Details for Mutually Beneficial? |
Summary: | Morrow tries to wrap Anson around her little finger… again. And makes a useful discovery in the Auditorium! |
Date: | June 15th, 1941 |
Location: | Auditorium, Hogwarts Castle |
Plot: | Peeves vs Pringle 1941 |
Related: | — |
Characters |
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Mid-afternoon sees most students either studying, taking exams or practicing some other academic hobby. That generally means Quidditch or duelling. For Morrow? It's hearing the sound of her own voice. Unlike her hangers-on, the Ravenclaw is perfectly content to wander off by herself, and it seems today is one of those days. A lone figure in the deserted auditorium, she's pacing the stage unhurriedly, going over and over the hand-written page of script held in her hand and plainly trying to commit it to memory. Back and forth, back and forth…
Ah. Apparently confident now to try a few lines, the young woman's entire demeanour changes as she gets herself 'in character'; a soft, charismatic smile playing about her lips, a warmth about her vibrant blue eyes, even a languid grace to the airy mannerisms she imitates. It creates an ethereal, whimsical quality with very little effort. Think what you will of her, she's an excellent actress.
//Addressing an invisible cast, Morrow sweeps a slender arm in an expansive gesture. "Be kind and courteous to this gentleman! Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricots and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries…" Half-turning, she takes a dainty step or two down stage right, envisioning a rapt audience and gracing them with that endearing, secret little smile of hers. "The honey bags steal from the humble-bees… and for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs and light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, to have my love to bed and to arise…" That carefree, graceful gait carries her along the front of the stage now, her characterised musing sobering a touch, becoming more gentle. "…and pluck the wings from painted butterflies, to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes." Upon reaching the far side, she whirls, almost a pirouette, and casts a commanding point of finger toward the non-existent ensemble. "Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies."
Anson's blond hair is wet, just a bit tousled, as though he's only just emerged from the baths. He wanders through the Grounds, passing near the auditorium. And then, seeing the Ravenclaw working her lines, he stops cold and considers her, tilting his chin upward in that patented arrogant look. And then he grins, perhaps recognizing the lines. Wandering forward, hopping down the Auditorium steps two-by-two, he says, "Uh.." And then he squints, hands on his hips.
"Good master Mustardseed, I know your patience well." The words are flat, and a bit off rhythm, as though he's memorized them but never really understood what they meant. "That same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath deveoured many a gentleman of your house: I promise .. promise.." He falters. "I promise you your kindred has made my eyes water ere now!" Triumphant note.
"I desire your more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed." He walks closer to Morrow, watching her with his head canting to one side, then taking an idle glance around the auditorium to make sure no one else is in earshot. It wouldn't do to hear Anson play an ass, after all.
Morrow doesn't seem perturbed at all at being discovered here. She wouldn't be on stage at all if attention bothered her! Besides, she recognises the voice. Instead of immediately looking up, the young lady sighs softly and looks down at her parchment again. Bloody interruptions! She simply can't work under these conditions!
"What an absolutely perfect role for you, Abbott." she eventually offers, raising her head when he's done and smiling in vague amusement. A wise man knows Morrow Selwyn is rarely more dangerous than when she smiles like that. Anson, of course, is not a wise man. Strolling to the stairs at the edge of the stage, she holds out a hand in a genteel fashion, hoping for a little help down apparently. "I didn't realise you had any interest in the arts.." She manages to make this sound almost scolding, as if it's inconceivable that the boy wouldn't have shared this detail with her. "And I was more concerned that that Slytherin ox-beef might have devoured you." There's laughter in her tone, though it's not entirely mocking.
"I cued you up for the next line," protests Anson. "It's not my fault my parents made me go to those bloody stupid summer camps." But he sounds more amused than upset when Morrow decides to turn from Shakespeare to mockery. He takes her hand, his own grip warm and dry, stepping her down delicately. "Besides, you wouldn't shut up about it last year. So I learned it." Likely story. He's trying to make himself look cooler. Again.
