hogwash | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: Graham and Pansy
What: Run-in whilst shopping
Where: Twilfit & Tattings, Diagon Alley
When: Monday, late afternoon
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete

As soon as he passed by Flourish and Blotts, the piercing yell of a pre-pubescent young wizard triggered a domino effect. "Look! It's Montague! It's Montague of the Falcons!" Graham whirled around toward the source and grimaced as he watched a dozen children stampede toward him. Bracing himself for the rush, he forced his unpleasant expression into a smile as one of the youngest reached him first, slamming into his leg and nearly knocking his aviators askew. Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have come here during the day, he thought to himself, damning his coach and manager for both scheduling a night practice so he had to run errands during the day, and for including that Fan Pleasantry Clause in his contract.

He did appreciate the admirers, but most days he just wanted to get his shopping done without being held up. Quills, parchment, and even Quaffles were waving in front of his face. "All right, all right. One at a time..." He grabbed the nearest quill and began signing everything in sight, answering questions as he heard them. "Yes I've signed a contract extension. Of course we're going to win the cup. No, I don't think the Harpies'll make it-- I predict we'll be matching up against Puddlemere." As he was told, he tried to focus on the younger children, posing for photographs with them. Brilliant for publicity, so they say. Finally, Graham waved them off with an apology, heading to the nearest shop to catch his breath.

The noise level reduced immediately when the door shut behind him, and he adjusted his collared shirt before looking around. A clothing shop. Ah, this must be Twilfit & Tattings; his mum shops here. Graham glanced through the shop window and noticed four or five kids pressing their faces up against the glass, watching him. He sighed heavily and moved deeper into the shop, perusing the clothing. Might as well wait for the crowd to thin out.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She'd heard the commotion; they all had. Young society misses had an ear for such things, especially when such things involved particularly popular Quidditch professionals. And, tragically, young society misses were Pansy's most frequent patrons. She wondered what stopped the debutantes from rushing outside, and figured, with a condescending sniff, that it couldn't have been any sense of dignity; not with the way their noses pressed longingly against the glass, at the front of the shop.

Wizarding society, still in its first blush of joy from the defeat of the Dark Lord, certainly did love its celebrities.

The doves scattered, when he entered. Pretending preoccupation with a tangle of clothing hangers, on a rack labeled "Ready-To-Wear," she tracked the former Slytherin's movements across the sales floor. She'd been at Twilfit long enough to know that discretion and subtlety were the keys to a good sale, and Montague didn't look particularly approachable, at the moment; but, really, woe betide the day that Miss Pansy Parkinson concerned herself with retail! She was forgetting the bigger picture, wasn't she?

Deep breath; a smoothing hand to the dark gray silk of her employee's robes; and a faint smile, paired well with blasé eyes. "Welcome to Twilfit and Tattings. May I be of assistance to you?"

Graham glanced to his left and right and realized the employee must be speaking to him. He turned around slowly and removed his designer sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket over his right chest. "Oh, no thank you. I'm just browsing..." His eyes adjusting to the flourescent lighting, he squinted at the name tag. "...Pansy."

She looked incredibly familiar, and then it hit him: "You were in the year below me at school, weren't you? Malfoy's... erm, friend?" Graham suddenly had a flashback of Draco boasting about his relations with a girl named Pansy Parksin... Parkington? Something like that. Though knowing Malfoy's reputation, the older Slytherin Quidditch players thought half of what he said was full of shit. His father did supply them with the latest and greatest brooms, though, so they kept quiet; especially Graham, as that broom helped him to impress the scouts.

As swiftly as the flash of irritation darkened her features, it was gone; proof that things hadn't changed all that much, since their Hogwarts days. Any bit of awe she may have felt, in the presence of the Falcons team member, dissipated like a Felix Felicis high. "Please, don't spare me another thought. Otherwise, you might strain a hamstring," she drawled, in a not-so-terrible impression of Draco, himself.

