(1941-06-24) Full of Deceit
Details for Full of Deceit
Summary: What exactly is going on with Anson and Morrow?
Date: June 24th, 1941
Location: Auditorium, Hogwarts Castle

Anson Abbott has been plagued with friends in the past hours. Word of his squabble — his near-duel — with Antonin Dolohov has gotten out, and the other Gryffindors are reluctant to leave him unattended, lest their golden boy be melted down and dumped into a drain, never to be seen again. But he's managed to give them the slip in the unlikeliest of places — he's loitering in the Auditorium. Normally, the doors are closed, but he's made a rather foolish mistake. He left the doors open.

Anson is pacing back and forth in the center of the stage, alone and lonely. His expression is fierce, brow knotted up, fists curled at his side. He is speaking. No, declaiming, though there is no one to hear.

"What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin!" His voice is heated, even passionate, as he plods back and forth. He repeats the last line. "No, my fair cousin! If.." A stumble. "If we are to.. No. If we are mark'd to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer the men, the greater the honor." He falls silent here for a long pause. "Skip it," he mutters. And he does, skipping to the end of the famous monologue. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers — for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile! And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!"

He stands, poised, his hand extended as though speaking to a crowd. And then, lowering his hand and speaking in a normal voice, he says "..But I'm not Henry. And they're not the French. And Morrow's not a princess."

"Says who?" Morrow's voice cuts through the silence of the auditorium like the proverbial hot knife and butter. Oh no. Nooooo.. how long has she been standing there watching him pace to and fro? She's inside the main doors, largely disguised in the shadows where she leans against the wall in a casual manner, arms folded. In fairness to the brunette, she'd been innocently making her way to the Ravenclaw dorm when she remembered a forgotten book and detoured here, thinking to look for it. So no, she didn't deliberately follow Gryffindor's Golden Boy.

Straightening from her nonchalant posture now that she's made her presence quite abruptly known, she strolls forward along the center aisle, one of those trademark half-smiles playing about her lips and her vivid eyes remaining sharp on Anson. Just because she was pointedly ignoring him at the feast doesn't necessarily mean she was oblivious to the subtle tensions between he and.. others. Her expression is, as usual, nigh impossible to interpret. But perhaps he knows her well enough to at least assume she's behaving rather guardedly, despite the indifferent body-language.

"Nice choice of monologue." she continues, nearing the stage and taking a right turn to drift along the front row, eventually picking a seat at random and easing down into it, as if she had all the time in the world to sit here and watch the scene unfold. "He wins Katherine, in the end, doesn't he? After his battles are over."

Anson flushes. Well, flushes isn't quite the right word. He goes red. Very red. It's as though Morrow cuts the tongue out from his mouth; one almost expects him to bleed, he's blushing so scarlet. He isn't able to answer for awhile. Finally, taking in a breath, he says "…Yes. She does." He wanders to the edge of the stage.

"I'm not sorry you heard that," he lies. It's a brave attempt, but cannot hide the truth. Easing down into a seated position, dangling his feet off the edge of the apron, he says "I've been practicing, see. In case WADA doesn't fall on the same stretch as Quidditch Camp." The boy peers over at Morrow, his brows narrowing. "That's, uh, if I'm still welcome." There's caution in his voice beyond their usual banter.

Thus far, he hasn't mentioned the Dining Hall — not Harriet, not the..other boy. But now he sucks in a breath, exhaling raggedly. "Morrow.." He pauses. "I saw your friend Violet yesterday." There is an expectant air, a hopeful air, to his voice. "She told me some things about the Slytherins," he continues, falsely idle.

"What you do with your time over the holidays is your own business, Anson. I certainly won't try to prevent you taking part, if you've an interest in the theatre." Of course he doesn't have an interest in the theatre. He has an interest in her, and that's where she'll be. But Morrow is far better at feigning a complete lack of concern than poor Anson is. Resting an elbow on the back of the chair beside hers, the brunette yawns as she leans her temple against the knuckles of her hand. It's genuine weariness, too.. she's not pretending boredom. Her vivid eyes are heavy-lidded and languid. Food makes her sleepy. "So long as you don't expect me to reciprocate, when to the attendance for Quidditch Camp. Really not my thing."

Regarding the now seated boy with that same, infuriating, contemplative air, the Ravenclaw permits a faint smile after a moment; quirking a brow as he ventures into something he clearly considers dangerous territory. "Sweet girl, Violet. Not the best dancer in the world, but she makes up for it enthusiasm. Oh?" At the mention of Slytherins, she sharpens her enquiring expression, implying her interest and giving the young man leave to elaborate.

"It seems someone heard the Slytherins planning to attack me." Anson dangles the words out in front of Morrow hopefully, but without much conviction. It's a long shot. There's no real reason to believe Morrow was the 'leak', though Violet certainly implied as much. Anson stares at Morrow, absently tonguing his cheek. "And Antonin Dolohov already did attack me."

