19 March, 1890 — Fundraiser Dinner, Hogsmeade Ballroom

Thom didn't have much involvement in his social calendar these days, since he was traveling so frequently. Between his wife and his assistant, much of his time spent back in the country was planned out for him, and engagements were pleasant (or sometimes less than pleasant) surprises that he was introduced to as they became relevant. He'd learned about this fundraising dinner a few days earlier, but hadn't bothered to look into any of the details — including what the fundraiser was actually for — until he'd arrived at the ballroom early that evening. So far the evening had been perfectly pleasant. He'd mingled, then sat down to a catered dinner with a table of people he was only mildly acquainted with. After the dessert plates had been cleared, they'd turned to the actual money-making event of the evening: a card game.

Generally, cards were far preferable to silent auctions or those transparent pay-for-a-ticket sort of activities that no one was really interested in partaking in. It was a simple game, played against one opponent where each had their own deck of cards and the object was to get to the bottom as quickly as possible. In order to keep things interesting, the hosts had created a twist: after the game began, the tables magically rotated every few minutes to change the partners. Since that changed the cards in play as well, it was meant to make the game more difficult and prolong the match — and raise the amount of money the players were willing to bet on the various card combinations the longer it went on.

Thom's luck was mixed. His first few minutes, it was difficult to play anything at all and his opponent was soundly beating him. After the first shift, the table opened up and he was able to quickly dispel his entire hand and get halfway through another. The conversation was fairly pleasant, to boot, which meant perhaps he wasn't taking as much advantage of the table as he might have. The third shift unexpectedly brought him face-to-face with someone he hadn't even known was in attendance: Ursula Black.

"Oh," he said as he settled in to the new table. There was no way to avoid talking to her without drawing attention to the two of them, but luckily he would only be here a few minutes before moving on. "Hello."

Ursula Black

  

For once in her life Ursula was trying very hard not to stand out. It was her first time out in society since she'd withdrawn and she was on edge. She was certain that there were people present this evening who thought she'd died, probably thanks to The Daily Prophet and hearing nothing contrary after that article had been written. While she'd only sent a select few deathbed letters she still felt as though everyone looking at her this evening thought her a melodramatic fool. She very nearly had died but what did that matter when she'd been so adamant that she was going to die and then hadn't? It certainly didn't help that she hadn't completely regained the weight she'd lost; her cheekbones were a little more prominent than they had been but to her they seemed very harsh and angular and it was all she could focus on in the mirror.

But she had a new dress and it was the perfect sort of place to start easing back in to things so she had convinced herself it was a good idea. She certainly didn't have the physical or mental strength for a ball yet. It hadn't seemed like a bad idea until shortly after arriving when she thought she'd caught someone staring at her a moment longer than was typically polite. From then on she'd been determinedly paranoid, she'd even thought she'd spotted Thomas Pettigrew at one point which had put the fear of god in her. She'd probably just imagined it, worked up as she was, and with time she'd convinced herself she'd done just that.

The evening had eventually progressed to cards which she'd had absolutely no intention of participating in. Not until an acquaintance had invited her to join in and she'd felt obliged to in order to avoid drawing further attention to herself for being seemingly uncharitable. The game was entertaining enough but she quickly realized she was already too tired to really enjoy it. The tables started to rotate and Ursula looked about for some sign of how much longer it would go on for. When she turned to see who her new partner was she nearly knocked her deck off the table. In her surprise she failed to stop the look of wide-eyed horror on her face at the sight of him. Clearly she hadn't been imagining things earlier, why had she dismissed herself so readily? Finally she did school her expression into something more neutral but her eyes were betraying her.

"Good evening," she lowered her eyes to her cards, unable to continue looking him in the face. How was she supposed to play cards when all she could think about was that letter. How could she make smalltalk with him after all the time she'd spent feverish and fixating over how he'd received her letter. There was no way, she was lost for words, she couldn't even tear her eyes off of her hand for fear of what she'd find if she did. Death was preferable, for the love of Merlin why hadn't the fever taken her?!

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Thom Pettigrew | OUTFIT

  

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Thom glanced at his cards, hoping she would say something beyond a greeting, but of course she didn't. He was too much of an established society member to just sit here in silence for the few minutes it would take for the tables to rotate again, though; he could already feel the burden of not saying anything weighing heavily on him, distracting from his cards. He'd have to come up with some small talk, then, just to get them through. Neither of them had to actually invest in it — it just had to be something.

"You're looking well," he said. It was a lie. She looked awful: pale skin, bags under her eyes, a general gauntness. He could have said she was looking well for someone who was supposed to have died last month, but adding that caveat would be acknowledging the letter that she'd sent him, and he absolutely refused to do that.