The impressions an older Slytherin Quidditch player, and Draco's former teammate, might have weren't lost on her, but they weren't back in the dungeons, were they? She did her best to maintain the detached, cool expression expected of all shopgirls employed in haute couture. "Enjoy the wares, Montague," she murmured, slipping past him, accompanied by the soft whisper of silk. A few children lingered on the doorstep, goggling at Montague, and that was bad for business. She headed in their direction, glad to have an opportunity through which to vent her ire.

Graham's brow shot up and he held up his hands as if she caught him stealing something. "I didn't mean anything by that. My apologies. Sincerely." He watched as she turned on her heel, obviously bothered by the flock of Falcons fans loitering on the store's stoop.

"Sorry about them. Once their parents finish their shopping, they'll make them follow." He strolled around a bit more, browsing the accessories. "Come to think of it, I really could use a new dragonhide belt."

Something in her face must've told the little brats that she meant business, and half of them had fled, before she had a chance to open her mouth. Once she'd finished with a cold little diatribe, regarding manners and dignity, the other half were happy to join their erstwhile compatriots. That business finished, she turned to give him her attention.

"You'll be happy to know that we've just received a collection of dragonhide belts, in anticipation for autumn." In order to let him browse, she maintained a bit of a distance, busying her hands with neatening a stack of scarves, which, after having been pawed through all day, looked quite ready to tumble off its table. However, the dark head nodded toward the belts in question, only a small distance away. Her irritation was fading, especially in light of the possibility of receiving the magic word: a commission. There was no question that she could use it; attorney bills were piling up, after the long struggle in the courts, in regard to the legality of seizing her inheritance along with the rest of the Parkinson family assets.

Not wanting to irritate her further, Graham headed toward the area with the dragonhide belts and began sifting through them, pulling a few off of the rack and holding them up to his trousers. The black belt was a bit thicker than the charcoal gray belt, and he was clearly indecisive between the two. When he thought he decided to splurge for both (for belts, they were quite steep in price, he thought), a chocolate brown one caught his eye.

Flipping all three belts over his shoulders, he looked at himself over the mirror, trying to decide. Eventually, he turned toward Pansy, hoping she wasn't busy with another customer. "May I ask your professional opinion?"

Graham put effort into his dress, always wanting to play his part as celebrity, but he certainly wasn't a pouf; oftentimes, his mother accompanied him shopping (she knew what outfits looked sharpest on him, and it while it was a bit embarrassing to be shopping with his mum, he rarely got to see her so he didn't mind much).

Her approval of his behavior was rising. She'd only just finished with the scarves, when he asked his question. Her eyes lifted, hands stilling, mouth twisting into a pursed expression as she considered the options. "I hate brown," she responded promptly. "The black looks best, and is, I think, the better in terms of quality."

Well, if she had to be stuck working, in retail, of all things, it was best that she had a job she loved: as the senior shopgirl, she was able to boss around the other shopgirls (to her heart's content!), tell people how to dress, and be rude to interlopers. The fact that folks paid people to do this was absurdly amusing. Perhaps, when the Ministry's case was thrown out, and she received the estates and accounts which were rightfully hers, she'd give Twilfit & Tattings a bit of competition...

Pansy seemed quite fashionable, so there was no need to question her authority on the subject. With a shrug, he replaced the brown belt on its shelf and and carried the black and charcoal gray belts to the register. "All right then, I'll take both." He reached into his trousers and placed exact change on the counter.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, and noticed a few lingering fans waiting on the sidewalk. May as well stall a bit longer.

"So, Pansy..." he started, drawing out her name a bit. "How have you been? Does life get more exciting than accessorizing clientele?" He tried to keep his tone light and playful, not wanting to strike a nerve with her again.

He received only a modest, though eloquent, shrug, in response to his pronouncement. She followed him back to the counter, and began ringing him up, nimble fingers displaying their familiarity with the old-fashioned, elegant Muggle contraption. "Cash registers," she'd heard them called, but couldn't fathom what cash was... Doubtless some mindless Muggle parlance. The currency dropped into the till with metallic thuds, her mouth working quietly. Math had never been her strong point.

