He had heard the rumours. It would probably be most sensible, he had decided, to stay away.
But he didn’t have the constitution for it, and so when a convenient moment had finally arisen, he wove his way to Elsie. A touch at her back was the most discreet manner of closeness he could manage, and even then the split-second of contact before he withdrew his hand was disappointingly brief.
“At a respectable distance, where your mother can’t see me,” Tyb replied wryly, having found the evening so far torturous for that fact alone. He wouldn’t have minded a bit of food and drink and a few dances with girls he knew if Elsie hadn’t been here, but knowing that she was and not being able to spend the whole time in her company? It made everything else feel like such a waste.
But he hadn’t been able to wait forever, and he had passed a room or two (not a library) set a little ways down the hall that seemed perfectly undisturbed, and although he had been hoping to cross paths with her there, in the end Tybalt had had to settle for approaching her in plain view of the party.
But they were old friends, so they were allowed to catch up briefly with each other. And, Tyb thought, as he returned Elsie’s look with a warm look he tried to keep restrained, no one around them seemed to be taking any notice of their conversation, anyway. “I’d ask you to dance,” he added lightly, trying to understand quite why their conversation seemed on a different wavelength to the rest of those around them, which had all faded to some indistinct murmur, “but I imagine your dance card is probably quite full.” He only meant it as gentle teasing, paired with a fleeting grimace of sympathy; after all, it was not like she came to balls like these for fun, and he didn’t know what consequences she was facing at home, but he had the sneaking suspicion news of her refused suitor hadn’t gone down wonderfully well.
The news of precisely who that unnamed suitor had been - plastered over the pages of Witch Weekly, too - hadn’t been a particularly pleasant pill to swallow for Tyb, either. (What if he bumped into handsome Mr. Adlard in the Ministry hallway one day? How would he not feel awfully guilty? How would he keep a straight face?)
But he didn’t have the constitution for it, and so when a convenient moment had finally arisen, he wove his way to Elsie. A touch at her back was the most discreet manner of closeness he could manage, and even then the split-second of contact before he withdrew his hand was disappointingly brief.
“At a respectable distance, where your mother can’t see me,” Tyb replied wryly, having found the evening so far torturous for that fact alone. He wouldn’t have minded a bit of food and drink and a few dances with girls he knew if Elsie hadn’t been here, but knowing that she was and not being able to spend the whole time in her company? It made everything else feel like such a waste.
But he hadn’t been able to wait forever, and he had passed a room or two (not a library) set a little ways down the hall that seemed perfectly undisturbed, and although he had been hoping to cross paths with her there, in the end Tybalt had had to settle for approaching her in plain view of the party.
But they were old friends, so they were allowed to catch up briefly with each other. And, Tyb thought, as he returned Elsie’s look with a warm look he tried to keep restrained, no one around them seemed to be taking any notice of their conversation, anyway. “I’d ask you to dance,” he added lightly, trying to understand quite why their conversation seemed on a different wavelength to the rest of those around them, which had all faded to some indistinct murmur, “but I imagine your dance card is probably quite full.” He only meant it as gentle teasing, paired with a fleeting grimace of sympathy; after all, it was not like she came to balls like these for fun, and he didn’t know what consequences she was facing at home, but he had the sneaking suspicion news of her refused suitor hadn’t gone down wonderfully well.
The news of precisely who that unnamed suitor had been - plastered over the pages of Witch Weekly, too - hadn’t been a particularly pleasant pill to swallow for Tyb, either. (What if he bumped into handsome Mr. Adlard in the Ministry hallway one day? How would he not feel awfully guilty? How would he keep a straight face?)