This was going to be a dead end, he realized, because she wasn't going to want to talk about herself and he didn't particularly want to ask. What else fell under the umbrella of small talk? He could ask after her husband, but to be honest he suspected that he already knew as much as she did; Phineas spent the majority of his time away at the school, and he had never been a particularly caring or affectionate husband. One of her children, then — but after having read her letter even that subject felt tainted, as though he could not bring up Sirius or Phineas without implicitly bringing up their possibly bastard heritage by association. He certainly could not ask after Belvina.

"Is your new son faring well?" he finally decided. That baby, at least, he knew nothing about, so she could not possibly read any malice into this line of questioning.

  

Veritable torture, that's what this was. As if she looked well! She hadn't looked well in months - she'd sooner be mistaken for an inferius! Was he trying to cruel or was it a thoughtless pleasantry? Ursula knew it was almost certainly the latter but Merlin did it ever hit her as though it was the former, especially after the words that followed it.

"I'm told he's strong." Unlike her, he'd done this to her, he'd spoiled her thoroughly inside and out. She placed a card down on the table between them. "And you, your children...?" It was better than pained silence but every word was a challenge. I can't do this.

Just then she realized that her hands were trembling. If she wasn't concerned her legs would fail to support her if she got to her feet she might have tried to prematurely excuse herself. Enough! She had to stop and get a hold of herself, it was embarrassing to think how feeble and ill-composed she must seem. He likely despised her after what he'd read since he hadn't reached out and why should she give him the satisfaction of seeing her so wretched?

Ursula leaned the sides of her hands against the table to minimize the unsteadiness and with great difficulty and even greater anguish, forced herself to look him in the face. Her conviction abruptly left her. For the first time since she'd fallen in love with him he truly felt like a stranger sat there across from her. She didn't even know what the talk in society was about him, what he'd been up to, anything. "The truth is, Mr. Pettigrew..." his name felt wrong on her lips, like she was still feverish and longing for the sound of his voice. "I feel certain I know the contents of your hand; your cards are unforgiving, I have as good as conceded the game to you. I keep placing cards down but it is a futile endeavor when I already know that you will immediately best it." It was bold, bolder than she felt, but she couldn't summon up another syllable of small talk unless she addressed the elephant in the room first, painful though it was. "I have no hopes or ambitions, the cards have already been dealt. I suspect I have ruined the game for you now with my frankness, I apologize if that is the case but I did not wish to move on to the next table leaving things unexplained."

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Thom Pettigrew | OUTFIT

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   Ophelia Devine

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Thom tensed as the conversation turned towards the game. There was no disguising what she actually intended to say, despite the fact that the words she used were mundane. It was too much to ask, he supposed, that they could actually have gotten through three minutes of conversation without addressing it in some fashion; the letter she'd sent him loomed too large in the corner of both of their minds for them to pretend it had never happened. Still, he looked at his cards rather than at her as she spoke, and as he considered his response; it was easier.

"You speak as though I've been playing ruthlessly," he said, placing a card from his hand down on the table deliberately. "And I don't think that is the case. At the very least, you must know it was never my intention. Your cards are entirely beyond my control, so I hope you don't blame me for the current state of your hand."

  

His response didn't quell the turmoil she felt, in fact it did the exact opposite. Was she understanding him correctly? Had he understood her correctly? She wasn't sure on either count and the need for clarity was consuming her. How far could she go with this talking only in terms of cards? "Perhaps what I mean to say is, how can your cards be anything but unforgiving when faced with my losing hand? Though I don't see how I could blame you for the hand I chose." Ursula placed down another card having barely looked at it, her mind was not on the game at all.

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Thom Pettigrew | OUTFIT

  

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"The hand you were dealt, you mean," he corrected her gently. When he'd started to speak he had only meant to address her slip of the tongue regarding their metaphor. There was no degree of choice in which cards she'd picked up, and the way she'd phrased it let lie that she wasn't talking about the cards at all, which could be dangerous if anyone were to overhear them. As he'd said it, though, he realized the dual meaning it might carry, which was that he was absolving her of any agency in this current situation. He wasn't sure he was ready to do that, but he couldn't unsay it, and he would have no control over how she interpreted his remark.

But trying to pretend it was entirely her fault, when he knew so much about her situation and her loveless marriage, seemed too cold even given the contents of her last letter, and the terms on which they'd parted. To that end, Thom added, "A game such as this one has an element of luck as well as one of skill, don't you think?"

Thom turned his attention to his hand, and added almost carelessly, "And your losing hand at this table may have a different outcome with another partner. Our portion of this match may seem long while we sit here, but in fact I think it will be quite the opposite in the scope of the entire game."

