Detained Chapter 7 Intermission Part 1
Chapter 7
April-Debutante Ball, Cauldron Club
It was supposed to be a pretty straightforward thing. The young witches were supposed to walk down the stairs, stop and smile. Marcus had worn his dress robes. He had endeavored not to look nauseated or too horribly bored at being in Morag MacDougal’s presence. He hadn’t let her fall down the stairs or wander aimlessly off while the photographs were taken.
She kept talking to him though. He’d never agreed to talk.
“You’re a professional Quidditch player then?” the dark-haired witch asked coolly, as they stood watching the dancers. “My father seems quite impressed with you.”
“Falcons chaser,” Marcus muttered.
“Ah,” Morag replied, then stood silent for a moment. “Now would be the time when a gentleman would ask me what I was interested in, in case your etiquette is as limited as your facial expressions.”
“Good. Go find one.” That shut her up. He stared out at the dancers. It was kind of remarkable. Morgaine was here, as well as her brother. Antony. A blonde witch he had shagged at a drunken party at Terry’s, whose name he couldn’t remember. Was the theme of this ball ‘Let’s Annoy Marcus?’ No. In that case, Galloway would have been there. Singing.
“If you’re so uninterested in my life and opinions, why did you want to escort me to this ball?” Morag sniped.
Good question. Well, Marcus reflected, he had had this moronic idea that he could seduce this girl with seriously prime Quidditch tickets. So, he had engineered a truly Byzantine twelve-party swap that made the Goblin Accords look like a Chocolate Frog card trade in comparison. This had allowed him to have the unrivalled pleasure of attending birthday parties, shipping autographed Quidditch gear to the four corners of the globe, and spending one truly spectacular afternoon at a fucking tea moderating some old biddies’ argument about whether a dress was mauve or lavender. All for a witch who wanted nothing from him but his absence. And now, for his final performance, there was Morag.
“I just really missed this punch actually,” Marcus shot back. “The way it tastes like watered-down fermented snake piss and its truly unanticipated gray color.”
“So you’re not only an athlete, but have a sensitive and refined nature as well?” Morag inquired archly. “My mother was right. I am such a lucky young witch.”
He’d gone and gotten her some punch for the simple reason that she couldn’t talk while swallowing. However, ladies only took the daintiest of sips. Marcus only got milliseconds of sweet silence before she started running her mouth again.
“Aren’t we going to dance?” Morag sniffed.
”We? No,” Marcus replied, not looking at her. “You can. I don’t dance.”
“How ever will I be able to thank my father sufficiently?” Morag inquired of the ceiling. “Look at all the unfortunate girls who have dancing, smiling, talking escorts.” Marcus rolled his eyes. Infant.
“Look. This is how this works,” he said calmly. “I am a highly sought-after wizard. Just being here with me confers value on you. My job is just to be here. Your job is to be pretty, polite, and quiet.”
“Oh, that’s all you think witches are good for?” Morag asked, outraged.
“There’s one other thing,” Marcus suggested, calmly.
“What?”
“You should look at me adoringly.” He thought for a brief second that she was actually going to become amusing and try to hit him. She certainly looked angry enough. Then her eyes narrowed and, well, no surprise here, her mouth opened.
“Intelligence and magical ability are clearly two different considerations,” Morag said seriously. “Chizpurfles are magical, yet not sapient. Muggles possess the gift of language, one of the hallmarks of intelligence, yet are hopelessly lacking in magic.”
Interesting. Marcus had been so certain that he was the one who was going to be literally bored out of his mind. How had Snape told them to handle people who were deranged from potion fumes?
”You are aware that you’re mental, right?” he asked her.
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said, smiling. “However, my mother has instructed me to be vivacious and charming. That means every time she looks at me, I will make sure that my lips will be moving. As I have nothing to say to you, I will take this opportunity to practice my ‘Magisapience: Towards a New Paradigm of Wizarding Identity’ speech for the Youth United for Knowledge conference.”
Bloody Hell.
“Will you accept galleons?” Marcus asked desperately. She ignored him and began to drone on again.
Marcus tried to tune her out. He scanned the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, that might be able to divert Morag’s attention. A trip to the loo got him a few minutes respite, but as soon as he returned she was back in full flow. He interrupted only once, inquiring acidly whether it was really necessary to use the word ‘epistemological’ twice in one sentence. Morag had stared blankly at him for a moment, before continuing with a sentence that contained ‘pseudomagiutilization’ three times. He was seriously considering faking his own death when she uttered something that he could actually translate.
“What?” he sputtered.