But when the subject shifts over to the Slytherin girl, Anson's nostrils flare. "I might've deserved the slap," he says after a few moments, looking over at Morrow. "But you heard her. Even you have to admit that she went too far." Anson Abbott, the great Defender of Mud-bloods and Half-breeds everywhere. He squares his shoulders as though he's about to receive a medal. But there's a conscious look to his face. He's posturing again.
Descending the steps gracefully, the girl graces Anson with a fleeting smile in thanks, before shaking back her dark locks and regarding him thoughtfully as he speaks. "You didn't enjoy theatre programs. That's a shame.. there's one this summer at the academy. I was planning on attending." Yep, she'll just drop that casually in there and wait for a bite. If he's looking for an excuse to see her over the holidays, there it is on a silver platter. She really is too kind, sometimes.
Ahh, the topic of Walburga Black. That seems a popular choice all over Hogwarts today… no doubt a fire gently prodded and poked by certain interested, or diabolical, parties. Maybe best not to mention the general consensus on it, if Anson hasn't already heard. "Mmm…" A non-committal response if ever there was one, as Morrow presses her lips and narrows her eyes, making a show of considering both sides. "She's entitled to her opinion. And everyone knows she's not afraid to be vocal about it. She didn't go any farther than usual." Shrugging lightly, the brunette turns and steps to the chair where her satchel has been left, stooping to tuck her parchment inside. And then promptly producing another. "Would you be a lamb and put one of these up in your common room..?" It's a flier for the summer theatre program, which she extends out toward the boy with a politely questioning expression. Well, until something distracts her. She gazes past him for a moment, as if lost in thought.
"Does it bother you that Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup this term?" What an abrupt change of topic. And surely a hypothetical one… she must know how irksome he finds it.
Anson seems reluctant to let go of that hand; but he doesn't have a choice in the end. Pamphlets are important. His own hand lingers in the air for a long few beats before he lowers it and summons up the glowing smile that he's so well-known for. "I don't like doing things that I'm bad at," he says in answer to Morrow's question about theater. "But I'll be at the Quidditch Camp. It's not that far. Maybe we should meet up sometimes." He tries to mask the hopeful air in his voice with casualness, but that's just not something a sixteen-year-old is good at. He smiles at Morrow again, reaching up to scratch the tip of his nose.
"She went too far when she picked on Hagrid. She always goes too far. And I got sick of it." His smile shifts, becoming more genuine and…younger. More innocent. "Besides, did you see how mad she was when I served her up some of her own medicine?"
"Of course it bothers me," he finally says, getting to the heart of the matter. "But it's not their fault. So many of our players are leaving, and they just didn't have the heart to play hard. That's why I'm going to step in." Ah, yes. The White Wizard, riding to the rescue. Anson scratches at his cheek. "But I hate that they're winning everything for the year. That's not right."
"Mmm. Maybe." She's as vague as he is earnest. "My father's leased my a little place to stay, while I'm doing my apprenticeship. I thought a party or two might be in order." Morrow's known for being quite selective, when it comes to invites, so that she mentions it at all is maybe a good sign; a glimmer of hope for the boy. "Hagrid is quite capable of sticking up for himself.. and moreover, he probably wouldn't give a toss." That much is pointed out with a firm, matter-of-fact tone, which she sets aside a split-second later, affording Anson another of her smiles. "Still. It's nice that you so gallantly stand up for people, even in their absence." Gallant. There's a perfect choice of compliment, eh? "And yes.. I saw." Whether she thinks Walburga's reaction was funny or not is impossible to say. She'll keep her cards close, on that one.
Drifting past the Gryffindor, Morrow wanders along one of the back rows of chairs on the main floor, pausing here and there to nudge one into place, or to sweep a smidge of dust from the arms. "I'm sure you'll do well on the team." No she's not. Plus, she doesn't much care. "But that's next term. This term, it does seem rather… overly green, doesn't it?" Crouching down suddenly, she disappears from sight for a moment, only to then stand up again smoothly, with something retrieved from under a chair. "There's not a lot in it, you know. Points wise." Turning to glance back over a shoulder, she studies the boy mischievously. "What would you say to the lesser of two evils? If your house can't scrape a win, would Ravenclaw winning be better than Slytherin?"
