An "Obvious" Match

Simon sat straight in his chair in Murray's Place, a special white carnation placed in the vase in the center, to signify to his blind date that he was the boy... er, the man, she was looking for. He was spiffed up pretty nicely, in black slacks and a black blazer, a white dress shirt beneath. He had ironed the ensemble, had the blue tie pressed, the slacks starched, his shoes shined. He had to look nice.

He had gotten a letter from his father that told him he had been contacted by a woman named Antionette Lyons, wanting him and her daughter to go on a date. Naturally, Simon was eager to accept the invitation, seeing as, until now, Amelia had been someone he considered out of his league. Pretty, smart, older. He had always been sort of intrigued by the girl because of her class performance but had never even thought it to be in the cards to actually date her.

But it seemed as though he was on some hot streak, some sort of lucky turn of events that caused him to be able to succeed with women. First, it had been Selene accepting his invitation to the Yule Ball, even though they had only been on a first name basis for a few hours. Now, without having to stumble over his words or shift awkwardly and embarrassedly as he tried to work up the nerve to ask, he was going to be going on a date with Amelia Lyons.

Now, he just had to ensure he did not screw up.

A waiter walked by and poured the cold water into the iced glasses. Simon thanked him and slipped his hand into his pocket, brushing past the money he would need for the dinner and tip and reaching for a tin of mints. He quickly popped one into his mouth and sucked on it before chomping on it to ensure he did get to the mint. Perfect. He picked up a spoon and held it up, adjusting his tie and hair in the reflection. Perfect. A date with a girl out of his league.

Bring it on.

“I am not wearing that,” Amelia said obstinately as her mother walked out of Amelia’s closet and back into her bedroom carrying a purple cocktail dress that Amelia had intentionally buried at the back of her boudoir beneath “last season” clothing, hoping never to have it come to light. Clearly, that plan had backfired, because her mother’s keen eye had spotted the curve-hugging dress that Amelia had so despised and, judging from the look on her face, she had every intention of making sure her daughter wore it.

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” Antoinette replied curtly, completely inflexible as always. She crossed the room in five long strides, passing Amelia who was standing in a bra and underwear in the middle of the room, her arms crossed over her chest not out of modesty for what little she was wearing, but out of sheer frustration with her mother’s endless antics.

“Obviously you didn’t, or you would never have arranged this date in the first place,” Amelia huffed, “you know I hate these things.” She knew she was whining, and that it was unattractive, but after exhausting nearly every other method in her not unimpressive reservoir of ways to get out of doing the tiring list of things her mother always made her do, Amelia was at the bottom of her rope.

“If you were capable of getting dates on your own, I wouldn’t be forced to arrange them for you,” Antoinette said pointedly, fixing Amelia with her glass-green eyes, “Now get dressed. I won’t let you keep Simon waiting.”

“I am capable, I just don’t- oh nevermind,” Amelia said, making her annoyance known even as she admitted defeat, dropping her arms and stomping over to the bed where her mother was sitting, the dress hanging next to her. Amelia took the dress haphazardly from the hanger and unzipped it with more force than necessary, stepping into it one long leg after another and then turning her back to her mother and lifting her hair so she could be zipped into the dress. Without rush, her mother’s fingers moved to the zipper, bringing it up slowly and clasping the latch at the top. Antoinette's hands then found Amelia’s hips as she turned her daughter around to face her, and Amelia let her long hair fall down around her shoulders and dropped her hands to her sides again. In putting on the dress, Amelia had given up any power she might have been holding onto before. Now, she was no more than her mother’s dress up doll that could be puppeted into saying and doing anything Antoinette said. It was nothing new.

“Now, I expect you to behave yourself this evening,” her mother said, producing a pair of strappy silver sandals from beneath Amelia’s bed and leaning down to strap Amelia’s feet into them while she doled out the same instructions she did before every one of these pointless dates, “Act like a lady. Think before you speak, and if you can’t say anything nice, keep your mouth shut. His father has assured me that Simon is very much looking forward to this and I expect you to act as if you are as well.”

And Simon’s father was probably lying just as much as you were when you told him I was excited too, Amelia thought mulishly to herself, though she nodded in silent agreement to do as her mother said. Fighting it had been a losing battle from the beginning; Amelia always did as she was told, and Antoinette always got her way. Everything else was just a tedious journey to the same frustrating place.

