MOAR
tulipmonster has pointed out that this is quite decidedly AU, now-- I mean, it is anyway, because there are Wimseys in it, but canonically there wasn't a Triwizard Tournament in 1931-2. If there had been, Hilary would have rocked it, we can all be sure.
"Thorpe. Thorpe. Thorpe."
Hilary batted irritably at the finger prodding her ear and buried her face deeper into the crook of her arm with a groan. "Go away, Jerry. I don't feel well."
"Nor would I, if I spent as much time in the library as you." He hopped up to sit on the table next to her-- she refused to oblige him by looking up, but she could feel it shake under her as his weight landed on it. "It's nearly time for the feast, Hilary, would you get a move on?"
"I said I don't feel well." She turned her head, still resting it on her elbow, and stared blankly at the side of Jerry's leg. His robes were hanging open, and he was wearing grey flannel trousers underneath; the texture was quite soothing to look at up close, really. "Do I come pester you before Quidditch matches?"
"Oh, no, never." He snorted, somewhere above her head. "Only every single time Gryffindor has played Ravenclaw since I've known you."
"That's different," Hilary protested. "It's in a good cause. And anyhow, you can admire Beauxbatons girls perfectly well without my help."
"I could admire them better without you there as competition, which is why you ought to know better than to say a thing like that to begin with." He patted her shoulder. "You've got to come to dinner, Hilary; for all you know you're one of the guests of honor."
"Why did I do it?" Hilary moaned. "Why did I throw my name in, Jerry? Why didn't you throw yours in? Why didn't I throw your name in? It would serve you right for being such an irritating twit all the time."
"In reverse order: because Dippet enchanted the Goblet not to let you; because risking your life in recreational combat to honor your family name isn't quite as much in fashion among Muggle nobility as it was a hundred and forty years ago, even though wizards seem to still love it enough to be resurrecting this Godforsaken tradition; because-- well, I can't speak for you on that first one, really. Not," he went on hastily, when she lifted her head to stare at him, "that I think you're likely to be killed if the Goblet chooses you. In fact, I'm sure you're far too stubborn to let any such thing occur."
"Funny thing." Hilary dropped her chin to her arm again. "I believe that's exactly why I put my name in."
"To get killed?" Jerry demanded incredulously.
"To honor my family name," said Hilary miserably. "Somone's got to do it, haven't they?"
"Oh, well, in that case." His hand lightened on her back, fingers drifting up over her hair. "I'm sure you'd have made your parents very proud indeed by hiding up here."
This was so unlike his usual methods of cheering her up that Hilary actually sat all the way upright, dislodging his hand from her head. "That was low, Wimsey."
He shrugged, head cocked. "I had to get your attention somehow, didn't I? Now come on." When she still hesitated, he pulled out his wand and tapped it meaningfully on the table. "I'll hex all your schoolbooks into illegibility for a week; don't think I won't. I've been practicing on mine in case of emergencies."
"I don't think I want to know what your idea of an emergency is." Hilary slammed her book shut with a sigh and just barely managed to collect her bag before he was hauling her out the door and down after everyone else, towards the Great Hall. "You do realize the girls from Beauxbatons aren't any prettier than the girls here, don't you? It's not a bit reasonable of you to think so."
"I happen to believe they are. And in any case, even if they aren't, they're French; you can tell they're starved for civilized male company." Jerry paused-- for a second, at least, long enough to let her catch up and walk beside him rather than trailing behind. "Jealous, are you? You're welcome to assert a claim over me at any time."
"Eugh," said Hilary fervently, catching his reference; this was a months-old and oft-repeated discussion, nearly comfortable by now. "That was one time, and I was drunk, and which of us provided the mead?"
"I did," he admitted imperturbably, "and I seem to recall being the one who drank the lion's share of it, too. If it takes that little alcohol to get you to kiss me that enthusiastically--"
Hilary staggered, remembering suddenly that she might be heading to her doom, and clutched at his arm. "Seriously, Jerry, I think I might be ill."
"You might, but you won't-- and I won't take that as a judgment on my kissing ability, because I'm feeling generous tonight." He took advantage of her grip to hook his arm firmly through hers before she could escape down the nearest convenient corridor. "You'll be brilliant, and if the Goblet doesn't pick you it's a silly ass of a Goblet anyway. Now hurry up, or we'll miss the view-- the food, I mean."