"I'd take anyone winning over Slytherin," announces Anson promptly. He seems to be standing even taller than usual, his shoulders squared a bit more than usual, his chin a bit higher than usual. Gallant. Yes, he certainly is that. Large dogs can be gallant, too. He watches Morrow curiously, craning his neck subconsciously to catch a glimpse of Morrow's backside as she leans over. He just can't help himself. Head tilting to the side, he wanders closer, curiously, to examine whatever it is that Morrow has found.
"I'll be Team Captain by graduation," he says. It's not a boast. He's simply stating a fact. "But yes. I'll do well next year." She may not be certain of it, but he certainly is. He paces a circle absently before continuing. "I wish that my Dad would let me stay on my own in the City." Capital C for London. "Of course I'll come to your parties. Thank you for inviting me." His grin could put a Great White Shark's to shame.
"I didn't." her reply is smooth, and amused rather than irritated. Smiling up at Anson as she turns, shifting whatever she found to behind her back before he can see, the brunette tilts her head and affects an innocent manner. "..but I might. We'll see."
His boasting is nothing new to her. In fact, if you ask any of her clique, it's one of the main reasons she broke up with him. There's no way anyone could ever love Anson Abbott as much as he already loves himself. "Team Captain? Wow. That would be another box ticked, wouldn't it." In her mind, the lad has some sort of ledger of Heroic Deeds. It's probably quite full by now - not because he's genuinely that heroic, but because he thinks so much of every little thing he does. As for her… maybe she has aspirations for Head Girl. Maybe. It'd be more for the sake of the title than a real interest in helping people, of course.
Taking a half-step closer, Morrow's expression turns wolfish, her blue eyes glittering as she looks up at Anson. He probably assumes that his swaggering charm is working on her. "..maybe I could do something about that. If I wanted to. If there were something in it for me." Other than seeing her House triumph. "I think maybe you'd owe me a big one, going out of my way to help you save face…"
"I don't have a bloody ledger." Anson's heard this line. No doubt Morrow detailed every one of his 'faults' at some point. And if she didn't, there's no doubt at all that her clique was happy to fill him in. He pretends to glare, but he can't keep it up — the truth is, the fact that Morrow keeps track of his Heroic Deeds is adorable. Because surely she's not doing it just to mock and demean him, right? "You did invite me. By implication. And you will. Because you like having the shiniest people around." Anson is as amused as Morrow.
"…I don't owe you big time for helping your own House win, Morrow." His voice is casual, but there's real interest. This is a negotiation now. "I'd be grateful to not have to see Slytherin win, certainly, that's true." And there's no chance his own House can make up the points, he doesn't say.
He steps closer in answer to Morrow, his hand coming up to briefly brush against her hip. Certainly his charm is working on her. How could it not? "I'd be willing," he says softly, "To consider a small favor."
Morrow pouts, not entirely satisfied with the idea of small. But she concedes his point. And swats absently at his hand. "Fine. But at least I thought of you, right? It's the thought that counts." From behind her back, she produces a pair of ancient-looking gloves, dangling them from a thumb and forefinger. "Look what I found. I guess Peeves' scavenger hunt is still going." Slowly backing away now, though at a pace clearly intended to lead the boy after her than escape him, Morrow grins broadly. "That ought to give us an edge. If only you had spotted them first, hmm? Shame."
Reaching the end of the row, she circles around behind it, smirking up and aside at Anson in passing. "Fair enough, though. I'd obviously have done it anyway. I suppose I shan't ask for what I wanted, after all." Bloody tease. The airy tone she expresses herself with, infuriatingly, suggests she knows full well that now he'll just have to know. A dancing, amost skipping stride ferries her back over to her satchel, where she places the gloves carefully; entirely focusing on this little task now and ignoring Anson entirely, giving him a chance to ponder. Or rather, catch up.
Anson lets his hand linger just a moment longer — just to show that the swat wasn't REALLY a discouragement. He's dropping it of his own accord, that's all. But he does drop it. "You're always thinking of me," he announces haughtily. "So I suppose the thoughts count all the time, yes. I do appreciate them." This is the height of humorous flirting, for him. His eyes are sparkling with ingenuous pleasure at the banter.