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Antoinette had insisted on apparating with Amelia to the restaurant, just to make sure Amelia didn’t change her mind at the last minute. She was probably right to do so, because although Amelia had consented to put on the dress that made her look like some kind of trophy her mother was auctioning off, put on the shoes that were completely inappropriate for this time of year, and endured the rest of the date preparations in silence, she was still not at all committed to the idea of going on this date.

The routine was always the same: her mother would talk to her socialite friends about her hopeless daughter, tragically dateless, and in doing so, would peak the interest of other meddling mothers and fathers keen to find dates for their own teenage children. It was pitiful, really, that her mother had nothing better to do with her time than to play matchmaker for Amelia. And this time she had picked a real winner: Simon McLaggen. Amelia knew relatively little about him other than he was the son of Cormac McLaggen, a name she did not recognize because of her fascination with quidditch – Merlin knows that is certainly something she did not possess – but rather because he had been in attendance at a few of her parents’ functions. He was one of a thousand handshakes to Amelia, and his son wasn’t much more notable. A sixth year in her own house, played quidditch (or at least that was what her mother had told her ), and… nope, that was it. Her mother hadn’t given her any more information than that, believing the only thing Amelia needed to know was that he came from wealth and status.

At the door of Murray’s Place, Antoinette watched until Amelia was fully inside before turning on the spot and disappearing into the light snowflakes that were falling outside. Inside, it was much warmer, so Amelia’s tentative plans to keep her coat and avoid having to be seen in this ridiculous dress were thwarted, and she reluctantly removed her coat and handed it off to the doorman. The hostess recognized her immediately – probably from the other awkward dates she had been forced into attending here – and escorted her quickly through the restaurant, all the way to a secluded table near the back, clearly of her mother’s doing. If Antoinette thought isolation from other restaurant-goers was going to induce Amelia into doing anything more with Simon than eat, she had another thing coming.

Amelia nodded a thanks to the hostess as she dismissed herself, leaving Amelia standing uncomfortably next to the table where Simon was sitting. He was dressed nicely in an ensemble Antoinette would have approved of and was holding a spoon upside down in his hand, to which Amelia had no reply. She tugged her ‘too-tight-in-my-opinion’ dress down once before sliding into the chair opposite Simon, tucking a curtain of hair behind her ear as she sat.

“Well, let’s get this over with, shall we?” Amelia said briskly, unfairly taking out her frustration with her mother on her “date”. Simon hadn’t done anything to upset her – yet – but these things never went well. It was better to just get through them as quickly and painlessly as possible and move on like they never happened.

Simon was getting sort of bored and was considering trying to balance the spoon on his nose before Amelia arrived. He began to move it forward and then saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Amelia was approaching, looking... stunning. He dropped the spoon with a clatter and then grabbed it up again, carefully setting it down and smoothing out the tablecloth as he did so and straightening his tie.

She approached and he stood, flashing her a smile and moving to pull her chair out for her and help her into her seat, but she was already sitting down. He stopped in his tracks awkwardly, his smile flickering, his confidence faltering. “Uhh...” He straightened up and brushed off his sleeves and re-adjusted his tie. Oh boy, he had a feeling he would be fidgeting with the tie all evening.

“Right,” he said, and moved to go take a seat. He pulled his chair out and it made an uncomfortable screech as he dragged it. His cheeks flushed and he said, “Right.” He sat down and tried to scoot his chair in as discreetly as possible, but there was another small screech and his stomach bumped the table as he scooted in a little to far, sending it shaking slightly, the water in the glasses sloshing, the ice clinking.

So far, so good. Idiot.

Amelia said they should get the date over with and Simon jerked his head back slightly. Oh... She did not sound as enthusiastic as he had thought she would be for the date. Or, well... hoped she would be. He had managed to delude himself into thinking this was Amelia's way of getting a date with him, something he liked to think she might have pined for... Deep down, he knew this was sort of pathetic on his part, because it was clearly something their parent's had arranged, but he could pretend.

