Ever since the horrific events at the World Cup match, Melody's reluctant stance to quidditch had devolved into an absolute refusal to acknowledge the sport. Mrs. Turnbull died mere feet from them, there one second and gone the next. The sickening crunch of bones took months to bury in the deepest recesses of her mind, followed closely by the collective horrified gasps and screams of those in the box with her. Quidditch was a violent sport, one that only the foolish would partake in, and nothing was likely to convince her otherwise.

Not even her quidditch loving husband or a quidditch themed Christmas party.

Her attendance tonight was solely in an effort to spend more time with Ben in public. Their social invitations were still lacking nearly a year after their scandal took place, though that was to expected. The bitchy women of society had a memory like none other, it would be years before they were readily accepted back into the folds. And even then the hint of a whisper would never be too far. Such was the life she impulsively signed them both up for.

They became separated early in the evening. Ben, presumably, had gone off to chat with his quidditch friends or gamble (or both, though she hoped she didn't follow in Mr. Pettigrew's footsteps in that regard), and she was delighted to drink and reunite with her friends. By the time she thought to find him again she was pleasantly buzzed and eager to dance. "Hello again, Mr. Crouch," she greeted cheerfully. "I hope you've enjoyed your evening thus far?"