He lets that hang there for a moment, looking down at his hands. When he speaks, it's in a different tone of voice. He's back to declaiming, though now his words are soft, intimate. He leans forward. "Do you like me, Kate?" The words are soft, pitched to match Morrow's languid expression.

He hesitates, apparently debating whether he should press onward, and then shakes his head. "I won't call you an angel. Doesn't do you proper justice." His smile warms somewhat. "Come and sit by me."

"I'd imagine several someones heard that, the way Lucinda Slughorn was blathering on about it." At this, Morrow flashes a glimpse of teeth in a slight grin. And let's face it, if anyone, anywhere is gossiping about it, you can bet Morrow Selwyn already knows. Idly toying with a strand of hair between her fingertips, twirling and loosing it, the girl does sober a fraction at the further mention. "I heard about Dolohov. But then I also heard it was over a girl, so you only get limited sympathy there, Abbott." It goes without saying she knows precisely which girl, too. But some things don't need said out loud to be apparent.

There's a sudden laugh, a pleasant sound that reverbs through the empty chamber, in response to that soft-spoken phrase. Shaking her head in lingering amusement, she lowers her propped arm and rises smoothly, unhurriedly from her chair. "The tongues of men are full of deceits." Equally soft in timbre, her words are edged less with clever teasing and more with subtle reprimand. They suitably precede her refusal of the invitation, as Morrow instead turns from the Gryffindor and strolls to the end of the row, where her book still lies, woefully abandoned.

Without hesitation, now: he's learned these lines by rote, perhaps. "Kate, my wooing is fit for your understanding." Anson drops off the edge of the stage, but stays mostly by it, leaning back against it as he continues. "I am glad thou canst speak no better English, for if thou couldst, thou wouldst fine me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown."

He clears his throat. "It was over a girl," he admits. "Sort of. Dolohov thought I was wooing Samira Prince. I let him think it, and then I winked at him. And then he tried to hex me." That wink, though. He shrugs, a bit too casually. "I cast silencio on him and Samira got him to stop trying." Silencio - a potent bit of magic-making. He lets that settle for a moment, still trying to be casual, and continues.

"So you heard Slughorn going on." There's a question in his voice, a painful look on his face that he isn't able to hide. "Were you going to let me be attacked?" The frank pain in his voice is surprising, even to him. "It's not as though I didn't know it was coming. But I hoped you'd.." He trails off, dropping his head. "Anyway."

"I would most certainly think that." Morrow's reply is cheerful as she straightens, holding the book to her chest in the wrap of her arms now that she's retrieved it and turning back to better face the lad. Does she think him plain and uncouth? He certainly doesn't think himself such. The monologue is becoming less applicable, alas, the more he presses it. "Too modest a role for you, that one." she advises; her gait perhaps warning of an intention to walk right by Anson and toward the door, given the pace. But she slows, in the end, to listen to the explanation. If nothing else, she does like to be the one with the juicy details. "He's not the first one to think you've a thing for her… I'm beginning to think you protest too much, young Master Abbott." The brunette is keeping her tone light, and the facade would perhaps be convincing… if not for the icy temperature of those dark-lashed blue eyes, the telling fix of them upon his features. "Who can blame you, I suppose. She's gorgeous. And rich. It's just.." Lowering her book, holding it in the curled fingers of both hands now, against the front of her skirt, Morrow chances a half-step closer toward the taller boy, flitting that cold gaze downward to immediately soften her mien.

"..I think, considering the circles she runs in, you might be doing her more harm than good, in continuing to even imply interest." Oh… there's a glaring similarity here, isn't there. Those eyes move back up, assessing his response as she spoon-feeds him the warning. "..after all, when you think how antagonistic certain members of Slytherin house have been toward you… do you really want that ire turned upon her, all for the sake of some macho posturing?" Her lips twitch to a gentle smile of fond understanding. "..no. You're more gallant than that."

Canting her head slightly to one side, she watches to see if that verbal jab lands. Then simply moves on. "I heard her. But, given the source, do you really expect I'd take such whimsical threats seriously? The girl has the IQ of a potato." That smile has twisted to the more typical smirk and she snorts a huff of air in amusement.

Silence from Anson. No pithy lines from Henry the Fifth are forthcoming. He stands, gobsmacked, staring at Morrow. Finally, the young man musters the willpower to answer. His eyes are locked on that icy stare. "I… you're saying they'd hurt her?" The question is positively dumbfounded. It's obviously never occured to him before now. He sags back against the stage, staring at Morrow.

"..And you're saying.." he continues slowly, "..That I'm doing the same thing to you." His eyes narrow somewhat. The jab certainly lands — there's hurt in his expression as he watches Morrow. The poor Gryffindor is simply no good at concealing these things. "Is that what you're telling me? To leave you alone?"

Another long silence, and the boy seems to be grasping for a thought. "Here it is. You want to date Oberon Lestrange, alright. But I'm taking you out this summer too." He strives for firmness in his voice. "I'll leave off Samira Prince — for her sake, like you say." Somehow, he makes it sound like his own idea. "But I'm not going to give up, Morrow. I like you. I ballsed it up last year, but now? No." Anson reaches out with a startling familiarity to try to brush a lock of hair off Morrow's forehead. "And for the record," he says softly, "I'm taking those warnings seriously. I wish they'd come from you."

