12 March 1892 — A Generic Ball, Hogsmeade Ballroom

Morgan was at another ballroom, paying his biweekly penance to the gods of the social calendar to keep his mother from taking too active an interest in his love life. If he seemed disinterested outside of the social season, his mother might try to take steps to make him take an interest, like setting up lunch dates with eligible young women (and, most likely, their mothers); if he seemed like he was at least looking then she was more likely to be left to his own devices. In any case, he had no plans to do any serious flirting today. He'd be content with finding one of the young women who usually made a genial dance partner and alternating a few dances with her and a few conversations with his friends from the club, and probably leave early. At least, that was his plan until he caught sight of the young woman he'd been verbally sparring with at the last few parties he'd seen her in. New plan: quick verbal sparring match, maybe a dance, then on to conversations with fellows from the club and a more amiable dance partner.

"That's a nice dress," he said by way of greeting — and he actually had just meant it as a greeting and a light compliment, despite the fact that when the words left his mouth they were dripping with sarcasm.

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Clarissa Cosgrove

  

Clarissa would never miss a chance to attend a party of - or in this case, for, Mrs. Ophelia Devine. They were both alumni of Pendergast School for Young Roses and Mrs. Devine was considered a fashion icon among most of society.

She had not been expecting to run into Mr. Morgan though she supposed she should have. He was a new sort of constant. Irritating at first but it had given way into a new sort of amusement for her.

She was a bit surprised that his first move was to seemingly insult her attire. She looked fabulous, she could only assume something was wrong with his fashion sense. "An expert in women's fashion now, are you?" She asked in mild amusement.

  

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Since Morgan's tone hadn't sounded off to his ears, he was a bit perplexed by how defensive her response was. They hadn't gotten off on the right foot, sure, but it was a bit much for her to start off being so openly antagonistic when he'd done nothing but give her a mild compliment.

"I wouldn't say that," he said, more to fill time while he tried to figure out how to respond than anything else. Unbeknownst to him, his tone once again turned sarcastic — the implication being I don't need to be an expert to see how awful that dress is.

Perhaps it was best just to change the subject? Morgan really wasn't an expert on fashion, so he didn't have anything particularly substantial to say about her dress, and if it was a sore subject for whatever reason he hardly wanted to dwell on it. He glanced at the nearest bit of decor and asked (in his mind innocently enough), "Are you a friend of the hostess?" (How it came across, with the tone he still wasn't aware of: how did you get invited here?)

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Why was Mr. Morgan being so rude? She knew she had provoked him a couple of times in the past but it had been nothing to warrant such rudeness. She was a vision in this dress she personally felt. And if he couldn't see that, then he had absolutely no taste.

"Mrs. Devine and I both attended the same finishing school. We are friendly enough, I wager," Clarissa said. She and Mrs Devine were hardly bosom buddies but she idolized Mrs. Devine. "What about you? Are you familiar with the Devines?"

  

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Everyone was at least passingly familiar with the Devines, but he assumed that wasn't the sort of thing she meant. "Not particularly," he admitted. He knew Mr. Devine was involved in Quidditch, but Morgan hadn't even attended a professional match since the bludger incident with the World Cup, so he could hardly be called a fanatic. While he was often invited to Mrs. Devine's social events, he didn't know the hostess in any real sense; he figured he probably only merited an invite because of his mother's influence, which was just fine with him. She did all the work of maintaining relationships with the various society wives and keeping the Morgan family in good standing, and he reaped the rewards in the form of invitations to one event or another.

"You went to finishing school?" he asked, trying to recall if she had mentioned that before. (The tone: It didn't much work, did it?) Annie had gone abroad to be finished, but it had been with a tutor rather than a formal school; he was curious as to the differences. Not that he knew much about what actually went in to finishing.

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That was a little surprising to Clarissa given Mrs. Morgans influential status as a socialite. Then again, just because the mother might be familiar did not mean the son was. She also deduced that he must not be very involved in the Quidditch industry.

"Your tone suggests you find that hard to believe," Clarissa said. "But yes, I did." She had also been one of the top girls of her class but Clarissa doubted Mr. Morgan would even understand what that signified. Especially since she had slightly developed a habit of being mildly informal with him. After all, seeing a mans naked legs did foster a sense of closeness despite the fact she wasn't actually that close to Mr. Morgan.

  

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She was coming across as a little stiff, and Morgan didn't know what to attribute it to. Had he caught her in a bad mood, or was she still holding their previous encounters against him? He probably ought to cut his loses and draw the conversation to a close quickly. If she had determined to dislike him, there wasn't much he could do about it other than give her a wide berth in the future. It did sting a little to feel that he'd been dismissed, though. He was a nice person, actually, despite the incident in the marketplace — and charming, despite the whole ordeal with the pants — and thoughtful, despite the thing where he'd stepped on her dress.

"Well — if that's all —" he said, a little at a loss.

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Clarissa eyed the other man in mild curiosity. She felt like he usually had a little more fire in him but he was also acting quite odd. Not that she could presume to know him, of course. She did feel like she had interacted with him enough to recognize a little difference in his demeanor tonight. "That isn't quite all," she said lightly. "You have been especially rude tonight and despite our previous interactions, you were never spiteful. Why are you being so tonight? Did I wrong you in some way?"

  

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Morgan couldn't quite believe his ears when she accused him of being spiteful. He'd tried to start things off tonight on the right foot, with a compliment about her dress. Wasn't that the sort of thing women wanted to hear at a party? She was the one who was being stiff and cold in return.

"Me? You're the one being —" Rather than finish the sentence, he made a dismissive sweep with one of his hands. "I've been trying my best to say something nice and you're..."

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Clarissa stared at him for a moment. Was he being serious? It seemed so. "If that is the truth then I apologize. But your tone suggests quite differently than what you say." It was rather confusing, truth be told. "Everything you say has been sounding particularly sarcastic."

  

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Sarcastic? She was touchy, wasn't she? He'd been nothing but sincere, particularly compared to all their earlier interactions. Morgan wasn't sure whether to be put out by her supposing he was a cad, or just perplexed that she seemed to have honestly interpreted things that way.

"Maybe that's how you've been hearing it," he said, a touch uncertainly. There wasn't really a way he could find to phrase well, you're wrong very nicely, but — he honestly hadn't said a single thing that was sarcastic, from the start of their interaction. She was wrong.

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Clarissa eyed him warily, unsure what to think now. "Perhaps it is my mood," Clarissa allowed though she still didn't think that was quite it. "Perhaps it is best we leave it at that for now. Until next we meet, Mister Morgan."

  

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