13th April, 1890 — QWC Roster Celebration, Puddlemere United Clubhouse

She had no love for Puddlemere - and no real love for parties - but she could put that aside, given the circumstances. The circumstances being last time she’d been here she had gotten herself on the first string of the national team, and also that she was relatively certain not everyone was as happy about this as her.

And Gus, though not one to usually take things seriously, was trying to be strategic here. The strategy was: find some allies on the national team. Plenty of players in the quidditch league were friendly, but she suspected more of them were comfortable being rivals than they would be to be teammates, and she’d be damned if any of them ruined this for Britain or for her. So: the plan was to make friends. Play nice. Join the boys’ club.

An easier task, probably, if the Harpies hadn’t just made it to the finals of the league, and plenty of their teams hadn’t.

So, whilst Gus tried to figure out how not to shove that in their faces - she was not so good a strategist off the pitch, if she were honest - she had been contenting herself by standing towards the corner, shovelling food into her face. And that was the last mouthful, she had just told herself (firmly), hurriedly brushing crumbs off her mouth as she turned towards the room at large and - collided face first with someone, crumbs and all. “Mmf, sorry -” Gus said, mouth still half-full of food.

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open to someone who'd be at the QWC roster celebration, see above for event!

  

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gorgeous set by Lady!

The party thus far had been good fun! A chance to catch up with people he hadn’t seen in a while, a few of the older players, people who hadn’t played in quite from time, and of course the current roster for the new team. Jack was a competitive player, one didn’t get to be captain of a professional team, and on the national squad without being competitive. However, for the Chudley Captain, country came before county and now they were on the national squad it was time to put the national stuff behind them. Especially since Chudley were already out and he no longer had a dog in that particular fight – given the particularly poor showing they had put on against Puddlemere.

He had left the Gallivans, a few other of the Chudley gents talking in a corner and was making a beeline for the food table to answer the call of his growling stomach when he collided bodily with another party attendee. He had automatically extended an arm to steady the other party goer. It was Ms. Robins, the lady who had bested him for a spot on the first string. She was mumbling with a mouth full of food. ’that’s quite alright!’ he said, and then couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the sight of Ms. Robins contentidly eating. ’I’m sure we can forgive you! Since you can fly straighter than you can walk he laughed, and made rather a show of releasing her hand as though half expecting her to fall over again.

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She might have narrowed her eyes a little as he moved to steady her, but aside from his theatrics at seeing her on-balance, his jibe seemed friendly enough, and his laugh more with her than at her, she thought. Gus wasn’t sure.

Still, she’d give the Chudley captain the benefit of the doubt; so she chuckled through her mouthful and then gulped it down in a hurry. “That’s what they’ve always told me,” she said cheerfully: she did better on a broom.

“Guess I must’ve flown a bit straighter than you last week, too,” Gus blurted out without thinking, surprised that she could’ve made first string when the captain of another team (usually decent, if not having the rank in this league to show for it) had not... and maybe it had been the elephant in the room, but even if she had been joking, it might have been smarter not to... mention it. Goddamnit, Gus!

She grinned sheepishly as if to say she’d been teasing, in case that went down better than the sheer bravado, but she supposed the awkwardness showed, because she lurched right into a change of subject, her voice a little high-pitched, “Food’s good here, isn’t it?”

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gorgeous set by Lady!

Jack clasped his chest and stumbled back as though she’d punched him. ’you wound me!’ he said in mock offense, his brow furrowed. He took a drink of his firewhiskey, and scruffed the hair at the base of his neck awkwardly with his free hand ’You’ll hear no argument from me though’ he laughed and threw his hands up. ’I can acknowledge when I’ve been out flown.’

He plucked some mini quiches from the tray of the next passing waiter and popping one into his mouth. ’I’ll give Pettigrew credit’ Jack said, now with his own mouth full of food, ’It’s a decent spread.’ he finished his mouthful, washing it down with whiskey. He threw another into his mouth, ’Suppose Puddlemere has to be good at something’ he chuckled, conspiratorially to her, then almost choked on the mouthful of quiche.

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Her mouth slipped into a lopsided smile as he made a joke of it, which was the best possible outcome here. And then he proved himself a good guy about it, fortunately. “Could’ve been a fluke,” she said in jest, with an easy shrug, but she wouldn’t go so far as to apologise for it - it bloody well hadn’t been a fluke if she’d spent her life training for it!

Besides, trash-talking Puddlemere was something they could certainly be united on; Augusta’s grin slipped wider at his last remark, just about to answer it when -

“Careful there, Cardew!” Gus said, fighting a laugh (and not feeling nearly so stupid about her hasty mouthfuls now), but thumping the other chaser heartily on his back to try and stop his choking. “Can’t have you incapacitated by a little quiche, can we?” Not before the world cup had made any headway!