"I never said that. I doubt they'd do anything to her. But they're obviously not your biggest fans." Morrow shrugs a slender shoulder. "If you genuinely like the girl, Anson, keep seeing her. She's a perfectly sweet little thing. But if you're using her to instigate things with the likes of Antonin Dolohov… stop it." There's actually a vaguely protective impression, in the way she speaks. She's not asking. She's flat out telling him not to get the Slytherin girl in trouble. And, incidentally, she manages to do it in a way that keeps any discernible opinion on his desire to date the lovely Samira.

With a rather long-suffering sigh, visibly settling herself to further explanation, Morrow shakes her head. "You're not doing the same thing to me. I'm not a part of that group… and as far as I know you've not ben using me as a means to antagonise anyone." She pauses, eyeing Anson suspiciously. "..have you?" It doesn't matter enough for her to await an answer, apparently. Affecting a vague smile - the most dangerous in her arsenal, if one knows the nuances in her expressions well enough to recognise it - the Ravenclaw arches a brow, holding herself perfectly still as the boy brushes that wayward lock aside, and then retreating a calm step backward.

"You've already been dangling Harriet and flirting with Prince. I'm not sure that's a mess I want to get entangled in, thank you very much. Besides, what if Prince actually likes you? A disconcerting thought, I grant you. But what if she does? I'd like to consider her my friend.. I should probably keep out of it until things become clearer, don't you think?" Reaching up to more properly tuck that dark hair back behind her ear with her fingertips, the girl wets her lips before offering something more of an answer. "I'm sure we'll cross paths in the holidays. And if you want to go out and do something as friends… that's fine. But yes. I've agreed to go out on a date with Oberon. One date." She emphasises that, for her own purposes. "I've no idea if he wishes anything beyond that." Is she intrigued by that? It's impossible to tell. She's hardly going to discuss her thoughts on the matter with Anson. "And as for the warnings.. well, who's to say I wouldn't have told you? Just because Violet got there first."

"You talk fast, beautiful." Anson smiles, some of his confidence restored to him as he stares at Morrow. "But you just told me you didn't take those warnings seriously." He grins crookedly, reaching up now to rearrange his own hair. He considers Morrow carefully, smiling a bit. "I spoke to Harriet, you know. Told her we could just be friends. It's not my fault she doesn't believe me." It's the smile, probably. Like Morrow's, his smile is a deadly thing. Unlike Morrow, he seems only half-aware of it.

Her words about Oberon do bring a certain stillness to the young man, and it's obvious how hard he's trying to keep from lashing out with a quick word, or to protest, or to beg. But he says, instead, "I'm certain he wants more than that. He's not an idiot, and only an idiot would want one date with you."

"As friends?" Anson considers for a moment. "Sure, if that's what you need to say. We can call it a friendly outing." He smiles again, then — deliberately — winks. "I don't want to date Samira Price," he says. "She's pretty, and she's fun to flirt with — but I don't want to date her. So you're right. I best end it, in case she does like me. But I think she's playing me more than I am her."

The brunette doesn't argue the point, nor does her amused expression falter in the slightest. That, in itself, implies a rather neutral 'if that's what you think' as response to Anson's attempt to trip her. Nor does she seem overly concerned with poor Harriet's heart. Point of fact, she's never much concerned with anyone's. Present company not excepted.

"Thank you." Accepting the compliment, such as it is, Morrow offers a slightly wider smile. "And no.. he's certainly not an idiot." He's also not weak, forgiving or merciful. But that ought to be common enough knowledge that she needn't point it out. "That's why he'll be tutoring me in Charms."

Casting a thoughtful - and tired - glance over her shoulder toward the doors, the Ravenclaw settles her book comfortably in the curve of one arm now. "You think so?" The question is seemingly idle, the tone of small-talk returning, when he mulls over te matter of Samira. "Well, she's certainly entering into the battle of wits better armed, isn't she." There's a fleeting grin, sheer wicked mischief within her eyes as she returns her gaze to Anson. "Anyway. I should get to the Common Room and congratulate my Housemates on their various awards. I expect I'll see you at breakfast, before we depart."

Not on the train, though. Definitely not on the train.

"Tutoring you in Charms.." Anson, again, seems on the verge of saying something that — to him — seems important. But he stares at Morrow a moment longer, then falls silent. He turns away, leaning his shoulders against the apron of the stage. "Sure, you ought to go," he says quietly.

"Hey, Morrow?" There's a pause. He's not looking at her. Perhaps it's easier that way, to say what comes next. "I get it. I get why you like him. But.. look, alright? If you ever need anything, I'm here." A veiled offer, a veiled warning. And then, blatantly. "Josie says he's just like Pringle. That he likes that sort of thing." And then he hauls himself up onto the stage, making to walk away. "I'll see you at breakfast."

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