“Clear and effective communication of the underlying precepts will result in behaviour modifications for the groups involved,” she repeated, a little startled. Marcus took a quick look around to make sure no one was in their immediate vicinity.
“Did you just say the reason that Death Eaters roast babies on spits is because no one has mentioned to them that it would be ever so nice if they stopped?” he asked incredulously. Like words ever fixed anything.
“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Morag said stiffly. “And yes, rational discourse will provide the foundation.”
“’Dear Eaters of Death, We found the placement of a severed head in the punch bowl at the latest Greater London Gobstones Club luncheon to be a hurtful act. Please come to tea on Tuesday so we can discuss this matter further, and reach an accord. Crumpets will be provided,” Marcus sneered. Morag’s mouth open and closed a few times, and her cheeks were flushed.
“I’m certainly not going to bandy words about with you,” she said coldly. As if she could. That was one residual benefit of that twisted dance with Bell, at least. If you could hold your own with her, no one else stood a chance. “Some of us are serious about the future of wizardry, you know. Some of us want to understand why certain groups behave as they do.”
Because they can. A vaunted intellect and fine education and she still couldn’t figure that out. She really wasn’t worth the syllables he’d have to expend trying to explain it to her.
At least she’d finished her little speech.
“Intelligence and magical ability are clearly two different considerations,” she said, in a voice even more pinched and grating then before. Oh bloody hell. She was going to recite the whole thing again.
“Look,” he interrupted. “I don’t like you. You don’t like me. Why don’t you go find some other bloke to bore?”
“And spend the next year getting lectured by my parents, just so you can go find some brainless buxom bimbo that is undoubtedly your type?”
An image of Katie, unyielding and remote, flashed through his mind. What he wouldn’t give to just be the shallow bastard everyone thought he was.
“What do you want?” he asked Morag, abruptly.
“Pardon?” she asked, a little taken aback.
“Underneath your pomposity and verbosity, you’re a girl. You’ve got the frilly white robes, and the flowers in your hair and the conventional turn of mind…All you need is some upright, uptight Prince Charming to complete the picture,” he sneered. “So why don’t you describe him to me, and I’ll get you set up and me off the hook.”
“I’m not some simpering fool,” Morag objected. “I don’t need to be on the arm of a man to be complete.”
“Ah, as I thought,” Marcus said coolly. “I’m sorry but it’s not going to happen.”
”What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Clearly, you’re pining for me,” Marcus explained. “I’m your fantasy. Well, I suppose I can bear up with your company for a few more hours, since it means so much to you.” He smirked at her outraged gasp.
“Intelligent. Brilliant, preferably. Sensitive,” she listed. “Cultured. Sophisticated. Basically your opposite in every way. Looks, of course, are of no importance.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
For a moment, Marcus thought it was going to be so simple. Markham Montague was sauntering past. He could pass for all the things on Morag’s list, as long as he didn’t open his mouth.
“Montague,” Marcus hailed him.
“Flint,” Montague said, tensely.
“Magpies are doing well.”
“Second place,” Montague returned.
“Second place is great,” Marcus assured him. “It’s not as if there was ever the slightest chance of them being in first, with the Falcons around. Do you know Morag?”
“Yes,” Montague said curtly. Markham wasn’t really giving him much to work with here. Morag wasn’t a big help either, just standing there glaring at him.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Dance with her, will you?” Maybe he could have handled that better. Morag’s offended glare certainly suggested that he could have.
“I don’t know exactly what you’ve heard,” Montague said coldly. “But I have better things to do than try to get a leg over with one of your little witches.” He nodded to Morag, then abruptly turned and stalked off.
Merlin. Puncture one measly lung of his and the guy comes over all offended.
“Markham Montague?” Morag asked indignantly. “Possibly I should have explained this more clearly, but ‘intelligent’ and ‘sophisticated’ do imply that the wizard must know how to read.”
“Most witches seem to like him,” Marcus said mildly.
“I’m not most witches,” she hissed. “Please give me some credit.”
“Fine,” Marcus said coolly. “I apologize. There is someone here who fits all your criteria…you would never give him a chance though.”
“Why do you say that?” Morag asked hesitantly.
“Because you’re too rigid, and wouldn’t be able to see his sensitive nature. You’d just dismiss him out of hand.”
“I would not,” she protested indignantly. “Introduce us.”
“Nah, you’d snub him. It would be too hurtful to his refined soul.” Heh. Her eyes were blazing now.
“I insist you introduce me to him,” she insisted. “Now.”
Marcus shrugged and led her to a quiet corner where Higgs was chatting Alicia Spinnet up. Higgs saw them approach but appeared to be pretending not to see them, no doubt in the hopes they would go away.
