Marion always supposed that she disliked being the center of attention. She was neither pretty nor wealthy enough to command a full dance card like the Pureblood girls, and it simply didn’t do to appear overly clever like the witty ones who had robust conversations standing along the walls. She was not courageous like a Gryffindor either, nor sweet like a Hufflepuff. Really, she was wholly and entirely unremarkable in all the ways that mattered. So it followed that she should earn no remarkable amount of attention.
Yet, here she now stood, feeling the center of attention. From someone quite handsome no less, and wealthy enough for his own carriage, and clever enough to remember books and French. Was he courageous like a knight? Perhaps sweet, like a taffy treat? Someone who perhaps was just being affable, when he called her a heroine. Though at that exact moment, when it seemed like this man was speaking with her rather than with his mother, Marion felt that she quite liked the idea of being the center of attention.
Her lips quirked to a smile. She didn’t notice that it happened, rather preoccupied with catching her train of runaway thought so that she would not simply blink in silence at this man like a bewildered bird.
“That would be infinitely more embarrassing, yes,” she quickly agreed, having never even considered this was a mistake that could be made. Of course it makes sense, all it would take is a poorly timed sneeze. Marion resolved in that instant she would never take the floo. “Although I am not lost,” she pointed out. “Given that I know quite well where I am. I was simply, ah, misdirected,” she offered. Which was precisely what she did as her hand waved vaguely while her toes sought out the sole of her shoe.
Nevertheless, the mother looked less than impressed. It was a familiar feeling, that of eyes roving over her figure from head to toe. Marion sucked in her belly. She inquired where Marion was off to— the witch squeaked out her matron’s neighborhood like a confession. Though she was not lost she was still quite wrong, it seemed, as this prompted a lecture from the woman about properly identifying one’s carriage — “And where is your chaperone? You know, girls could be murdered this way! Worse, kidnapped!”— and Marion bobbed her head along in agreement, bashfully taking her eyes down to her skirts. Occasionally she fluffed up a ruffle, feet still finding their way into her shoes.
Though she stole an occasional glance up at the gentleman as his mother’s diatribe went on. Pursed her lips so she wouldn’t be caught smiling like a fool, lest she prolong the verbal punishment for both of them. “You are quite right, madam. I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience and causing your worry…” she eventually offered. This seemed to appease the mum at least; the lines in the lady’s face softened, and for a split second the woman seemed incredibly familiar. As if this was someone she’s met in passing a few times before. Now how did she know her…?
Yet, here she now stood, feeling the center of attention. From someone quite handsome no less, and wealthy enough for his own carriage, and clever enough to remember books and French. Was he courageous like a knight? Perhaps sweet, like a taffy treat? Someone who perhaps was just being affable, when he called her a heroine. Though at that exact moment, when it seemed like this man was speaking with her rather than with his mother, Marion felt that she quite liked the idea of being the center of attention.
Her lips quirked to a smile. She didn’t notice that it happened, rather preoccupied with catching her train of runaway thought so that she would not simply blink in silence at this man like a bewildered bird.
“That would be infinitely more embarrassing, yes,” she quickly agreed, having never even considered this was a mistake that could be made. Of course it makes sense, all it would take is a poorly timed sneeze. Marion resolved in that instant she would never take the floo. “Although I am not lost,” she pointed out. “Given that I know quite well where I am. I was simply, ah, misdirected,” she offered. Which was precisely what she did as her hand waved vaguely while her toes sought out the sole of her shoe.
Nevertheless, the mother looked less than impressed. It was a familiar feeling, that of eyes roving over her figure from head to toe. Marion sucked in her belly. She inquired where Marion was off to— the witch squeaked out her matron’s neighborhood like a confession. Though she was not lost she was still quite wrong, it seemed, as this prompted a lecture from the woman about properly identifying one’s carriage — “And where is your chaperone? You know, girls could be murdered this way! Worse, kidnapped!”— and Marion bobbed her head along in agreement, bashfully taking her eyes down to her skirts. Occasionally she fluffed up a ruffle, feet still finding their way into her shoes.
Though she stole an occasional glance up at the gentleman as his mother’s diatribe went on. Pursed her lips so she wouldn’t be caught smiling like a fool, lest she prolong the verbal punishment for both of them. “You are quite right, madam. I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience and causing your worry…” she eventually offered. This seemed to appease the mum at least; the lines in the lady’s face softened, and for a split second the woman seemed incredibly familiar. As if this was someone she’s met in passing a few times before. Now how did she know her…?