“Uh..” he said. Eloquent. If your grace won't impress her, your way with words definitely would. He chuckled instead as though Amelia had just made a funny little joke and spread out his napkin. “You look really nice, Amelia. That color suits you.” You mean that dress does. Simon blushed slightly at this though and coughed. A waiter walk passed and deposited menus. Simon handed one to Amelia and smiled. “So... have you eaten here before?”

Simon seemed to be as well trained in outdated pleasantries as she was, because he bolted from his chair as soon as Amelia arrived, clearly having been taught he was supposed to stand up whenever a woman arrived or departed. Amelia hadn’t expected him to do so, and thus had made his gesture even more frivolous than it was by nature, and the smile that had been hovering on his boyish features flickered like a light that was about to go out, some sort of indistinguishable utterance falling from his lips as he fidgeted and finally retook his seat. Amelia suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, an impulse she had a feeling she would be having to control all night.

As Simon fixated on the word ‘Right’ and worked on bringing his chair closer to the table, Amelia’s subconscious was whirring away. More like ‘wrong’… it quipped as Simon ran his torso into the table, nearly toppling the water glasses on the table. When she had felt the table moving, Amelia had impulsively tried to move backward in her chair, but without much seat left to move back in, instead she had managed to nearly topple the chair backward, only bringing the front two legs of the chair back to the ground by using the corners of the table for stability.

When she had regained her balance, her annoyance was peaking. Amelia closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath to calm herself down. If she stormed out of here now she would have no place to go; the bookstores were all closed already, and it was snowing outside. If she went home, it would mean letting her mother know she had bailed out of the date early, and Amelia did not need to listen to another tirade tonight. One per day was more than enough.

Letting her breath out slowly, Amelia was attempting to mentally convince herself that she could get through this. It would be trying, irksome, and possible painful, but it was a necessity. If she made it through this date with some semblance of success, it would get her mother off her back at least for a few weeks, and if that meant smiling nice for Simon McLaggen, fidget extraordinaire and Master of the Land of Um, then that was the price she would have to pay.

It seemed that Simon would be willing to laugh off her first less-than-pleasant comment, though whether that was because he actually believed it to be a joke or because he just didn’t know how to respond was really up for debate. From what she had seen in these first few minutes, Amelia was not anticipating a lot of stimulating conversation tonight, but at least she would get a second chance to prove she was capable of being civil. Simon was not just any boy her mother had conned into going on a date with her; Simon went to Hogwarts, and as such, she would have to see him again after tonight, like it or not. No matter what happened, he likely wouldn’t have anything good to say about his date with the ‘Ice Queen’, but she could at least try to keep her barbed comments to a minimum to avoid him spreading even more rumors about her in the hallways of the school they shared.

“Thank you,” Amelia replied to Simon’s compliment on her appearance, even though his flattery was precisely the type that parents made you rehearse, not anything he might have come up with on his own. Amelia was trying to relax, but she was finding that her words still came across tense. Maybe it is because this dress is actually cutting off circulation in your torso…

“You look nice as well,” the redhead added, following the social protocol that demanded that the compliment quota remain balanced between two individuals in a conversation. Tit for tat, or however that went. It wasn’t that the compliment was untrue – Simon did look presentable, and he was passably good looking in a way that would make normal girls giggly – but rather that Amelia didn’t generally dole out compliments without being prompted to do so. Simon blushed immediately after her compliment, which made Amelia question whether he had taken it more seriously than she intended it, but the waiter arrived in time to distract Amelia with a menu, handed to her by Simon.

“I’ve been here once or twice,” Amelia responded politely to Simon’s inquiry as she opened her menu, this time getting her tone under control. Or 37 times… Amelia’s subconscious interrupted, providing the more accurate version of the answer to the younger boy’s question. It was difficult not to sigh at the realization that she had been to this restaurant 37 times, and every single one of them had been a blind date set up by her mother, and not a single one of them had ever worked out. No wonder she was so cynical about the whole process.

“Do you frequent Murray’s Place?” Amelia asked in her typical respond and return tactic she used in social situations. The Ravenclaw girl had trouble coming up with suitable conversation topics, or at least that is what her mother always told her – apparently discussing the pros and cons of using rat liver in making a draught of living death at a fancy dinner party didn’t qualify as appropriate – and so she usually let someone else take the reins when it came to steering the conversation.

