Lunchtime, continued

[teh_wiz]

The crackle in the air wasn't just end-of-year nerves, and it had to happen.

"Declinatio." The spell deflects general attention away from the two Slytherin witches. As he strides the bench length to where Misses Bulstrode and Parkinson are, not to put to fine a point on it, behaving like six-year-olds, the atmosphere of the Hall changes from

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[army_of_p]

Pansy gives Millicent a sidelong look - hah, she is dripping gravy - as she slides as demurely as possible off the table, trying not to grip her elbow despite the fact that her fingers are pins and needles. She has to grab her satchel with the other hand.

The anger trickles out of her as she follows in the Headmaster's brisk wake. She doesn't try to hold onto it, for all that it's leaving her feeling rather hollow; it won't get her anywhere with Dumbledore except in more trouble. Oh Merlin, just how much trouble is she in? Possibly a lot. Brawling at lunch. Ugh, she still has cream on her face, and is it in her hair? Oh, fucking Zabini.

Pansy keeps her head up as they march out of the hall, and just near the door, she passes him - bloody Zabini himself, with Draco hanging off him. She ignores them both, pointedly and icily.

[teh_wiz]

Albus turns corners until the corridor is quiet, and pauses in front of a copy of Brueghel's Spring. The workers are industriously tillling their garden, although one or two look up when Albus drums his fingers on the frame.

"Stop here, Miss Parkinson."

He spreads his hands, shakes his head. "Tell me, what slight could be worth such a demeaning display?"

She looks at the ground before looking up. He continues, "There is none. None whatsoever. You are meant to be an example, Pansy."

[army_of_p]

"I'm sorry, sir," Pansy says, composed and polite, though not precisely overflowing with visible contrition. She is sorry, but more annoyed with herself: for letting Millicent (and Blaise) get to her that much; for brawling in public, how gauche; for letting Mill get in that slap to the face that's already making Pansy's cheek throb a little. She's praying that doesn't bruise in a way she can't explain to her mother.

She folds her hands in front of her. "My behaviour was unacceptable, I do apologise. You're quite right, there is no excuse." Never complain, never explain - her mother's favourite piece of advice. (Well, along with, "Sit like a lady for Circe's sake!") There's little to be done but face up to the consequences now. She is meant to be an example; she'll be made an example of.

[teh_wiz]

Her apology is sufficient, but it's a relief to see that Pansy is obviously more angry at herself. A fourteen-year-old Pansy Parkinson wuld have been angry at being caught, at being found out; at least Hogwarts has taught her that much.

"You'll need to see Madame Pomfrey directly," Albus says. The burden of explaining bumps and bruises to the Parkinson matriarch makes him feel immediately weary. "But I should like to know your timetable for the afternoon, first."

[Hannah Abbott]

[randomwiz]

"I'm sorry, Zach, what were you saying? You asked something, and -- I don't know, I guess it's just been a long day already -- I lost the thread..." Hannah trails off, feeling confused, almost like she'd just woken up from one of her bouts of Divinations Narcolepsy.

She brings her focus back to Zach, who looks a bit stunned, himself. She doesn't talk to him much, and it takes some actual effort to figure out what she can ask him that will sound suitably... interested. "So, um, Zach. Are you playing Quidditch this afternoon? They'd be crazy not to pick you."

[wiz_kid_zach]

Zach listens to Hannah with half his attention, mostly focused on picking through the basket of glossy red apples set in the center of the table. "Yeah, I am. They're still trying to find someone to replace Finch-Fletchley, but I'm in."

He doesn't know if Hannah has any real interest in Quidditch, and has no idesa if she even plays, so he drops the subject in favour of a more pressing one: lunch.

"Are these fresh?" he asks, plucking an apple from the basket on the center of the table and frowning at it. "It's not exactly apple season, is it?"

[hannablicious]

"It's always apple season somewhere in Wizardom, isn't it?" Hannah thinks for a minute. "Wasn't there a song like that when we were kids? 'Bring Me Apples from Madagascar' or something? Mum was always listening to that Wide, Wild World of Wizards show on the wireless."

Zach takes a tentative bite from the apple, and she waits to see what the verdict will be before deciding between that or a plum. The plums look a bit, well, lush. She'd look a sight with juice dripping down her chin, but then that's her Mum again, echoing in Hannah's head all the things she'd say if she still could.

[wiz_kid_zach]

Zach takes another bite of the apple absent-mindedly, his eyes following Potter and Weasley over at the Gryffindor table. "Head Boy Weasley's in most of your classes, right?" he asks, abandoning the topic of kids' songs he may or may not (okay, he does, but he won't actually admit to it) know, in favor of his current most-pressing agenda. "Heard any gossip lately?"

[zabini_b]

Blaise blinks and looks down at the notebook he's holding, its pages covered with illegibly scrawled numbers.

He says "Er."

[draco_itero]

Millicent's got food all over her, but it hurts Draco more than normal to look closely at her.

"Blaise," he hisses, squinting, "there was something with Pansy, right?"

[zabini_b]

"I...think so. They were, um. Something."

Dumbledore passes them with tiny, quick steps. Pansy follows icily and tosses her head when she catches sight of Blaise.

"It would seem that Parks is in trouble."

This is vaguely troubling, but because he is eighteen and even though he is a Zabini, his stomach takes precedence over his intellect. Blaise takes Draco's elbow and hauls him forward, narrowly missing a slippery patch on the floor that looks like gravy.

"Come on, there's still food left."

[draco_itero]

Draco remembers he had a plan for lunch, and the thing that just happened--whatever it was--provides the perfect opportunity.

He should, of course, have done this at breakfast-time, but he had other things on his mind then and there are still a number of the items in question still about.

"The other end," Draco nods, "away from all this detritus." The last is aimed at Millicent, not Blaise, who is dangerously close to ensconcing himself with a plate of roast vegetables.

The way Draco sees it, the clearest path is between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff table.

[ch_fireball]

"Oh, brilliant!" Flitwick claps his hands together and clambers down from his chair. "I was rooting for Miss Parkinson -- the underdog, you know -- but I hadn't counted on the headmaster!"

"Ah." Charlie hasn't the faintest idea what the man's on about. "Dumbledore?"

"Oh, yes! Didn't you see? The man has simply marvelous touch."

"Miss Parkinson? and Dumbledore?" Charlie can't see either of the persons under discussion, and he still hasn't the faintest idea what the discussion is.

"Some sort of Attention Deficit jinx, I'd say, and combined with the adolescent mind... No need for anything more!" says Flitwick, turning to Charlie -- and then he says, "Tsk!" directing it at Charlie.

"Caught, were we?" asks a darkly amused voice from over his shoulder. "Honestly, Weasley, it's clear why you'll never be considered for the Defence position

[lunaticfringe]

Luna turns to face the fracas just in time to get a split second of mental video and parse it as Slytherins on the floor, oh my. Further reflection and investigation are cut short by what feels like a load of wet laundry getting chucked at her brain from the direction of the...Headmaster? Slytherin table? What? Her mouth opens without permission or a whit of warning.

"Please excuse me, I've got an appointment with myself in the library."

Spin dry, press, and fold, thanks, she thinks, completely losing the thread of whatever it was that was so important on the floor. She stands, spins around once, remembers her sandwich, grabs it, remembers the fruit basket, grabs an apple, remembers Padma, waves a "goodbye/pardon me/isn't that funny" her way, remembers her satchel, grabs that, turns quickly round, caroms off the bench, and heads for the doors, wondering what else she'll remember en route. She does remember Professor Weasley fishing about earlier in the week for upper-year students to do grounds cleanup this afternoon, but surely she