One of the reasons that Ozymandias had never been interested in a career at the Ministry or some other equally prestigious was that he wanted to have the flexibility in his schedule to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. He could work on his inventions when the inspiration struck him, make time for social events he wanted to attend, even take whole weeks off to do nothing but laze around if he wasn't feeling particularly useful. He could take up new hobbies and pretend they were relevant to his work (perhaps they would be, in some cases). He'd received this invitation as a social item, because this was being marketed as a way for rich men to pick up new eccentricities, but today he'd decided he was working. He had a few ideas on his mind for upcoming inventions, and he'd arrived to Hogsmeade Hall with a small notebook tucked into his jacket pocket to take notes. He was looking for inspiration, for ways to improve his ideas, and perhaps for materials he could use to create them. He'd found something he thought belonged to the latter category in the silent auction, and he'd put his name down with a bid. He was the first one to bid on it, but not the last — a few minutes later he spotted a woman writing down a counter offer on the sheet.
He assumed it was a passing whim, and waited a respectable amount of time before he circled back and added another price to the sheet, striking out her name above his. He'd barely gotten away from the table, however, when he saw her returning, presumably to outbid him again.
"I'm perplexed by what use a society matron might have for concentrated bloodroot syrup, Mrs. Macnair," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Would you care to enlighten me?"
The flourish with which she crossed out his name seemed a little excessive. He frowned. Obviously she wasn't seriously planning to spend so much on something she wanted to put in her tea. Nevermind that bloodroot syrup was poisonous, at least in the form it was currently sold in. In theory she could have had some magical process to neutralize the poison in it before consuming it, but that still begged the question of why someone would go through so much effort when sugar would do quite as well. No, she had something else in mind for the item and simply didn't want to tell him. Of course, that mystery made him want to win it all the more, but he could hardly outbid her while she was still hovering over the sheet. He'd have to push her aside to reach the quill, at this point.
"There's a shop in Diagon that sells twenty sorts of flavored honeys," he said dryly. "Perhaps I can get you a jar."
Oz's eyes lingered on the quill for a moment as she set it down. She was still standing too close for him to pick it up without reaching across her, and even if he did that he'd have to elbow her out of the way if he wanted to make use of it. Aside from the physical awkwardness of it, there was also the general rules of polite society. He could had already bent one of them by approaching her at what was supposed to have been a silent auction. He could not go so far as to bid against her while she was still hovering.
Oz put his fingertips on the table and leaned in, staking his own claim to the auction space without intruding too aggressively on hers. "What sorts of special occasions?"
Had Mrs. Macnair just implied she was planning to use the bloodroot to poison someone? Ozymandias wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly, or that he was interpreting her tone the right way. The Macnairs were one of the old wizarding families, imminently respectable, so of course she couldn't be serious. She must have had a dark sense of humor. That, or she was trying to fluster him for her own amusement. Based on what he knew of socialites as a class, that didn't seem incredibly far-fetched. Words were their weapons of choice.
At her question, he glanced down at the quill, as though he'd forgotten how closely he'd put his hand to it (of course he hadn't; making it impossible for her to claim the quill had been entirely the point of this stance). "Actually, perhaps I'll borrow it for a minute or two," he decided, with a quick smile. "There's a pair of self-repairing socks on the next aisle and someone must have walked off with the quill by mistake. I think I'll take this one to go bid on them and be back shortly."
Not that he actually wanted a pair of self-repairing socks; he'd constructed the story about their missing quill. It was the most banal thing he could think of in the moment, though, and absconding with the quill for several minutes might be a good way to get his name back on the bloodroot. Surely she wouldn't be so obvious as to wait here and stake it out.
The corner of Ozymandias' mouth tipped towards a frown, but how was he supposed to argue with that? He didn't like to admit defeat in anything, but Mrs. Macnair was ruthless. He hadn't been expecting it.
"Well," he said, placing the quill down. "Far be it from me to stand between the doddering matrons of society and their tea sweeteners."
Ozymandias had always been a sore loser — evidenced most recently by his slinging around insulting insinuations when she wouldn't let him get away with stealing a quill — but this was something else. Had Mrs. Macnair just threatened to poison him because he'd wounded her pride? It must have been a joke, but he was failing to see the humor, and he didn't like feeling as though he didn't understand a joke at his expense. The best course of action, he decided, would be to pretend he understood her perfectly and was unfazed by the remark.
"It is terribly English of you to describe a cup of tea in such fatalistic terms," he remarked. "In Ireland we prefer stronger stuff. But if you insist — then I look forward to the invitation."