(1941-06-22) Gilded Warnings
Details for Gilded Warnings
Summary: Anson runs into Morrow and an interesting - if rather odd - conversation ensues.
Date: June 22nd, 1941
Location: Roaring Corridor, Hogwarts Castle
Related: The Awkward Table

Morrow hates Divination. It makes no sense to her. Utter drivel, in her opinion. Plus, classes are over now, aside from review. So why is she all the way up here, seated on the steps?

Because nobody will look here.

Yes, even the Ravenclaw Queen Bee occasionally needs a moment to herself. Especially today. Exam results! Thumbing through the papers for perhaps the hundredth time, the brunette looks over her grades and allows herself the faintest smile of.. well, relief, mostly. Up overhead, the stuffed lion sneezes and huffs a tickle out of his snout, before yawning widely and bellowing a roar. "Oh do shut up.." Not even glancing upward, Morrow's response is half-hearted at best. She doesn't really mind him. Point of fact, he's one of the less annoying lions she's encountered, recently.

Likewise away from the crowds, Anson Abbott is something of a different person this evening. He strolls toward the lion, stops when he sees Morrow, and then moves forward again. There is a reticence about the boy that is rarely seen, as though he's thoughtful enough to realize that he may be disturbing Morrow.

Pausing to scratch the lion's neck and whisper some endearments to it, Anson settles down on the steps beside Morrow. He gives her plenty of room, another gesture of thoughtfulness that the Gryffindor doesn't typically bother with.

"So did Harriet have a good time?"

"She hasn't bloody shut up about it since, so I would assume.. yes." mutters the brunette, not immediately raising her eyes from her papers. Eventually, though, it seems to occur to her that something's subtly different and she looks toward Anson sidelong. Huh. Not crowding in on her like usual. Well, no complaints here. Except… since when does he not crowd her? Did he have a better time with Harriet than she'd expected?

"I've heard all about it. How she spilled your drink, how you were a perfect gentleman, your lovely hair, your lovely smile.." Rolling her eyes, Morrow sets her papers down in her lap and clasps her hands atop. She's still suitably attired in her uniform - skirt, overknee socks, Mary-Janes - but she's left behind her usual cardigan in favour of just the blouse and bronze and blue tie. It's been ridiculously warm and stuffy today! "And the snogging. How could I forget the snogging? Oh wait, that's right. I can't. Because she practically tried to demonstrate it."

"What I wouldn't do to have seen that.." muses Anson in a dreamy tone. And then, quite unlike himself, he snaps out of it. He doesn't dwell on the spectacle. In fact, there's something subtly more — adult about Anson tonight. "I'm glad she enjoyed herself," he says mildly. And it sounds like he means it. "I mean, she ruined my pants." He watches Morrow for a few moments, absently dampening his cheek. "You look quite lovely," he ventures.

Anson is carefully not dwelling on the snogging. Let's move past the snogging. He clears his throat, seems about to say something, and decides against it. He closes his mouth. And then he opens it again, swallowing before he speaks. "..Morrow. I, uh. I'm a git." Is this a statement of fact, or a prelude to something more? Something more, it seems. "It's been, uh.. People have told me lately that I.. ought to apologize. For last year."

"Yes, you and most of the male population of the school." Morrow's entirely unruffled by the imaginings, no matter how brief they may be compared to usual. Smoothing her skirt with a sweep of one hand, she lowers her gaze with a smirk, followed by a hushed sigh. Whatever she's about to say gets overthrown by the… apparently genuine compliment from the golden boy beside her, leaving he Ravenclaw looking equal parts bemused and suspicious.

That expression only settles further as Anson continues, looking uncharacteristically ill-at-ease. Maybe she's not actually listening or maybe she just assumes she knows what to expect from him. Regardless, she interrupts before he can quite finish, raising her palm in a staying manner toward him. "..so? You were always a git. Why apologise now?" Those vivid cerulean eyes narrow a fraction, a slow curve unfurling across her lips, predatory and wicked. "..you're buttering me up for something. What is it. A second date with Harriet? A good word put in with the Slytherins? Out with it, come on."