Oh dear.

Simon had always been able to delude himself into thinking he was smooth, a charmer, full of poise and grace... So it was always sort of disillusioning to be reminded that he was actually a gawky, awkward teenage boy motivated solely by hormones and the fact that he could never seem to be the boy... man he wanted him to be for his father. He kept himself from rubbing the back of his head and tried to force the color from her cheeks.

C'mon, idiot. It's one date. If it goes well, you're in. You don't have to marry her, just make sure she doesn't hate you... Course, it'd be nice if you can do something right and get her to like you, but let's just try and shoot for anything but hate, mmkay? Now... buck up, stop blushing like a little girl, grow a pair and dazzle her!

She said she had been there a few times and he nodded, his mouth slightly open as he tried to say something but finding that he really had not thought up any words. His brain was banging its head against his skull in exasperation and he stuttered out, “C-cool.” Yes, way to go, moron. That is the way to dazzle a young lady. Cool. I'm sure she has never heard such complex, well-constructed word play. Congratulations. Idiot.

She asked how many times he had been here and he thought to his dates here. Some liked casual locations, but he preferred candlelit... It made him feel important. “Seven times, and then a few times with family.” He smiled. Okay... Not bad. Now she thinks you've had seven high end dates here... That should impress her. I mean, she probably doesn't come to dates here often. She scares most boys off. Not you, tiger! Attaboy!

Simon smiled weakly. Okay... So... He was not failing completely. Just partially. Okay. He could do this, now. A waitress came and asked if they were ready. “Oh, uh, I am. I'll have the grilled chicken. With a side salad and some iced tea. Thank you.” He folded up the menu and handed it to her, giving her a winning smile.

Amelia was glancing down at her menu when Simon gave yet another winning response, this time with the glowing vocabulary word of ‘cool’. It was almost impossible to believe he was a Ravenclaw, with him falling over his words repeatedly and having difficulty coming up with words longer than six letters.

You’re one to talk, Amelia’s subconscious interrupted, distracting her from reading the ingredient list on the shrimp scampi, You do your fair share of umming and stuttering.

At least I manage to sound eloquent at least some of the time. Amelia’s mind countered.

Only when you’re saying something snide… was the rebuttle of Amelia’s subconscious, true enough to prevent her from keeping the mental argument going and purse her lips in displeasure at how even her own subconscious seemed to thwart her intentions to get through this date on a wave of annoyance and spite.

Looking up from her menu when Simon provided a response to her question, Amelia couldn’t help but smirk when he relayed to her the number of times he had been to the restaurant. He was smiling as though it were an accomplishment, and Amelia realized belatedly that her smirk might come across as patronizing, so she attempted to turn it into a smile, a facial expression that seemed more out of place on her delicate features than the smirk did. He had seemed happy with his number of visits to Murray’s Place, though Amelia assumed most people would be pleased to dine at such a fine restaurant multiple times. If her company had not always been sniveling high society boys with more interest in getting Amelia into their high thread count beds behind their parents’ backs, maybe she could look back fondly on all the times she had been here too.

Before Amelia was forced to come up with an appropriate response to Simon’s answer, a waitress arrived and took Simon’s order, looking to Amelia next. Simon was looking at her too, a grin spread wide over his still slightly boyish features, and Amelia looked hurriedly down at her menu. Her teeth found her lower lip as her eyes raked across her options, a sign that Amelia was feeling pressured and was trying to think quickly. A few seconds of tense silence passed as the young waitress tapped impatiently on her writing pad, making Amelia want to reach out and take the pen away from her. Instead, she picked the next thing her eyes found on the menu, looking up and ordering hastily.

“I’ll have the salmon,” the redhead said, folding up her menu and handing it to the waitress even as she was still ordering, “with the glazed carrots. And water is fine for me.”

The waitress put the pen to its actual use – writing as opposed to tapping – as she wrote down Amelia’s order and then departed with the menus, leaving Amelia and Simon alone again. The fact that this table was so secluded was really getting to Amelia. There were heavy curtains hung around them, the thick velvet kind that absorbed all noise, making it utterly silent. Amelia cleared her throat, if only to interrupt the silence, and re-crossed her legs, accidentally brushing her leg against Simon’s under the table as she did so.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Amelia said with embarrassment in her voice and on her cheeks. Thus far into the date, Simon had been looking like the awkward one, but Amelia should have known that it would be only a matter of time before she accidentally made a run for the same position. Looking down at the table, Amelia struggled to come up with a topic of conversation to break up the silence and take the attention off of her unintentional game of footsie.