“Higgs, I need you for a minute,” Marcus interrupted.
“I need you to get lost, mate,” Terence replied, keeping his gaze fixed on Spinnet.
“I need a person of sensitivity and refinement, such as yourself,” Marcus returned blithely.
“I need to see this,” Spinnet snickered. “Please, Terry, go right ahead.” Terence sighed in a long-suffering manner, before turning to face Marcus. Marcus looked expectantly at Morag. She stared back at him.
“There’s a problem?” Marcus asked her.
“This is Terence Higgs,” Morag screeched. Spinnet laughed.
“He has hidden depths,” Marcus assured her. Terence looked simultaneously confused and insulted. “Say something of great portent, Higgs.” Now he just looked confused.
“This is Terence Higgs,” Morag repeated.
“You know…” Spinnet said thoughtfully. “She does make a good point.”
“No, seriously,” Marcus insisted. “It’s a side that he hides from almost everyone, but he’s a true philosopher.”
“Marcus,” Terence asked, in a pained voice, “would it be too much trouble for you to kill yourself?”
“No, no,” Spinnet insisted, laughing. “I want to hear more about Terence Higgs as philosopher sage. This is the first interesting thing I can ever recall happening at this ball.”
“I don’t know,” Terence said judiciously. “Last year, Brutus had that allergic reaction to the puffapod juice, and vomited little flying elephants. That was pretty good.”
“Very philosophical,” Spinnet said, before she doubled over in laughter.
Marcus closed his eyes. How fucking hard would it have been for Terence just to have stood there and pretended to be wise? This was a lost cause now.
“I rest my case,” Morag said, acidly. “I suggest you come up with another candidate.” She turned and stalked over to the corner, glaring at Marcus. She did that a lot.
“So you’ll be leaving, then?” Terence asked Marcus hopefully.
“I think I will,” Alicia said, wiping tears from her eyes. “No matter how hard you try, I don’t think you could possibly come up with anything else quite as amusing, Higgs. I don’t want you to strain yourself trying. Rest up and I’ll see you at the Hogwarts Benefit next month.” She grinned impishly at the two of them, then turned and sashayed away, hips swaying. Terence stared forlornly after her.
“Thanks for nothing, mate,” Marcus muttered. Terence stood open-mouthed, as Marcus grudgingly made his way back to Morag. She gave him one furious glare, and then turned and sniffed disapprovingly. Looked like he would have to resign himself to the unadulterated pleasure of her company for the rest of the evening.
He’d be stuck with her for hours.
OK. So, from her description she liked annoying ponces. Brutus was pretty much definitional for annoying ponce. He’d always been resolutely and regrettably faithful to Morgaine though, so Marcus would have to use some pretty hefty memory modifications in order for Brutus to be useful. Morgaine would also need to be taken care of. A sleeping draught, maybe? Since the chocolate-covered cherry incident, she’d been pretty uptight about what she ate and drank…so maybe he’d have to memory modify her? Plus there would be witnesses who would ask inconvenient questions…He could cast a glamour on Morag so she looked like Morgaine to the rest of the attendees, if he knew how to do that. He could hire someone…Maybe this plan wasn’t all that workable.
Morag sniffed disapprovingly again. Merlin.
The plan wasn’t completely unworkable either. All right, maybe stunning spells would do for Morgaine.
“Do you know what I find utterly incomprehensible?” Morag snapped.
“That your parents are trying to flog you off to the highest bidder? That this band only knows three songs and one of them is ‘Broomstick Boogie’? That no one has spelled your mouth shut?”
“That you could possibly be related to him,” Morag sniped, nodding in Antony’s direction. Well, that was fair enough. Marcus found it fairly incomprehensible as well. “He’s just so…” her voice trailed off.
Ridiculously pretty? Marcus had always figured it was some kind god’s way of protecting the vain and indolent, thus ensuring income throughout the generations for makers of hair care products and Italian shoes. The delicate balance of nature and all.
Marcus looked over at Morag, who still hadn’t managed to say exactly what Antony was. Well, better minds had tried and failed on that score. It was the look on her face that brought him up short. Naked longing filled her features as she watched his brother. It was embarrassing even to look at her.
“He’s just so what?” he asked gruffly.
“I don’t know,” she said softly, then visibly shook herself. Marcus watched that cool façade slide back into place. “Sophisticated. Sensitive. Clearly of superior intelligence. Your opposite in every way, of course.”
