you beat Hufflepuff and Gryffindor."
Noting the indirect attention from Anson, the Ravenclaw girl initially just passively ignores him, content to smirkingly observe the exchange between he and the Slytherin Queen Bee. Daaaaang, score one to Walburga. With a 'well, what can you do?' expression of mixed faux-sympathy and indifference cast toward the jock, she adds, in a returned stage whisper, "..you might want to check your shirt… did you come straight from practice? Goodness, soon you'll be shaving and everything!" Unlike Walburga, Morrow seems to take pleasure in subtlety, delivering the words with a comical air of wonder, before flashing Anson a warm, charismatic glimpse of white teeth in a grin.
Well, that was fun. Shifting her attention to the Slytherin as she seats herself, she maintains that pleasant expression, vivid blue eyes sparkling with merriment, the reason for which is not immediately apparent. "Thanks. Yes, we did better than I expected…" Without looking back at the blonde boy, she adds, benignly, "I imagine some of the other teams will be having a major reshuffle, come next term." Not much of a sporty type herself, she does take at least a passing interest in Quidditch — if only for the delightful backstabbing and bitching it arouses.
"Oh, I think we'll see a different Gryffindor team next term," says Anson airily. "I've decided to go out for a Chaser." As though that alone will upend the entirety of the situation. He beams a smile at Walburga, keeping his chin lifted despite the horribly-effective verbal onslaught. But his eyes are glinting - not indeed with tears, but with offended pride. He brushes his blond hair back off his forehead and adds, "The natural order of the world will be restored. That's something you ought to approve of, Walburga."
And then he's leaning his head back to murmur into Morrow's ear. "..I think it's your friend Audra, honestly." He winks at her as he settles back into his seat, grinning broadly. It's always safe to redirect the taunting. The arrogant young Gryffindor pours himself some pumpkin juice and takes a long gulp. "Will anyone take a wager? I bet Hufflepuff comes out and beats both of you, to lose to Gryffindor."
Walburga says "Of course I approve of the natural order of the world, we can't have Gryffindor students failing totally at sports otherwise they'll bumble through the world like lost little house elfs that have no family to serve. Imagine that, Gryffindors doing things that actually take intellect!" as her tone rises sharply to Anson. There's a breath taken before she says to a girl, "Get me one of those sweet rolls." and then turns her attentions back to the other two. "We'll see how things go on the quidditch field, I won't at all go easy on you." She gives a single nod of approval towards Marrow though as it's a two to one fight.
"Oh, well, that changes everything." enthuses Morrow, to a chorus of snorts and giggles from the girls seated with her. Though it must be said, both Audra and Rosetta are eyeing Anson rather blatantly… the latter with a narrow-eyed look of contempt as he leans close to their 'leader'.
"In your dreams, Abbott." is the response given to whatever he murmured in Morrow's ear, accompanied by the sweetest of smiles. "She has more taste than that." Besides… girl code dictates he's off-limits to her little clique, now.
Oh, back to Quidditch. We're still on that? Twisting her lips a little, beginning to look ever so slightly bored of the topic, the brunette extricates herself smoothly from the conversation in that regard, calmly packing away her textbook into an expensive-looking leather satchel, then settling to examining her nails with a contemplative air. There's still the twitch of a smirk, here and there, as the barbs continue to be flung between the tables, and she makes fleeting eye contact with Walburga as she catches the approving nod. Oh, it's two against one, alright. But the Ravenclaw isn't going to step on any toes. Especially when they're being kicked so far, figuratively speaking, up Anson's backside.
"Well, if she's…occupied, I suppose I'll see you in Hogsmeade." It's a whispered offer, or perhaps a challenge, to Morrow. He follows it up with another wink. This one is directed right at Rosetta. He raises his glass in a salute to his own clique, who have been watching the various exchanges blankly — and in a few cases, nervously.
"Go easy on me." Anson looks over at Walburga for a few moments, then breaks out into peals of laughter. Well, snickers, really. He points in Walburga's general direction, opens his mouth as though to speak, and begins to laugh again. One of his friends leans over to pat his back, as though he were choking.