“So ah…” Amelia began, looking up to meet Simon’s brown eyes, still grappling for a conversation topic, “You play quidditch, right?”

Way to go, genius… Amelia’s subconscious intoned sarcastically, Bring up the one topic you couldn’t talk about intelligently to save your life.

I didn’t have any other ideas, okay?

No, it’s not okay. I’m sure you’ll come to that same conclusion once he says anything that requires you to know the difference between a quaffle and a waffle.

Amelia seemed to be having trouble order. The waitress was looking irritated and tapping her pen, and still, Amelia scoured the menu. Once or twice he opened his mouth to give a suggestion of what she could eat, but he heard a voice in his head yelling at him, telling him never to push a lady, to give her time to make her decisions. He was fairly sure this was his mother. His father did not seem patient enough to believe in such advice.

She made her decision and handed the menu off and the waitress hurried away. They sat in silence for a little while. His father had told him that they would be ensure a private booth to be able to get to know each other... and then had proceeded to nudge him suggestively, raising his eyebrows as though to insinuate that Simon knew what that meant... The fool did not realize that pressure until he had been sitting here. Surely, his father would be asking him some foolishly awkward question when he got home like "Now, I know you had fun, but exactly how much? Actually, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, now does he?" And Simon would be forced to put on a wry smile as though to prove Cormac's point, even though Simon doubted it would be true.

Suddenly, he felt a shoe rub against his leg and he felt his widen, almost comically like a cartoons whose eyes burst from their skull. Amelia was quick to apologize, but his brain was already on the case. Hmm, a bit quick to apologize, don't you think? A girl never can keep her TRUE intentions hidden for very long, now can she. Okay, so you do have more than a snowball's chance in hell, I'll give you that. Now all you have to do is- DON'T SCREW IT UP!

"No, no," he said, dropping his voice an octave. "It's quite alright." It had worked until 'right' when his voice cracked, his confidence burst, and he blushed red, shifting uncomfortably because he understood that he had been aiming for seductive and had fallen short at creepy and pathetic. He coughed, immediately bringing a napkin in front of his face to shield Amelia from germs, and himself from any sort of eye contact.

She asked about Quidditch after a few more awkward moments and he lowered the napkin down again, peeking out. "Quidditch?" he queried, a metaphorical toe in the water, sniffing out the air for any threat of danger. The water was not freezing, danger not too imminent, so he raised his head a bit, glad to be on a subject that he had deluded himself into thinking he was pro at. "Yes, on the Ravenclaw team." DUH! "I pretty much play all the positions, but Keeper runs in my blood. I'm not a shabby Chaser either. Do you follow the sport?"

Because she was looking down at the table wrapped up in her embarrassment, Amelia had failed to see Simon’s reaction to her accidentally brushing his leg with her foot, which was probably for the best. If she had seen the way his eyes had widened and the way he seemed suddenly more sure of himself, she might have decided that sinking down beneath the table was the best course of action.

Then again, if she had seen his reaction, she might have more quickly understood why Simon’s voice, usually in a normal register for a 16-year-old boy, suddenly sounded as though he were trying to imitate Johnny Cash. Her eyes rose up skeptically from the table, cocking her head to the side in confusion as she listened to Simon speak, wondering if perhaps he had a piece of ice stuck in his throat or something of the like that would make him speak like that. It was only when his voice cracked on the last word, sending blood flooding to his cheeks and a napkin to cover his face that Amelia made the connection between what she had done and what Simon’s response had been.

Oh god, he was trying to sound more… manly, Amelia thought squeamishly, her own blush rising to match Simon’s, though she hid this to herself by dropping her chin to her chest instead of covering it with a napkin, which would have been much more obvious. Amelia liked to believe she could disguise her embarrassment by looking away or at the floor or at anything other than the people she was with. Apparently, in her mind, only your eyes could betray embarrassment.

If only that were true.