Marcus took a quick look over at Antony again. His brother had positioned himself so that the chandelier would glint off his platinum highlights. Merlin, he looked even more vapid than usual tonight. Marcus would cut him a break though. For the first time in his life, Antony was actually going to be useful.
Marcus strode across the room towards the blonde blockhead. When he’d placed about ten feet between Morag and himself, he turned around and looked at her.
“Coming?” he asked impatiently. She looked uncertain, but clearly didn’t want to draw attention to herself by shouting back and forth to him. She started to hurry over to him, and Marcus resumed striding toward Antony, forcing her to follow along. Antony looked startled at his approach, but had recovered himself by the time they reached him.
“Little brother,” Antony said jovially.
“Pretty boy,” Marcus returned. “Have you met Morag MacDougal?” Morag flushed, and gave Antony a shy smile.
“I’ve admired from afar,” Antony said, smiling down at her. “However, I’ve never had the explicit honor. Are you enjoying the dance?”
Marcus watched, with equal parts amusement and revulsion, as Morag assured Antony that she was having a lovely time at this lovely ball with the lovely hors' douerves. Lovely.
“Do you not enjoy dancing?” Antony asked her. “Or is it that my brother is being inexplicably derelict in his duties?”
“I’m sure you’ll be more than happy to make up for my shocking lack of manners,” Marcus said, with a warning look. “Just remember, elle a seulement seize ans.”
Marcus only knew how to say two sentences in French. Fortunately, “she is only sixteen” and “her husband breeds attack hippogriffs” comprised about sixty percent of what he usually had to say to Antony. Antony gave him a thin-lipped smile.
“Would you mind terribly excusing us for just a moment?” Antony asked Morag, cordially. “My brother hasn’t spoken with me since Yule and there are a few family matters we need to discuss.” Morag hastily protested that that would be fine, family should always come first, and people of character realized that. Marcus rolled his eyes.
After Antony made sure Morag was settled comfortably with a glass of champagne, he drew Marcus over to a quiet corner.
“You want me to dance with your date?” he inquired mildly.
“Yeah,” Marcus said, impatiently. “You’re slow tonight. Usually, all that’s required is to vaguely point you in the direction of something in a skirt.”
“Just wanted to avoid further unpleasantness,” Antony said, calmly. “You’re often difficult to interpret, Marcus. Tonight, you’re shoving your date in my direction. A few months ago, I danced with a girl that you couldn’t stand, and you became quite agitated.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcus gritted out. “Are you going to do this, or not? If not, I’ll see you next Yule.”
“I’ll do it,” Antony replied. “You have to promise to go to mother’s Mooncalf Protection Society Luncheon next week, though. Oh, and you have to promise not to refer to them as the CowHumpers again.”
“Fine,” Marcus snarled. “You have to keep MacDougal occupied and happy for the rest of the night though.”
“Agreed,” Antony smiled. “Her name is Morass?”
”Morag, you moron.” Merlin.
“Morag,” Antony repeated, concentrating distressingly hard. “You are slipping, by the way, little brother. I would have taken her off your hands for nothing. She’s a lovely girl.” Marcus shot a quick glance at Morag. Dark hair, dark eyes. It wasn’t exactly unprecedented. “As gentleman, we should take pains to make sure that people don’t think you were just trying to get rid of her,” Antony continued. “Possibly you could complain loudly about how hard it is when witches prefer me to you?”
“Possibly I could storm out onto the dance floor under the pretense of a jealous rage and punch you extremely hard in the face?” Marcus countered. “As gentleman, we should not be concerned with trifling matters such as a few loose teeth.”
“Perhaps it would be better to keep things as simple as possible,” Antony said quickly.
They strode back to Morag in silence. She rose and smiled nervously, biting her lip shyly as Antony led her out onto the dance floor. Marcus watched them for a moment, marveling at the way Morag looked at his brother.
How could anyone look at Antony and see intelligence and sensitivity? Maybe that’s what birds did though. Find some guy towards whom they felt some rudimentary physical attraction, and somehow hypnotize themselves into thinking he was something remarkable. To look at some angry, manipulative bastard and see a demi-god. For all he knew, Morgaine might think Brutus was a gladiator.
Sighing, Marcus moved over to the corner table where Morgaine and Brutus were sitting. Waiting for Morgaine to go elsewhere was probably futile; she’d been spell-o-taped to Brutus’ side of late. Besides, Morgaine eventually always got her digs in, and it was never a good idea to let her pick the time and place.
Bloody hell, she was feeding Brutus a piece of chocolate cake.
“Should I be grateful that he can still at least chew without your helpful guidance?” Marcus drawled, sitting down. Brutus jumped guiltily, blushing. “That is only acceptable at your wedding, primarily because I won’t be able to see it through the haze of my tears.”
