If mister Bensouda's blood and class - or indeed his general good looks, had not assured him an invitation to the hunt, his prodigious quidditch connections would have done it. It wouldn't have surprised Vera if her father was trying to poach the noteworthy coach for whatever pity team he was sponsoring this year, for he certainly wasn't interested in the Coaches good looks. His pity team were almost certainly in need of someone like Bensouda's intensity to get them back on the straight and narrow - and it was clear from the mud and dirt on his riding boots that he had committed to the hunt of the fox the way he committed his intensity on the field - that hot arab blood* carrying the victory over his more mild mannered English counterparts.

She was taken aback by his comment - it had not occured to her that he may not be aware of what a blooding is, and for a second she balked at the thought that he may refuse or be mortally offended at the idea - didn't some of those foreign people take offense at blood. She knew that there were *Jews who had a thing about the blood of some animals - who could keep track of which ones - perhaps Arabs were the same. 'Em - its when we take a little of the blood of the fox and anoint your forehead and cheeks, it's a mark of honour.' she explained, realising how odd the whole thing sounded even as she said it. Vera gestured to the Gillie who was approaching, holding the suspended corpse of the fox. 'Although if you would be offended sir, I'm sure we can forgo it?' she added hastily.

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