If Amelia had been watching this scene unfold between two people she had been observing, she likely would have snickered at Simon’s pitiful display of manliness, but as it was, she could only continue to mentally hit her head against a wall in punishment for being so foolish as to move her legs anywhere near him. Damn this small table, and damn her long legs. And while she was at it, damn Antoinette. This was all her fault anyway.

When she finally gathered herself enough to blurt out the quidditch question – if only to move the conversation in a direction that didn’t demand that she stare at the table linen and Simon hide behind his napkin – it had the desired result. The blond boy lowered his napkin and echoed the topic she had foolishly brought up, knowing nothing about it. Sure, Peter had mentioned something about Seekers and a little gold thing that she couldn’t remember the name of… and Raoul had played when they were younger, but she had never actually bothered to remember any of that nonsense.

But now that she had said it aloud, it seemed Amelia was committed to the topic, and Simon latched onto it eagerly. For the first time since they had sat down, he managed to string more than a few words together coherently, though what those words was about as clear to Amelia as the shoddily polished water glasses sitting on the table in front of them. She could make out most of what he was saying, but the words she didn’t understand just happened to be most key to the understanding of the sentence.

At this point, Amelia should have admitted that she hadn’t a single clue about quidditch. She should have confessed that her knowledge of the sport was limited almost entirely to the name of it, that it was played on a pitch, and that there was flying involved. But Amelia, with the pride she had both inherited and cultivated, knew she would look imprudent now if she were to tell Simon any of these things. So instead, she merely nodded her head as Simon spoke, as though she were both cognizant of and interested in whatever it was he was saying, while neither of these were even remotely true. But maybe she could get through this dinner more easily if Simon did all the talking, and all she had to do was nod. In her experience, boys could talk about quidditch forever.

When Simon posed a question of her, Amelia knew she needed to stall for time, and picked up her water glass and took a long drink out of it, swallowing slowly to give herself enough time to think of something that would answer the question, but in a non-committal way. There was a strong chance she was digging herself into a hole here, pretending to know possess knowledge that she didn’t, but she and the shovel were already in this together.

“Yes, of course,” Amelia lied, setting down her water glass and dabbing at her lips with her napkin, “Not as much as I’d like to, you know, but I try to keep up.” Another lie. Amelia didn’t want to follow quidditch at all, so she did exactly as much as she liked. Time to get the focus off of herself before Simon could ask another question she didn’t know the answer to.

“Your father plays quidditch as well, yes?” Amelia inquired, intertwining her fingers on the top of the table, but still remaining in perfect posture in her seat. She didn’t need to be leaning closer to Simon, even if it was only to rest her back; it would certainly give him the wrong idea, as the foot brush had earlier. Amelia only knew to ask this question because it was one of the few details her mother had provided about Simon, and it was more or less common knowledge at school.

Amelia seemed comfortable with continuing to ask him questions about himself, which was perfectly fine, because Simon knew he could talk about himself. He had grown so used to making up fake boasts of accomplishments that had actually gone dreadfully to his father that he had become sort of a professional at talking about himself. He had very little to show for his life, but he knew how to brag for what really was not there.

She said she followed it, which was what he expected. EVERYBODY followed Quidditch, so he mirrored her response, saying, "Of course," in what he meant to be a good-natured tone, but really it came out more pompous than anything really. He opened his mouth to ask her what team she supported for- everybody had a team- but she continued on, asking about his father.

"Oh, yes. You've heard of my father, then," Simon said, a smile on his face." If he knew anything, he knew his father. Simon lived to please his father, a feat he saw as incredibly unlikely, but that would not keep him from trying. He would not have had the gall to ever go on a date with Amelia Lyons if it had not been for that dependent need to impress the man who could never be impressed.

"Yes, Cormac- my father- was quite the flier in his stay at Hogwarts. Right good Keeper. Never was fully on the team, much to busy with other things, but people were always begging him to join. Befriended Harry Potter his last year and Potter put him on the team for awhile, just for kicks. Good fellow, they were pretty close." He smiled, happy to report everything that his father had ever told him. "Had a lot of offers out of school, but he turned them down, much to the disappointment of the public." He smiled. "He's still pretty important in the wizarding community. Helped me out a lot. Good man."