"It's not like that," Anson says quietly. "Oh, the Slytherins are going to get back at me for what I said — I'm not entirely stupid — but I don't want a good word in with them. And, oh, Morrow, I really wish you'll be careful with Oberon Lestrange." Anson very carefully does not say 'don't date that boy'. But there is an earnestness to his words that lends them a weight beyond his usual flaky self-absorption.

"That's all I'll say about that, though. No. I, uh. I got my fortune read. And the lady took the opportunity to tell me through tarot cards that I'm a bad person." Anson smiles to take the self-pity out of the words. He even sounds jocular. "And since Abraxas Malfoy and all the rest are going to throw me off the train, I thought I might listen to her and make things right with you."

Reaching across, he gently chucks Morrow in the shoulder. "But I'll go out with Harriet again, if you ask. You'll owe me a date in London, though." Assuming he makes it.

"Well, that is the price you pay when your mouth runs away with you and you don't even make a token attempt to chase it down." In fairness, Morrow has likewise softened her tone, so the words aren't quite as blunt as they might otherwise have been. Holding Anson's gaze, she arches a brow at the warning, not looking overly concerned. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying, but.. alright, if it helps you, I assure you I will 'be careful'." There's a telling humor in her words, a glimmer that bespeaks perhaps misplaced confidence when it comes to handling boys, regardless of the particulars. What would make Lestrange any different? "You just don't like him. I can't avoid people because Anson Abbott doesn't get along with them.. I'd have nobody left."

Sighing, she lets the boy continue on, averting her gaze and busying herself with neatly rolling her papers up. But the brunette can't help the soft snort and chuckle in the wake of that admission. "You had your fortune read." she echoes, in a wry monotone. "Anson, I could have told you you were being an ass. In fact, I'm fairly certain I have told you that. You've no need to 'make things right', as you put it. We get along alright, don't we..?" She lets this hang just long enough, turning those eyes back upon him in unabashed curiosity, even as she's gathering herself, preparing to rise.

As for poor Harriet… "Hmm… no, I think that's rather too high a price, when I'm the one who has to listen to her endlessly wittering about your perfect, perfect bum. No deal. You might want to decide if you'd like to date her for your own reasons.. or find a gentle way to let her down." Wow, neither of those sound much fun! And she knows it, the viper; she's grinning now as she moves smoothly to a stand on the stairs.

"I'll tell her the truth," Anson says. Who is this mysterious golden boy? Surely it's not Anson Abbott. There's no way a fortune has wrought such change. There's something in his eyes, though. Something new. There it is again. Fear. Anson is masking it well, but he's afraid — deeply afraid — of something. What could it possibly be?

He doesn't stand with Morrow, looking up at her for a few moments before smiling. He doesn't pursue the Oberon topic, though Morrow can likely see the words spilling up in a dam behind his eyes. "Listen, I do want to see you this summer," he says. "I'll take you out into Piccadilly Circus, if you like. I know it's Muggle, but it's quite fun." He keeps his voice casual, lacking his usual insistance. It's taking obvious effort.

Wait.. he's not following her? Or taking the bait, about the other boy? Curioser and curioser. Hesitating for the fraction of a second, in light of this revelation, Morrow then adjusts the roll of papers in her hand and folds her arms across her midsection, eyeing the Gryffindor. What on earth does the mighty Quidditch jock, the champion of the lost and unwashed, have to be afraid of? Well, other than pissed off Slytherins. She can't put her finger on it.

"We'll see." she remarks, turning from Anson and taking the first few steps down the stairs. She halts, one hand on the banister, in order to look back up at him through the wrought railings, before she disappears from easy view. "..the way I heard it, you'd rather take Samira Prince." Oh. Heard about that, did she? The wolfish smile she wears now stands no chance of softening that icy gaze. "You always did have eyes bigger than your stomach!" Her parting words drift up the stairwell, the girl herself lost to sight as she continues on her way.

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