and all we know is touch and go
The envelope is deposited into Thayet’s lap by a very ruffled, disgruntled owl. Before she can call Little Bian back– must be tired from the early morning flight, poor thing– her attention snags onto the black seal embossed in the corner.
Buri drops into the seat next to her, smelling for all the world like freshly trampled grass and mud– merlin, she’s covered from head to toe in crushed grass bits too. The half-eaten toast is snatched halfway from Thayet’s mouth.
Thayet raises an eyebrow. She knows Buri well enough to let her get to it on her own, and what with this morning savagery going on it’ll be out in no time.
“Bloody Gryffindors.” Buri polishes off the toast and accios another, this time straight from the hands of Gary Naxen, who’s just sat down to his. “Wrong table today, Naxen? Or are you waiting for your cronies to come back from stealing the quidditch pitch?”
Gary growls. “For the record, the team reserved it–”
“Merlin, won’t you two stop arguing for a minute?” Cythera Elden slides over from the Hufflepuff table, snagging another toast. Thayet sighs inwardly; what with invasion from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, there’s going to be no toast left for the actual Gryffindors at this table.
As Buri and Gary launch into another argument about their rights to the Quidditch pitch, Thayet slits the envelope open with her fingernail. Letters from Adigun jin Wilima are few and far between– he’s far from the affectionate, doting parent that is Buri’s mother, and frankly that’s the way Thayet would like it. Still, its mere presence leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Thayet picks the card out with her fingertips– surely it can’t be a Howler, Adigun finds them distasteful, not that he’d care enough about what she gets up to daily so long as she shows up to corporate dinners– then makes to flip it over, when–
“Mind if I sit here?”
Sighing, she looks up and freezes.
Jon, or Jonathan Conté, Head Boy, heir apparent to the Corus Foundation, Gryffindor quidditch captain and all of her trust fund hatred balled into one, raises his eyebrows expectantly from across the bench. That prick. As if he’s expecting her to yield the empty seat.
Surprised enough to see him without his strumpet of a girlfriend, Delia Eldorne (sixth year and Slytherin; Thayet has seen the demonstrations they put on in public and it’s enough to make anyone, really, vomit), she can only nod mutely.
She can’t exactly fathom why he’s chosen her corner of the Gryffindor table to sit at– sure, they have enough mutuals with Alanna, Cythera, Alanna’s boyfriend George, even Raoul and Sacherell– but they run in two different circles. Thayet’s the transfer fresh out of Beauxbatons, friends with Buri, Alanna and Cythera but mostly keeping to herself since the start of the academic year. Not that she’s behind on any of it, of course; she’d be topping all her classes if not for the prick (‘the prat’, Buri calls him behind his back) in front of her, who has an insane talent for Transfiguration.
Jon Conté is rich, possibly one of Hogwarts’ biggest Quidditch prodigies, one third of the Golden Trio (Conté, Naxen and Goldenlake being three of the Wizarding World’s most ancient pureblood families) not to mention his stellar academic record. Beyond being groomed to be successor to his father’s legacy at some hotshot Magical firm that’s run in his family for generations, he’s also insanely charming (enough to have girls sneaking love potions to him every hour). It’s pathetic, Thayet thinks in disgust. The worst is that she can’t even blame his competency on his money, he’s just that good.
But the boy in question seems to be quite immersed in his cup of– she squints, coffee, tea?, looking for all the world like he’s an active practitioner of Divination. Jonathan catches her staring and quirks his lip in the famous Conté smirk, then turns to join Gary and company in their heated debate.
Thayet can feel the embarrassment threatening to break out on her cheekbones. She turns her attention back to the card in her lap.
At first, the cream paper remains blank. Then slowly, ink bleeds onto the page in her father’s curling script. Thayet blinks as the words zhir Anduo, dinner, expect your attendance come into focus.
Since her transfer from Beauxbatons, it’s been nothing from Adigun jin Wilima but business– negotiations with the Anduos and a good relationship with their eldest son, Dusan zhir Anduo, seventh year Slytherin, smarmy and cold and cruel as the rest of his family goes.
For all she knows, the Anduo scion only recognizes– well, eyes her like an asset to be gained, the few events she’s seen him at just yet– because of her tentative representation as heir to the SarainCorp conglomerate and all its fishy dealings– not that Thayet wants any part of it.
It’s all rot, anyway. Bloody Anduos and their dinner invites and schemes can all go to hell. Quietly, she whispers an incendio, turning the envelope into a pile of ash. If any of the others ask, it’s not worth mentioning– thank the Horse Lords Buri didn’t catch that when she came in
Thayet turns toward Buri and Cythera, pretending not to notice the half-concerned look Conté shoots her as she dusts the last of the ash off her lap under the table.