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gorgeous set by Lady!

He hoped it wasn’t, he might get some play at the world cup, that would do him rightly, but being part of a winning team would be better than making it onto a losing one. As far as he was concerned, when it came to the national squad -a rising tide would life all boats. After all, he had maybe another 3 or 4 years left in professional quidditch before he got too old, or just too unskilled to be able to continue – and being part of a world cup winning national team would be a nice feather in his proverbial cap.

’Might be quicker than a bludger’ he coughed out when he had cleared his throat, procuring a drink from a passing waiter to wash it away. He downed the glass of champagne in a single hit. ’The Harpies seem pretty unstoppable this season? Do you fancy you chances? Hogsmeade have good form this far.’

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She chuckled at his bludger comment, suddenly feeling a little more on a level with him. (She cursed herself for not feeling level with everyone here immediately on principle - as first string, as well! - and resolved to get rid of this daft chip on her shoulder as fast as she humanly could.)

A little dose of overconfidence could do the trick at that. Or another champagne. Gus mimicked his motion and downed it too (probably not a good idea, as the stuff did go to her head faster than she liked). Grinning a little lightheadedly already, Gus grabbed her chance. “Course I fancy our chances, ye of little faith. Hogsmeade are doing fine but we bloody deserve it this year.” If only because everyone liked to go on about how impossible it was - none of them could even believe they’d made it to the finals, not even seeing it with their own two eyes! And although Dez’s recent coaching had been nothing if not measured, it felt terribly good not to be hamstrung by their old (disgraced) coach. The change had been for the best, she sincerely meant that. “Why, who are you betting on?” She challenged, staring at him squarely.

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gorgeous set by Lady!

Having been bested by her at the trials he wasn’t really in a position to challenge her claim that the Harpys deserved to win – they had best him after all, and indeed his entire team. So he laughed good naturedly and popped another quiche in his mouth, not managing to choke this time. ’Well if you can tell me you’ll be a ringer then I guess I’ll put money on the ladies of the Harpys’ he acknowledge, ’It would do the league good for a shake up. ’ even he had to admit it would be nice to see Hogsmeade lose, aside from anything Pettigrew would be pretty insufferable if Hogsmeade won, and a Harpy win might be just what it took to make of their more complacent team members pull the finger out.

’And I mean…’ he dropped his voice conspiratorially, ’if someone happens to take out Pettigrew so I can move up to first string it would be a win win.’ he winked at her roguishly, clearly joking, looking off to the side as though feigning innocence. He actually liked Pettigrew, but they were professional competitors and when it came to a spot on the national teal he was sure just about everyone would have preferred first string – for while a number of the Canons had made the team – none had made first string not even Lestrange which was, in itself, le strange.

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“Been a long time coming,” Gus reiterated with a pleased nod. Honestly she was better practised in getting into disagreements (banter, mostly... well, and an occasional row) with rival teams, if only because most of them had an unpleasant thing or two to say about the Harpies. If Cardew thought similarly, he was at least pretending not to harbour them. Maybe everyone was suddenly feeling more kindly towards everyone else because they were all on the same side for once.

Although his joke did remind her that there was competition even in their own ranks, whatever the team’s title was. With a certain mercenary pragmatism Gus was sure Jack Cardew would be pleased as punch to have her spot as much as Art Pettigrew’s, but they were having a friendly talk, so this was all fun and games, no need to challenge it. “Oh, there’s a long time between now and the tournament,” Gus said brightly, with a meaningful eyebrow-waggle. “Anything can happen.” A joke, obviously. Although: injuries were injuries, and no one ever saw them coming. And Art Pettigrew was getting to be an old fart, on the quidditch scene. Who knew what his joints were like these days? (Well, Dezzie, probably.)

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gorgeous set by Lady!

Jack practically did a spit take of his champagne which he had been in the middle of taking a mouthful of when she had given the eyebrow wiggle and cheeky comment. He snorted through his nose, and very much threatened to send champagne up his nose. How gallant! He took a second and forced himself to swallow the mouthful of champagne.

'I can drink to that!' he said with a small cheers he joked in relation to Pettigrews 'unfortunate' injury 'And to a Harpy victory' he added. He glanced around the room, taking in the rest of the room. 'what do you reckon our chances actually are at the top prize?' he asked, his eyebrows knitting together in contemplation of his own question, 'I hear Lichtenstein have a hell of a keeper this year.'

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Ah, blast - Gus was so earnestly entertained by his daft reaction to her joking that she had forgotten her awkwardness, and all her thoughts of strategy. She was starting to think she actually liked Cardew. Damn it.

He seemed nice. (Nice enough that he probably wasn’t seething with barely-disguised misogynistic hatred underneath his teasing.)