"It does, Montague, but I'm not obligated to speak of the particulars with a newfound acquaintance," she drawled, channeling a bit of Draco in her speech. There may have been an emphasis on the way she spoke his last name; emphasizing, no doubt, his familiar use of her given name, and conversely, her use of his family name. Perhaps she had a bit of a chip on her shoulder, about people who spoke so flippantly about what had long been a thorn in her side (namely, the fact that she had to seek employment). It was easy enough to play off, when one was good at one's job, and Pansy did like clothes... "How goes the Quidditch season?" she sidestepped neatly, folding his belts and wrapping them with tissue paper emblazoned with the T&T logo. She dropped them into the bag, and then handed it to him.

The clock read that the workday was nearly over. Around them, other shopgirls began the process of closing down the store. Grateful that she was a little higher in the store's hierarchy, and thus exempted from that onerous task, she leaned a hip against the counter and waited for a response.

When she replied with such an uptight bitch-esque answer, he couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "You'd think I just asked to father your children from that response." He gathered she didn't have many friends, if any; there was something deeper here than cold-hearted bint and he couldn't put his finger on it. "Pardon me for attempting a bit of manners. Won't happen again."

He took his bag of belts and grinned at her. "Quidditch is fine, but you don't strike me a girl who gives a dragon's arse about sports." He folded his arms on the countertop, leaning closer to her. "Fortunately for you, Parkersfield, my flat's in Falmouth, so I shouldn't be running into you again anytime soon. Wouldn't want to cross that acquaintance boundary now would we? Unless, of course, you're living in Falmouth too, in which case it would be highly likely we'd cross paths. So in order to ensure that we don't, answer one question: Where do you reside? Or is that a question reserved for close friends and family?"

"I like to fly," she answered, which surprised herself. It was the strangest sensation, to feel unbidden words slipping from one's tongue. She didn't care much for the particulars of Quidditch, outside what she needed to know to entertain Draco's passion for the sometimes-bloody sport... She shook her head, faintly, as if to dispel the looseness of her tongue.

A pause; a held breath, as he leaned over the counter toward her. She didn't like people who stepped inside her personal space, especially not men with the cocky smiles only professional Quidditch players possessed. "I'd be careful, Monty-old-boy. I wouldn't talk such big talk, if I were you. These times certainly are changing, and here's the evidence: boys who only feel like men when they have a piece of wood wedged between their arse cheeks."

He couldn't help it, he threw his head back and laughed, holding his ground over the counter. "A common misconception, but I assure you I'm not one of those." Indeed, Montague felt more a God than a man. A tingling, anticipatory feeling filled his stomach when he remembered he was on his way to Nott's to pick up his order. In just a few weeks' time, he'd have his potion ready to distribute. And then shortly after that, mass-panic would spread.

His attention snapped back to Pansy, and he straightened up a bit before leaning even closer to her, lowering his deep voice to a barely audible whisper. "The other side of the galleon, Parks, is that nowadays, women only feel like women when they've got a piece of wood wedged up their--"

"MISS PARKINSON!" One of her shrilly-toned subordinates cut him off from across the store. "ALL CLEANED UP. DO YOU NEED ANYTHING ELSE?"

Graham backed off from the counter and hoisted his new purchases over his shoulder. "Ah, closing time, is it? Very well then. It's been delightful... acquainting with you." With another charming grin, he gave his head a little bow.

At her underling's call, she snapped to her full height, as though she'd been caught doing something wrong. Irritated, she turned her head to the side, answering the question at a moderately-volumed tone. "That will be all for today."

Turning back to him, she pursed her lips, an approximation of a smile that wouldn't have seemed at odds with an accompanying growl. "Take care, Monty. I will certainly see you around...unless I don't, of course."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only