“Jealous?” Morgaine asked, eyebrow arched. Sighing, Brutus began to read a book he’d had hidden underneath his chair.
“No, I wouldn’t allow you to feed me,” Marcus assured her. “If you want to poison me, you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way… by spitting venom from your fangs.”
“Ah, I forgot that the weak-minded interpret everything literally,” she said sweetly. “Let me re-state: Are you jealous that no woman will ever care enough about you to be upset if you starve?”
”I need women to clean my house, cook my meals and suck my dick, Morgaine. I can take care of eating and dressing myself,” Marcus sneered, holding up his champagne glass in a mock salute. “But hey, to each his own.”
“Please tell me that’s not your toast for the wedding.”
“I’m not really going to do a toast…more a call to arms.”
“Silencio-the bride’s best friend.”
“I’ve always thought that this wedding owed more to Imperius.”
“Only to get the maid of honor to dance with you,” she smiled sweetly.
“I don’t typically have a problem getting witches to do what I want,” he said bluntly.
“Oh?” Something flashed in Morgaine’s eyes and Marcus felt a little uneasy. “Which witches are these?”
“I’m not going to name names,” he said, shortly.
“Oh, you are growing up,” Morgaine purred. “I had hopes that you were when I saw you with your new little friend, Morag MacDougal. Certainly the smartest witch you’ve ever spent time with.”
No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t even close.
“Morgaine,” Marcus said, silkily. “I wasn’t interested in her. I was simply trying to sell Morag on Brutus’ charms…seeing as they’re both so clever. Didn’t work, though. She’s too appalled by where he’s been. As are we all.”
Brutus’ gaze remained fixed on his book, but he reached out and moved the candelabra to where neither of them could reach it. After a moment’s pause, he took Morgaine’s fork and stuck it in his coat pocket.
“Oh, I should have known you weren’t really interested in her,” Morgaine said, eyes simmering. “You’re too much of a pragmatist.”
“As flattered as I am that you spend this much time thinking about the witches in my bed, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marcus said, feigning boredom.
“Well, why bother getting invested in Morag when she’s almost past her prime? That is why you threw over the little Gryff isn’t it? Much better to start with a twelve or thirteen-year-old. That way you’ll have a few good years before you have to find another.” Bitch.
“I have no idea what Gryff you’re talking about,” Marcus said, coolly. “As for your other statements, we could duel over them I suppose…although I hate to have my retribution constrained by convention.”
“It’s so droll when you pretend not to be obsessed with Katie Bell,” Morgaine laughed. “I was saddened to hear about your recent problems.”
Marcus’ heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. Morgaine didn’t know anything about his problems with Katie. They weren’t even really problems. Katie would calm down. Just because she hadn’t yet, didn’t mean she wasn’t going to.
“That my best friend is engaged to a delusional psychopath? Yes, it is tragic,” he drawled.
“Your problems at the Yule Ball,” she continued blithely. “It must have been heart-wrenching for the poor girl…having you go off and fuck Diana right in front of her. Were you punishing her for something? You should really be more sensitive, Marcus.”
“You should really learn your place, Morgaine. Stick to lolling around, casting hair-styling charms and eating, I don’t know, chocolate-covered cherries. Do you require further education in this?” Fear flashed in Morgaine’s eyes for just a second. It was soothing. In the next second, the arrogance and anger were back.
“You do seem upset, Marcus.” She leaned forward and pitched her voice even lower. “I apologize for what I said about you throwing her over. It was rude and hurtful…especially when it’s now clear to me that it was the other way around.”
Katie hadn’t thrown him over. They were at an impasse, that’s all. He could fix it. He had a wand. There were ways.
“Thank you for your condolences. Somehow I’ll recover from being dumped by a figment of your imagination.”
“I hope you won’t think badly of her because of this,” Morgaine cooed. “She’s spent all these years at school, far away from you, with all those lads…probably they were chatting her up constantly. I’m sure the temptation was nearly constant…”
He knew it. Clearly, Morgaine didn’t know what she was talking about; she was just extrapolating from some clever observations and a lot of nosiness. Katie would never…
“Ah, I get it now,” Marcus said, coldly. “All this was just a roundabout way of justifying infidelity…This is probably something you need to discuss with Brutus, not me.”
“Such a suspicious mind. If things do get back on track between you two, you should really bring the Gryff to the wedding. She’s probably never gotten to go to an event where she wasn’t expected to bring ice or some chairs. I’m sure your mother would find her to be absolutely charming.”