Simon seemed to think a lot more of people that followed quidditch than Amelia did, judging by the way he sounded so proud to admit that he was an avid fan. Amelia thought the sport was a waste of time, to put it bluntly. People flew around on brooms – not exactly something Amelia was overly fond of to begin with – and chased balls around, or at least that was the gist she had gotten from Raoul when he had talked about it when they were younger. Even though Raoul had tried out for the team a few times when they were at Hogwarts together, Amelia still hadn’t paid the sport much mind. It had simply never occurred to her that she would ever need to know anything about it, despite the fact that the rest of the wizarding world was fascinated.

Luckily, Amelia got off easily when she steered the conversation in the direction of Simon’s father. He didn’t put up any sort of fight to linger on the subject of quidditch, which was probably in Amelia’s best interest considering her lack of knowledge. Besides, he seemed equally capable of talking at length about his father, which solved Amelia’s problem of ever having to say much of anything. She nodded when Simon stated the obvious – clearly she had heard of his father if she had made such a blatant reference about him – but didn’t move to speak, instead letting Simon continue on.

Amelia was careful to nod in the right places, acting appropriately impressed even though she wasn’t. The only sign that her mind wasn’t altogether focused on what Simon was saying was the fact that she was absentmindedly playing with a ring on her middle finger, one her father had given her a few years ago. She rarely wore it – it got in the way when she played piano – but her mother had put it with the rest of the jewelry for tonight’s outing so Amelia had dutifully put it on. This fidgeting was a telltale sign of her impatience to anyone who knew her well, but that list was a short one, and Simon wasn’t on it.

Although Simon didn’t really say anything of overt value in what Amelia was interpreting as a political campaign speech for Cormac McLaggen, Amelia was able to garner some information from what he said. Clearly, from the way Simon portrayed his father, he had either been trained to only speak highly of his parents, or he really did revere Cormac to the point where it was almost uncomfortable for Amelia to hear. She was proud of her parents, yes, but she did not worship the ground they walked on. She wanted their approval and achieved it in every way she knew how. From what she had heard from Simon, though, she was beginning to think that they had more than a House in common. It would be hard to fake that kind of admiration for a parental figure; Simon’s answer didn’t sound rehearsed or robotic the way she did when she was simply repeating a line that had been fed to her by her parents. Simon had legitimate veneration for his father.

Interesting… Amelia thought to herself, filing this observation away along with the others she had made since she sat down. She took another sip from her water glass and then reached to adjust the straps of her dress, trying to be subtle as she looked down to make sure everything was still safely tucked away. This dress already left little to the imagination with how tight it was – Amelia didn’t need anything popping out to add to her embarrassment.

“It sounds like you come from good stock, then,” Amelia replied after she had reassured herself that nothing was getting out of hand (or dress), “I’m sure your father must be very proud that you are following in his footsteps.”

Amelia wasn’t sure what to add next, but she was saved by the arrival of the waitress with their food. The snotty, impatient girl that had taken their order was back with a tray loaded with Simon’s chicken and her fish, which were quickly deposited in front of them. Amelia shook her head when the waitress inquired whether she could get “you lovebirds” anything else, blushing furiously as she looked into her lap.

Stupid waitress and her assumptions… Amelia thought, her irritation showing when she picked up her knife and fork and began carving unnecessarily viciously at her salmon.

Well it would be hard for her to assume otherwise, given the table you’re sitting at and the fact that the two of you are dressed up and dining alone, came the rationale from Amelia’s more logical mind.

She should keep her assumptions to herself, then, Amelia countered stubbornly, stabbing a piece of Salmon and placing it in her mouth while consciously reminding herself to mind her manners. She didn’t need Simon reporting to his father that Amelia had been uncivilized while dining – that would only mean several more weeks of etiquette lessons from Antoinette and a firm scolding, of which Amelia needed neither.

“So what is it that your father does now?” Amelia asked after swallowing her piece of salmon and clearing her throat with more water. Simon had already proven he could talk willingly about his father, and Amelia was genuinely curious about this. Cormac must be doing something important for Antoinette to think his offspring to be a fit match for her daughter, but just how interested Antoinette was – or how pushy she would be about this ‘relationship’ developing – would have a lot to do with where Cormac fell in the social hierarchy.