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   Ursula Black

What was he saying?! Was he saying that he didn't blame her? It was exactly what she wanted to hear but it was exactly what she never expected from him, even she didn't think herself blameless. On the contrary, she was more ashamed than words or metaphors could ever express. Surely on that count they could agree, that she'd acted shamefully? It wasn't impossible, however, that he was merely correcting her choice of words for appearances sake. As she saw it she technically chose to accept the cards she'd been given, not that it was generally acceptable to reject a hand because you didn't care for it. It was also the only way to communicate that she accepted responsibility rather than blaming it on circumstance.

Talk of luck was all but missed completely when what followed it sent her reeling. He couldn't possibly be implying what it sounded like he was implying, he could't, could he? Even if thought it prudent to tell her that she could be happy with someone else which it absolutely was not prudent, the very implication and after what she'd written... He had as good as called her a whore. Perhaps he might in the heat of an argument but to coolly land a blow like that, in public of all places... It conflicted directly with everything else she'd understood thus far and yet she could see no other way of interpreting what he'd said.

Embarrassment and indignance brought some color into her sallow face but she made sure to keep her eyes sharply downward at her hands so no one could see how deeply affected she was beyond that. "Respectfully, Mr. Pettigrew, I find I disagree." Her voice was at least steady but her voice sounded short, thin and close to breaking. Merlin, she sounded as though she was on the verge of angry tears, which to be fair, she was if she didn't rein it in fast. She cleared her throat and for the sake of potential eavesdroppers, "You see, I'm not sure I shall be able to see the game through to the end." She had mostly dropped the metaphor now and hadn't considered how it might sound if he hadn't realized this.

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Thom Pettigrew | OUTFIT

  

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"Well," Thom said coolly, ignoring the strain he could hear in her voice. "It seems unlikely that either of us will finish the game at this table, particularly if your hand is as dismal as you say."

He wasn't sure exactly what she was implying with her last comment, but he didn't want to give her any false hope of rekindling things here, if that was her intention. Thom didn't think that it was, but — well, he knew Ursula, and he knew that she could make questionable decisions in the heat of the moment. If her illness and the letter had left her feeling vulnerable, and then he said something that vaguely implied he was open to a continuation — she might get the wrong idea, to say the least. Better to close that avenue off entirely than to leave it ambiguous through the use of metaphor.

  

By now she was well and truly lost in the metaphor and it was all she could do not to throw her cards down and storm out to find a solitary place to cry out her confusion and frustration. That would definitely garner a lot of undesirable attention and while she felt a little more inclined to throw caution to the wind since her brush with death, she had no intention of being an idiot about it. Still every fiber of her being was screaming for her to get up and walk away but it was equally as unpleasant a prospect as having to endure his coldness for a few more minutes.

For the first time since realizing she was sat across from him she looked at her cards properly and realized they actually weren't bad at all. "You needn't be quite so pessimistic, I should be able to hold on just long enough to see this round through." Once the tables swapped she had every intention of bowing out with the excuse that she felt unwell which wouldn't even be a lie. Ursula placed another card down on the table. She'd seek solace in hopefully besting him at cards now that she was paying some attention to them. The more she thought about the cards the less she wanted to cry.

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Thom Pettigrew | OUTFIT

  

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What was she trying to imply? He'd been quite clear, hadn't he? While he didn't blame her unduly for the way that things had ended between them, they were quite certainly ended. Her talk of seeing the round through made no sense. Their round was through, and he had given her no glimmer of hope that it might not be.

"I believe our round is finished," he said coolly, as he placed a final card down on the table. Luckily the metaphor seemed to bear him out, as he hear the bustle of others wrapping up their conversations and moving on to the next tables even as he said this. "I wish you better luck with the rest of your game," he said, collapsing his hand into a small pile and gathering the remaining deck in his other hand, preparing to move.

  

Oh.

He was out of cards.

Already.

From what he said it sounded as though he hadn't heard a word she'd been saying the last minute or so! Was that the extent of his disinterest in her? Ursula rose to her feet rather too quickly and had to place a steadying hand on the back of her chair. "I appreciate the sentiment but as I said, this is where it ends for me. I find myself unwell." A frosty manner was all she could conjure up for composure as she started to excuse herself. Charity be damned, she just wanted to go home! "Good evening, Mr. Pettigrew." She did not wish him luck in his games real or metaphorical, she hoped he lost an embarrassing amount of money and went home to a bed that was as cold and empty as his heart. And she hoped it stayed that way.

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Thom Pettigrew | OUTFIT

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   Thom Pettigrew

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