Useless fucking cow. He forced himself to remove his hand from his wand.
“I wouldn’t bring anything I cared about anywhere near you. You’re a virus.” He didn’t sound angry, he noted. He didn’t even sound human. Let her say one more thing…but she had fallen silent.
“Viruses are fascinating,” Brutus interjected. Marcus and Morgaine looked at him in shock. He gazed calmly back at them. “Infinitely changeable, highly adaptable, omnipresent in all environments. I could speak of them at great length. In fact, I plan to start right now.” Marcus forced his jaw to unclench and nodded. Morgaine exhaled.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “Pansy looks upset. I think she had a fight with Draco. I had better go see to her.” She reached out and squeezed Brutus’ hand before going.
“You disappointed me this evening, Marcus,” Brutus said quietly.
That was that, then. Brutus was going to be the big man. Marcus was willing to give him some latitude on the topic of Morgaine, but there were certain subjects Marcus would not allow her to befoul. Brutus needed him, after all. Marcus was fine on his own.
“Yeah?” Marcus said calmly, a warning note in his voice. They looked at each other for a long moment before Brutus looked away.
“You were standing at the top of the stairs, right behind my sister and Malfoy,” Brutus said, cracking a smile. “How hard would it have been for a robust specimen such as yourself to throw young Draco down the stairs?” Marcus let out the breath he had been holding. Thank you, Brutus.
“I thought since we were being photographed at the time, it might not be sufficiently discreet,” Marcus smirked.
“Piffle,” Brutus returned. “I’m sure you could have dissembled well enough to avoid suspicion.”
“If that situation does require attention,” Marcus said seriously, “I will take care of it. Say the word.”
“Thank you,” Brutus replied, just as seriously. “That’s not necessary yet. I just wanted…If you would refrain from trying to make Morgaine’s internal organs external, it would be appreciated.”
Marcus shrugged. No promises there. He could hear Brutus take a deep breath, preparing to force the issue. Blast. Time was when the man knew when to shut up. Why couldn’t Morgaine come and stick her tongue in his ear now?
“How many chizpurfles can dance on the head of a pin? Why are the Portuguese such lousy Quidditch players? If a tree falls on someone and kills them, and no one else is around, did it make a sound? Why would you serve food dripping in fluorescent orange sauce at a ball where most of the girls have to wear white? Why do they all have to wear white anyways-is this ball sponsored by the dairy council?”
Terence Higgs did serve a purpose. Who knew?
“You might wonder why I’ve all of a sudden developed such a thirst for truth.” Terence told Brutus, earnestly, as he sat down. “It’s because I’ve recently discovered that I’m a philosopher.”
“The tireless search for answers is a thirsty job.” Brutus said dryly. “Let me fetch you some hemlock.” Terence gestured rudely at him. “Have any great insights been visited upon you?”
“Only that Marcus is an unadulterated bastard,” Terence informed him, slumping in his chair.
“What did he do now?” Brutus asked curiously.
“Completely fucked up my chances with Spinnet for this evening,” Terence replied morosely.
“Really sorry, Higgs,” Marcus sneered. “I know this must be especially difficult for you now that you’ve finally overcome your maiden modesty and managed to talk to a girl.” Brutus snickered.
“I was making headway after a hundred attempts, and you come barreling in because you don’t want to actually have to spend time with your date?”
“MacDougal bored me,” Marcus grinned. “Lighten up. It’s not like you and Spinnet aren’t going to be at a thousand terminally boring events just like this before you both shall die. So you’ll have to wait another month before you see her knickers.”
“At which point in time you’ll probably come barging in, demanding that I dance with your date or otherwise serve as your lovely assistant,” Terence said sourly.
“Merlin, Higgs, I won’t be there,” Marcus scoffed. “Remember…I’m the one of us who isn’t some society lapdog. I plan to avoid dilettantes, dancing and dowagers for the rest of my life. My final fucking appearance, gentlemen.”
“That raises a point,” Terence said. “Why are you here tonight, mate? Tongues are all a wag.”
“Any particular interesting theories?”
“About half of the people, of which I am one, think you’re sucking up to Malcolm MacDougal to facilitate some business dealings. Most of the other half, all of whom have apparently never met you, think you’re looking for a wife.” Terence paused, before casting a sly look at Brutus. “Parkinson thinks your mother made you do it.”
“All I said,” Brutus protested, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture, “was that your mother somehow makes you go to the Yule Ball every year. I thought similar pressure might have been brought to bear.”
“He thinks you’re a sniveling cream puff,” Terence translated, gleefully.