"That's rich, luv. I'll fly circles around you." And like that, his laughter is gone, replaced by a haughty glare. "But, you know. Since you're so concerned about the natural order, hadn't you better crack a textbook? It'd be awful to let the side down."
Walburga lifts a brow upwards at Anson, "It's Walburga Black, NOT love. You don't have the right nor place to call me that, have some decency and manners" snaps the girl, which probably earns some snickers from the other tables at how hypocritical those words are from her. "Why would I go -easy- on you? You're from a somewhat proper family, even if you're in a terrible house. We're supposed to be keeping each other as sharp as a razor, not soft and doltish like that freak half giant who runs around and pretend plays to be here for schooling." Salvo two fired! "How can you stand having him near you? How do you sleep? I heard from the Bloody Baron that the reason the Gryffindor team not doing well was because they couldn't actually get enough rest without that THING snoring so loudly. You should complain and get him removed."
Rosetta glowers dully back at the Gryffindor.. though she's not really the verbose sort. She's staying out of the verbal sparring. Morrow, of course, has no such reservations. "Yes, Anson.." she uses his first name now, speaking in a gentle, chiding manner; the sort one usually administers to a youngster that's misbehaving, requiring the mistakes be explained to them. "..you likely will see me. That tends to happen when you follow people." In the same instant as she's branding him some sort of stalker, she's offering him another of those winning smiles. Oh, she's only teasing! ..right?
Rising and drifting away from the safety of the pack, Audra approaches one of the boys hanging around Anson, greeting him with a sly smile and bidding him follow her with a tilt of her head, strolling out of the Great Hall with her books held comfortably against her midsection. Morrow, eagle-eyed as ever, watches the pair depart with an unreadable expression. Then it's back to the fun at hand.
Shifting around upon the bench until she can look easily between Walburga and Anson, she flits her blue eyes between the pair as they lobby back and forth. Insult-tennis! Propping her elbows on the table's edge, the brunette leans back and crosses her legs at the knee, her uppermost Mary-Jane bouncing in a steady rhythm. Still with her remaining three followers, she looks perfectly at ease. Which is more than can be said of many witnessing the slanging match. Indeed, the tables are discreetly emptying around them, aside from those who are too close to sneak off without it being noted. Most likely by Morrow herself. People watching can teach you an awful lot.
"That dame really takes herself seriously," Anson remarks to anyone within earshot. He smirks across the room toward Walburga. "Alright, Black. I would hate to think that I'm going soft. So here's this — I'll match any wager you care to make about which one of us comes out on top." There is an indrawn breath from one of his lackeys. "In Quidditch." The breath is released.
He takes his eyes and attention off of Walburga for just a few moments, first to watch Audra lead his friend off, and then to lean aside and murmur again into Morrow's ear. "So you were following me that night."
And attention returns to Walburga, head canting to one side. "And if you mean Hagrid, you can just shut that tarty little mouth, Black. Why not pick a fight with someone who has the heart to strike back?"
Walburga glances at one of the girls who exits but generally speaking, it doesn't seem Walburga is watching anyone really but Anson and Morrow. The name-calling from Anson though causes the girl to go rigid a moment as her eyes go wide in livid anger and then she's up on her feet, a wand appearing in her hand with and easy movement and aimed right at Anson. "How DARE you speak that way to ME and put MY name in with that filthy half-breed!!" shouts a very stiff Black. Nerve touched apparently by Anson.
The only response Anson gets from the Ravenclaw is a languid smirk, couple with heavy-lidded eyes. As if. She's no need to argue over such a ridiculous idea. Her follow him? Pfft. Besides, she's used to his jibes by now. It comes with the territory of bruised male ego, post break-up. It bothers him much more that she's unconcerned and so that is the aura she cultivates, in his presence.
Ohhh, dear. Now he's gone and done it. Quirking a brow, Morrow sliiiides herself along the bench a little, just enough to avoid the firing line if this goes any further. She's not going to step in, though. It's too delicious. Doesn't he know better than to poke at this particular little viper? "I think you might want to apologise for that one." she offers, oh-so-helpfully, in an aside to the jock. Though her features remain set in amused curiosity, more than anything. Let Walburga knock him on his arse, it'll be hilarious. Or vice versa and let there be war. Either way.