"Thorpe. Thorpe. Thorpe."
Hilary batted irritably at the finger prodding her ear and buried her face deeper into the crook of her arm with a groan. "Go away, Jerry. I don't feel well."
"Nor would I, if I spent as much time in the library as you." He hopped up to sit on the table next to her-- she refused to oblige him by looking up, but she could feel it shake under her as his weight landed on it. "It's nearly time for the feast, Hilary, would you get a move on?"
"I said I don't feel well." She turned her head, still resting it on her elbow, and stared blankly at the side of Jerry's leg. His robes were hanging open, and he was wearing grey flannel trousers underneath; the texture was quite soothing to look at up close, really. "Do I come pester you before Quidditch matches?"
"Oh, no, never." He snorted, somewhere above her head. "Only every single time Gryffindor has played Ravenclaw since I've known you."
"That's different," Hilary protested. "It's in a good cause. And anyhow, you can admire Beauxbatons girls perfectly well without my help."
"I could admire them better without you there as competition, which is why you ought to know better than to say a thing like that to begin with." He patted her shoulder. "You've got to come to dinner, Hilary; for all you know you're one of the guests of honor."
"Why did I do it?" Hilary moaned. "Why did I throw my name in, Jerry? Why didn't you throw yours in? Why didn't I throw your name in? It would serve you right for being such an irritating twit all the time."
"In reverse order: because Dippet enchanted the Goblet not to let you; because risking your life in recreational combat to honor your family name isn't quite as much in fashion among Muggle nobility as it was a hundred and forty years ago, even though wizards seem to still love it enough to be resurrecting this Godforsaken tradition; because-- well, I can't speak for you on that first one, really. Not," he went on hastily, when she lifted her head to stare at him, "that I think you're likely to be killed if the Goblet chooses you. In fact, I'm sure you're far too stubborn to let any such thing occur."
"Funny thing." Hilary dropped her chin to her arm again. "I believe that's exactly why I put my name in."
"To get killed?" Jerry demanded incredulously.
"To honor my family name," said Hilary miserably. "Somone's got to do it, haven't they?"
"Oh, well, in that case." His hand lightened on her back, fingers drifting up over her hair. "I'm sure you'd have made your parents very proud indeed by hiding up here."
This was so unlike his usual methods of cheering her up that Hilary actually sat all the way upright, dislodging his hand from her head. "That was low, Wimsey."
He shrugged, head cocked. "I had to get your attention somehow, didn't I? Now come on." When she still hesitated, he pulled out his wand and tapped it meaningfully on the table. "I'll hex all your schoolbooks into illegibility for a week; don't think I won't. I've been practicing on mine in case of emergencies."
"I don't think I want to know what your idea of an emergency is." Hilary slammed her book shut with a sigh and just barely managed to collect her bag before he was hauling her out the door and down after everyone else, towards the Great Hall. "You do realize the girls from Beauxbatons aren't any prettier than the girls here, don't you? It's not a bit reasonable of you to think so."
"I happen to believe they are. And in any case, even if they aren't, they're French; you can tell they're starved for civilized male company." Jerry paused-- for a second, at least, long enough to let her catch up and walk beside him rather than trailing behind. "Jealous, are you? You're welcome to assert a claim over me at any time."
"Eugh," said Hilary fervently, catching his reference; this was a months-old and oft-repeated discussion, nearly comfortable by now. "That was one time, and I was drunk, and which of us provided the mead?"
"I did," he admitted imperturbably, "and I seem to recall being the one who drank the lion's share of it, too. If it takes that little alcohol to get you to kiss me that enthusiastically--"
Hilary staggered, remembering suddenly that she might be heading to her doom, and clutched at his arm. "Seriously, Jerry, I think I might be ill."
"You might, but you won't-- and I won't take that as a judgment on my kissing ability, because I'm feeling generous tonight." He took advantage of her grip to hook his arm firmly through hers before she could escape down the nearest convenient corridor. "You'll be brilliant, and if the Goblet doesn't pick you it's a silly ass of a Goblet anyway. Now hurry up, or we'll miss the view-- the food, I mean."