“You’re both wrong,” Marcus said, leaning back in his chair. “I just get off on being surrounded by girls who are dressed like druids. It’s very pagan.”
“Really?” Terence considered. “Kind of hot. As long as they’re ‘I enjoy the occasional natter with a tree’ types, and not the ‘please allow me to bury you alive in this peat bog’ sort.”
“It has nothing to do with the Celtic priesthood,” Brutus said, rolling his eyes. “The white robes symbolize virginity,” he lectured. “Debutante balls probably have their roots in ancient rituals such as harvest festivals, or sacrifices to the sun gods.”
Marcus considered. This evening wouldn’t have been half bad if he’d been allowed to throw Morag into a volcano.
“Of course, now it’s been stripped of its more primal elements,” Brutus continued. “We’re left with mainly virgins, dancing and feasting.”
“Sure,” Terence scoffed. “Like any of these girls are virgi-Ouch!” He glared at Marcus who had just elbowed him extremely hard in the ribs. Realization dawned. “Except for Pansy,” he assured an agitated Brutus. “Untouched. Completely. Hear she’s famed for it.”
“Absolutely,” Marcus chimed in. “It was in the Slytherin newsletter.” Brutus cast them both withering looks, before returning to his book.
“Although I’d be sorely disappointed with the boys of Slytherin if there are any other virgins at Hogwarts above 5th year,” Terence snickered.
“Shut your mouth,” Marcus snapped, “or I’ll rip off your dick and gag you with it.” Terence and Brutus both froze.
“Sorry, mate,” Terence apologized after an uncomfortable silence, obviously baffled. “You have a sister that you’ve never mentioned to us?” he joked. Marcus forced himself to laugh, as his blood roared in his ears.
“Nah, I just enjoy threatening you, Higgs.” Merlin, his voice sounded tight. Breathe. “I think it’s the lovely shade of puce you turn when you’re about to wet your pants.”
“I just enjoy being friends with you, Flint,” Terence returned. “I think it’s the fact that I seem even more handsome and intriguing when I’m standing next to your ugly self.” Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Dare I ask what sophisticated witticisms and trenchant observations have been uttered in my absence?” Migraine had slipped quietly up behind them. If Brutus insisted on keeping her around, he was going to have put a bell on her.
“Well, next year we think they should sacrifice one of the debutantes to ensure a good harvest,” Terence said airily. “Oh, and if Marcus had a sister? She would definitely be a virgin.”
“If there was a family resemblance, that would be a certainty,” Morgaine said coolly, sitting down and studiously not looking at Marcus. “Virginity and bloodletting? Throw in a few huffy words about the garish state of robes today, and they’ll let you join the Witches Abstinence Coalition.”
“What do they do at those meetings anyways?” Terence asked curiously. “Just sit around and refrain from having sex? Compare and contrast different types of chastity belts?”
“Maybe they try to attack the problem of promiscuity at its source,” Marcus offered, snickering. “Run around putting up wanted posters of Diana Bletchley.”
“Speaking of La Bletchley, where is she?” Brutus mused, looking around. “Tonight has seemed strangely lacking in cleavage.”
Thank Salazar. Marcus was still fucking paying for his last run-in with her. There was a witch who needed a bell around her neck. And a muzzle.
“I think the Cauldron Club doesn’t send her an invitation,” Marcus sniped. “Don’t want her around the little debs in case being a complete and utter slag is contagious.”
“Probably a wise choice,” Terence smirked. “She does advertise her lifestyle.”
“Ah…Diana isn’t fit to associate with these pure young girls? What a threat to their virtue she is. ” Morgaine drawled, eyebrow raised. “Brutus, dance with me please. I must escape this miasma of hypocrisy.”
“I’m not a threat to anyone’s virtue,” Brutus told her earnestly, standing and taking her hand.
“I know you’re not,” she said contentedly, giving him a quick kiss as they walked towards the dance floor. Marcus and Terry rolled their eyes.
“So do I have to buy them a wedding gift?” Terence asked sourly. “I paid for the drinks when we threw that intervention for him.”
“What a waste that was,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “I don’t think he even read all of ‘Articles against Morgaine: Musings from a Concerned Public.’” Such a waste, really. It had been quite the treatise.
“I mean, what would be an appropriate gift in these circumstances?” Terence complained. “Brutus, you’ve just shackled yourself to a viper. Here are some candlesticks.”
“You could give him a signed affidavit that you won’t sleep with his wife,” Marcus suggested.
“Would that work?” Terence asked hopefully. “That would be highly cost-effective.”
“And in this case, no hardship.”
