Life had been uncomfortable for Desdemona in the two-and-a-bit months since Art Pettigrew had kissed her (after about three weeks, that had been her official internal story: best to ignore the fact that she kissed him, given that nothing had come of it). Though the chaser had wanted nothing more than to avoid the man who she’d made a fool of herself with only to have nothing come of it, it was very difficult to avoid those one worked with. She had since found every encounter at least marginally awkward, and tried to keep them as brief as a possible once any hopes of a progressing relationship had been dashed upon the rocks of time’s cruel march forward.

Her heart skipped several beats, therefore, when the other chaser called after her.

Dezzie paused in her tracks, self-consciously relocating a wayward curl behind her ear as she mentally prepared herself before turning around. She was being silly, she knew; she had probably just left something on the pitch.

“Yes?” she asked lightly—almost breathlessly, if she was honest, though she quickly cleared her throat to rectify that!

Dezzie looked at him expectantly, decidedly unable to connect what her mother might have to do with anything. She had made enough of a fool of herself for Arthur Pettigrew; she would not open her mouth and risk putting her foot or his tongue in it yet again.

Desdemona was stunned.

She might have expected this back in January, but January was so painfully long ago that the situation was almost laughable. In a way, it made sense—Mr. Pettigrew was not the most reliable chap (he had, after all, gone to prison), so why would he do anything important in a timely manner? Had he even asked permission? Surely Gregory would have told her if Arthur Pettigrew had expressed an interest.

No, as much as Dezzie wanted to say yes, this was such a horrible mess that she did not feel comfortable doing so. Instead, she settled on, “I believe it is typically the man who does the courting, Mr. Pettigrew.”

She did not meet his eyes.

Not one of his talents, no, just like timing and not making an ass of himself were not among his talents. In fact, even Desdemona, who was so utterly besotted with him, had a difficult time confirming that he had any talents off a broomstick, a sort of uselessness that inexplicably made him all the more appealing to her. She was doomed.

“I—I would be uncomfortable,” she said diplomatically, still reluctant to meet his eye, “accepting any such proposal without my mother’s assent. I might be a quidditch player, Mr. Pettigrew, but I was s-still raised to be a young lady.”

And Mama would say no, and Dezzie’s heart would be shattered, but this was clearly such a bad idea that it would be for the best, in the long run.

A small—very small—part of Desdemona wished she were the sort of young lady to swoon. One, because she was very uncomfortable right now, but two, and more importantly, was because she had completely forgotten to breathe because oh Merlin Mama had said yes she could be Mrs. Pettigrew by year’s end MERLIN HELP HER.

“Oh,” was all that the chaser could manage on her greatly limited supply of oxygen.

“Are…are you certain, Mr. Pettigrew?” Desdemona asked skeptically. One of them had to be the sensible one here. He had, after all, taken forever and a day to get around to doing anything, had been to prison, and was not the most responsible with money. Plainly Gregory would not be the responsible party here, and Dezzie went around snogging teammates in sleds so that counted her out. Maybe with a bit of urging from her, he would reconsider and leave them both miserable but much the better for it, long-term. “After all, you have been known for, erm, rather rash action in the past.”

Well, that ruled out Mr. Pettigrew being the better person. There was nothing for it, then—Dezzie herself would have to swing the axe, much though it pained her. Taking a breath to steel herself, she opened her mouth to refuse him.

“Yes.”

Oh. Oh well.

She still had herself worried, but Dezzie did not suppose she could say as much without sending rather contradictory owls to the man she was very much infatuated with. The man who was now courting her. The man who, barring a complete stuff-up (or another arrest) would one day be her husband.

Merlin help her. She would not be a spinster after all!

“Now you know how I feel,” she replied dryly instead, smiling in spite of herself.