She mimicked his toast and took another gulp of champagne in spite of herself, and her full awareness that half of the men here could drink her under the table without trying, and if she tried to keep up with him it would be to her own shame and mortification eventually. She was probably a bit tipsy already. But the one more couldn’t hurt...

“Oh!” Gus declared, waving a finger knowingly. “No - well yes - but did you hear that Luxembourg’s chasers are all brothers?!” She exclaimed. “Apparently - well, since they’ve been playing together all their lives - it’s like they can read one another’s minds! It’s them we should worry about, I say.”

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gorgeous set by Lady!

’I can’t imagine playing with my brother’ he laughed at the thought, ’I can only imagine how horribly competitive that would get.’ Jack, for all of his competitive nature, truly played for the love of the sport. As a first born son it was his prerogative to take up whichever profession best pleased him because he would never need ‘income’ the way many others did. Just as there were many players who would never be able to afford a wife on a players salary Jack had no such concerns, his inheritance would provide whatever was needed for the maintenance of a family, his brother on the other hand would need to marry well, or provide for himself.

’Have you family Miss Robins?’ he asked, ’Any ambious younger sisters out for you spot on the harpies’ and then bring his glass to his lips in a jokinly casual manner and looking off to the side ’or that might be poached for the canons?’ he added quickly in a mutter as though pretending she wouldn’t notice the addendum when she very obviously would, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth behind the champagne glass.

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“‘Fraid not,” Gus said, with her signature unladylike snort of laughter. “Just a younger brother and I think he’d rather die than play quidditch,” she said, leaning towards him confidentially. George was many things she was not - patient and quiet and sweet - but he would be petrified to find himself on the pitch, that was for sure. Better that way, anyway; one of them had to have a proper job!

She drummed her fingers airily on the champagne flute; tried not to sway in a way that made her look like a useless debutante who'd done too much dancing. Not in front of the new teammates, Merlin. “But you can have him for the Cannons, if ya like,” Gus teased, resisting the urge to nudge him with her elbow. Valiantly. “None of your family play then, either?”

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gorgeous set by Lady!

He chuckled 'Thanks but no thanks, although if he needs a reference for Puddlemere I'll happily write one' he laughed.

'and alas no' he noted with a heavy swallow of his drink, 'My brother is a eh...nervous child' he explained with a lopsided, almost apologetic smile, 'And my sisters....' it was probably more their mothers decision than his sisters, but both girls were 'proper' in the most conventional manner. 'would probably fall of a broom when it's on the ground.' he explained, it didn't think it really did any of the others much benefit to be so wholly excluded form the quidditch world, one by anxiety and the others by their mothers over bearing nature. 'I was the only one lucky enough to be given the free reign on what I should like to do with my life.'

'Are your family supportive of your career?' he asked, trying to be delicate, but equally curious. His mother would have a coronary if his sisters decided to take up quidditch, but she would also have a coronary if they wore cotton rather than linen, or french point work over English - whatever that distinction meant. 'With you being so successful I imagine they are proud of your distinction.'

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“They sound like my brother all over,” Gus said, laughing loudly at his descriptions of his siblings. Although what he said next about free rein was decidedly less funny, and she swallowed down nothing, trying to address the next question soberly.

She could picture his sisters, anyway; well-behaved, well-bred girls who actually knew how to be. She had to shake her head with a despairing sort of chuckle at his line of questioning, because they must live very different lives, and she didn’t think many people would call her successful. Even half of the people who knew a crumb about quidditch probably wouldn’t have put her on the team, if they’d had their way.

“My father used to take me to Falmouth Falcons matches,” Gus said with a vaguely amused shrug, meaning if he didn’t want this maybe he shouldn’t have. He had also bought her her very first broom, not long before he’d left them, so. “Ah, they’re proud enough, for not caring about quidditch at all,” she tried to explain, waving her hand carelessly. “I don’t know if they’d call me successful, though,” Gus added, on the verge of cracking up again. “I was just a failure at practically everything else. You should have seen my sewing!”

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gorgeous set by Lady!

'You should have seen mine' he joked back, as a way of vindicating the comparison. The quality of her needle work made no nevermind to him, in fact he was almost entirely sure it was one of those things only women cared about. He had never met another man who met a girl he liked and when deciding on their future thought 'hmm, she's pretty, kind, smart, funny, and I like her...but man...that needlework leaves a lot of be desired. His parents had never encouraged quidditch, but it had never been forbidden, an eldest son's prerogative he supposed.


One of his team mates gestured to him, the canons contingent wanted a photo of the canons that had made it onto the team - all be it as seconds. 'Excuse me Miss Robbins. It's been a genuine plesaure.' he gave a small salute and tipped back the remainder of his glass.

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wrap?