“When’s his stag party going to be?” Terence asked, sounding disturbingly upbeat at the prospect. “You’re the best man, after all. Montague and I are mere attendants.”
“Just as soon as any of three things are possible,” Marcus drawled. “1. Montague suddenly developing the ability to not annoy the fuck out of me. 2. You spending more than twenty consecutive minutes with your pants zipped and your mouth shut. 3. Brutus being able to look at naked women with an emotion other than unease.”
“No stag party? You’re a lousy best man, mate.”
“Be grateful I’m not throwing him a wake.”
“I’m going to go see if Montague wants to do his duty, if you’re not going to,” Terence chided. “He and I can at least pour some drinks into Brutus, and take him to see the MagicaExotica show or something. It’s tradition.”
“Because when you think of the erotic uses of snidgets, you think of Brutus.”
Terence gave him a superior look, and headed over to talk to Montague. Nothing could stop him when he thought he had the moral high ground. Maybe it was the rarity value. Montague, Terence and Brutus in an evening of male bonding-talk about your meeting of the minds. Eh, what did Marcus know? They’d probably like it. After they were done drinking, they could paint each other’s toenails.
A couple of the braver attendees came over to discuss Quidditch for a bit. There wasn’t that much to talk about, though. Marcus really didn’t feel like listening to geezers drone on about how much better the game used to be, when they played on glorified twigs and decapitations were frequent, to hear them tell it. As for the current season? The Falcons were doing well. They could always do better, though. They would do better.
The young wizarding world was in full rut, he saw. Girls in white, blokes in black…paired off in perfect symmetry, one from column A and one from column B. Brutus was earnestly explaining something to Morgaine as they danced. Marcus would wager his broom that the look of rapt adoration on her face was feigned.
He didn’t think his brother and MacDougal had left the dance floor since Marcus had managed to foist her off. From the way Morag was gazing besottedly up at Antony, she still hadn’t managed to do the arithmancy. Blast. Marcus should have told her that his brother was an aspiring poet. It would have been priceless to see what Antony would come up with. Knowing Antony, he’d probably end up rhyming “Morag” with “not a slag”, or “should bring an overnight bag.” Knowing Antony’s effect on women, she’d probably end up nominating him for poet laureate.
Marcus wanted to take his broom and get out of there. Go fly through the Forbidden Forest, weaving and ducking so fast that it wasn’t even possible to identify the creatures that reached out for him. Maybe go to Dover again and race headlong at the cliffs; turning aside at the last possible moment, feeling the limestone graze his robes, just a second away from becoming a stain on the white surface. Better yet, maybe tonight was a perfect time to finally grab his invisibility cloak and go down into the Tube tunnels, trying to stay ahead of the Muggle trains in the dark. Find out how good he really was.
Maybe he would.
Maybe he should watch himself. He already knew two things: First, that he was better on a broom than anyone else and second, that no one was perfect. If he already knew that, there wasn’t much for the tunnels to teach him. If he was going to risk leaving some of his plans unaccomplished, he’d better have some justification. Did he have any?
No. He didn’t.
Marcus didn’t have to sit there and watch the mating dance of the latest crop of the finely bred, however. There was better whiskey and better company-that is, none at all-back at his flat. He stood up and started moving towards the door.
“Marcus, come over here,” Terry called. Marcus raised an arm in greeting, but kept moving.
“Hey,” Terence broke away from conversation with two witches whose make-up probably weighed more than their dress robes. “Good idea, mate. Let’s go get a pint at the Dragon and Dugbog.”
“I was thinking higher alcohol content and fewer people,” Marcus said, shortly.
“If we hit the pub, we could pick up some witches.”
“Not interested.”
“Strip club?”
”Even less interested.”
“Alright. We can pick up some witches, pick some fights or pick our noses,” Terence said exasperatedly. “Your choice.”
“While those are your favorite three activities, Higgs,” Marcus sneered, “some of us prefer to do other things.”
“You want to partake in your favorite activity?” Terence asked, grinning. “Alright, we can brood.”
“You are aware that brooding requires silence?”
“Absolutely, my liege. You will have to help me with the finer distinctions though: is this going to be a teeth-clenched suppressed rage sort of thing, or a more lugubrious moping?”
“Isn’t that Spinnet?” Marcus asked, pointing in a completely random direction. Terence stopped and whirled around.
“I don’t see her,” he said disappointedly.
“I think she’s sitting at that table over there. That woman’s bustle is in the way.”
“I’ll go check,” said Terence happily. “Stay here.”
“Sure thing,” Marcus replied easily. As Terence disappeared behind a gaggle of giggling witches, Marcus moved quickly to the door and out into the night.
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