And then his eyes widen a bit as he sees the gloves. "Oh, you clever little girl." It's a quiet phrase, a breath out. "You just put Ravenclaw in the lead." His voice is almost awestruck as he realizes the depth of Morrow's trap. She's laid him in obligation — not in a hypothetical sense — but here, now. He owes her a small favor, and between these two, that's as legally binding as a contract.
"No, it's alright," he says reluctantly. "What would you like me to do?" There's a faint trace of defeat in his voice. But it's a minor defeat, compared to the victory of seeing Slytherin lose. He's following after Morrow. Of course he is. It's like there's a string tied to a ring through his nose.
"Well, I was going to ask you to treat me to dinner in Hogsmeade this weekend." Oh, wouldn't that have been ending the school year on a high? What a glamorous pairing. But wait.. she said 'was'. So that means… "But seeing as this is only worth a small favor, and that one would be quite large," she continues, straightening and slinging her satchel casually over one shoulder, "I think it would be ever so chivalrous of you to take Harriet out for an ice cream or something. She has quite a thing for you, you know. And it would really cheer her up." A fractional widening of those already big blue eyes and a subtle pout of her lower lip follows; the Morrow version of 'pleeeeease..?' "It'd really mean a lot." Not to her. To Harriet maybe.
She might not be biting, when it comes to the jab of whether she thinks about him much. But he can presume all he likes.. especially with the way she's looking up at him now, only one step away from eyelash batting.
"I'd love to take yo…" Anson's voice cuts off as Morrow continues, leaving him with a comically-confused look on his face. "What? Are you..—" Again, he cuts himself off, this time before he can say something ungallant — he might be thinking it, but he'll never do it. The big Gryffindor sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I'll take Harriet out," he says reluctantly. And then his eyes light up. "I'll take Harriet out," he repeats. "But only if you agree to meet me at the Three Broomsticks afterward for a butterbeer." It's one way to try to rehabilitate his reputation.
"No favors," he says, suddenly earnest. His eyes lock onto Morrow's, deviate down to that gorgeous wobbling lip, back to the beautiful, pleading, gaze. "I want to take you out for a butterbeer." He spreads his hands slightly. "I'll make sure Harriet has a great time," he says encouragingly.
Tilting her head a touch askance, the brunette looks as though she's giving this idea some thought. Or rather, giving it thought for the first time. That's unlikely to be the case, of course. "We'll see." she says, again. "..Harriet better have a really great time." A date with Morrow Selwyn comes with a higher price tag than that, come on. Adjusting the lay of her shoulder strap with her thumb, she smiles slowly, noting that earnest expression, the vaguely pleading nuances. Gosh, he really is keen to show off to his friends, isn't he?
"I'd better go and hand these in." Patting lightly at her satchel, the young lady pivots unhurriedly on a heel; her pace again inviting rather than hastening to put distance between herself and Anson. "That should get the snakes in a tizzy. Though, it'll still be pretty close. I suppose us Ravenclaws will have to be on our very best behaviour until term ends." The flicker of amusement beneath the faux-innocence betrays the subtle implication in the words. He better not think he's getting anything more than a drink. Maybe not even that. He better impress the Blishwick girl, big time.
"Harriet'll have a great time." Of course she will. She's going out with Anson Abbott. Anson seems to be puzzled at the implication that she could have less than a great time, and, let's be honest, he is a great date. Assuming someone can stop him talking about himself for five minutes. "I'll see you at the Three Broomsticks, then." Yep. He's convinced that her 'We'll see' is a firm 'yes'. He smiles suddenly, tilting his head.
"You go turn those in. And if Slytherin gets back up ahead, I'll just pick another fight with Walburga and let her curse me this time." He probably would, the 'gallant' bastard. Anything to prevent the Bad Guys from winning. His grin is mischievous. "I'm not just a pretty face, you know." Oh, no. He also has a pretty backside. But a mind? Pfft.