Harriet Blishwick, arguably the least confident of the troupe, is backing stealthily away from the fray, though only in tiny steps, not wanting to upset Morrow, probably, with her blatant unease. Poor thing. She's going to have to try harder if she wants to claw her way upward in this crowd.
"What, tarty? Oh. I'm sorry. I won't call you tarty again." If Anson is intimidated by that wand, he doesn't show it. He reaches — deliberately — into his robes and draws out his own. "I'll defend myself if you take it further, Black." There's a warning note in his voice, but it's not in the Gryffindor's nature to back away from a fight.
"Really, I was just calling your mouth tarty." Every time he says the word, he drops a hammer-like influence upon the syllables. "But if you think you're going to get away with pointing that thing at me, you're all wet." Grinning now, he says, "And I'm beginning to think you must have a crush on poor old Hagrid anyway. Lucky for him, he's got better taste."
His friends are on their feet as well, some of them pulling their wands uncertainly, but Anson gives them a sharp shake of his head. In his own mind, at least, he's Merlin come-again in a duel.
Tension! Raised wands in the hall, and there's angry Walburga with cocky Anson. "No Walburga!" says one of her girls, trying to de-escalate something bad from happening, the Black has a reputation for going over lines.
As the Gryffindor jock continues to slight the Slytherin purist, she quickly closes the distance as if she's about to hurl who knows what bad curse up close; her left hand though raises, not holding a wand, and (if it successfully connects, stay tuned to Anson's post!), aims to slap the side of Anson's face with her full white-hot anger and small hand, shouting "Blood traitor!" in a feverish tone.
"Feisty!"
Anson's head hardly turns — he's braced himself for the blow which was, in all fairness, powerful enough to leave a livid imprint on his peach-smooth cheek. He leans forward slightly toward Walburga, leering at her. "I don't have to betray anyone. You've brought yourself pretty low." He holds up a hand to silence his friends, several of whom are protesting about the rules, about Slytherin House, about points.
"It's alright, lads." He sniffs the air. "It's bloody fetid in here. I was right before. It is Walburga. Something must have gone rotten in her. Maybe her heart." He makes as though to turn his back on the Slytherin.
Brilliant.
Morrow's features are alight with wicked relish as she watches all this unfold right in front of her. The Gryffindor arguably most in need of a dressing down, and the Slytherin who loves doing just that to those she considers inferior. Which is basically everyone. Behind the Ravenclaw, Rosetta flinches and Mildred looses a soft 'ohhhh dear.." under her breath. But nobody seems willing to intervene. Well. Almost nobody.
Uncrossing her legs with the dainty grace of a dancer, Morrow rises to her feet in a smooth, singular motion, leaving her satchel on the bench and absently flinging the strap to drape atop the bulk of the leather. "Far be it from me to get in the way of justice… and undeniable entertainment…" Perfectly aware of the onlooking audience, the brunette casts a theatrical, apologetic smile around at the faces who remain. "..that was, let's face it, a thing of beauty." This is directed to Walburga, and seems genuine, judging by the fleeting, wolfish smile that accompanies. "..but he's hardly worth losing points over, Black." There's not a lot in it, when it comes to the House Cup, after all. It's a reasonable point.
Gently reaching to rest a hand on Walburga's forearm, if permitted, the Ravenclaw leans in enough to murmur further to the enraged Black. "Save it for the field. He thinks he's Merlin's gift, out on the pitch." Throughout all this, she's keeping her own vivid eyes on Anson's features, taking in those fingerprints on his previously unblemished cheek and smirking ever so slightly.
The sound of the slap, and even the little sting on her palm, seems to settle Walburga's grievance although she's still really angry. As the boy turns his back to her, leaving a very wide open opportunity for casting as she raises her wand, it's the hand that rests on her arm from Morrow that causes the Black's anger to subside a bit and from under heavily furrowed brows, she listens to the persuasive argument by the Ravenclaw and lowers her hand down, putting the wand away as the Gryffindor walks away. "I suppose so." She nods, "Yes, on the field. He'll learn his lesson there, I promise that."