Charlotte St. James may not have been the most impassioned quidditch fan in the stadium, but she did have the best seat. Or so she thought. With a brief, easy smile, she passed the wizard keeping an eye on the box’s entry and the bartender filling orders, and paused for a moment to greet Darian Morgan-- who looked as good as ever. She continued past a handful of seated witches and wizards who had also been extended prime seat real estate-- possibly by Charlotte’s very same friendly acquaintances.

It was a nice, breezy day, blue skies and rather warm for October. The pavilion was pulled back so that the seats themselves were drenched in sun. The friend with whom Charlotte was supposed to attend had come down with a bout of something questionable, leaving an empty seat in the frontmost row.

When Charlotte reached the last step and and turned into said row, she stopped, frozen as expertly as if she had been jinxed. Bristol Collins. A well-groomed pain. Her acquaintances were apparently not that friendly. She hastened to recover, the look of surprise vanishing, being replaced by one of mild annoyance. She was still bitter over their last encounter. When she noticed Azize Mulogo, whom she knew for his Ministry pedigree, her face became less nettled. She smiled. “So nice to see you, Azize. You’re looking well.” Excepting his choice in friends. She moved along, brushing past Bristol and his legs, which were in her way, ignoring whatever smile might be on his face. There was only a moment’s hesitation before she sat down beside him, rather than the extra seat on the end. “Bristol,” she said by way of greeting, not stiffly, but not too friendly, either. And then, more sweetly, turning her to look him with sincere interest in her eyes and a faint smirk on her lips: “Don’t you ever get sick of too much quidditch?”

Music suddenly rose over the buzz of the crowd, leading in a commentator’s voice. Charlotte had apparently arrived just in time. Cupping a hand over her brow, she looked toward the field below.  A moment later, both teams kicked off. In a blink, they were eye level with the box. She decided almost immediately which team she would root for-- the one with the chaser who was faster than everyone else.

Not thirty seconds in, her chaser caught the quaffle with an impressive interception, swindling two players from the opposite team. Charlotte knew more than enough about quidditch to know it was a good play (and the crowd, cheering and groaning in waves of noise, backed up her assumption). She smiled a little, close-lipped, and followed the blur of player-broom-red-ball.

After the magical epidemic nonsense of September, a few of the healers at St. Mungo's had found something that cured Azize's ailment[1], Azize threw on some slacks and a hooded sweater and went out to see a Quidditch game with his old housemate, Bristol Collins. And while Azize loved socializing, Quidditch was not a passion of his in comparison to dangerous creatures and foreign relations.

"It's just not the same as a sport with real creatures," Azize leaned back in his seat with a foot lazily hanging over his knee, as the two teams flew onto the field, "They could have changed the rules about snidgets, give points to people for handling it well or charming gloves, add a bit more class to the sport," Azize rolled his shoulders back as he raised a hand out towards the pitch, "But it's not the same as the finesse required to, say herd an erumpent."

And that's when one of the rather lovely St. James women came strolling by, who gave Azize a pleasant greeting he returned with a bright white smile, "And you, as always Charlotte."

Then Bristol seemed to get a much colder and antagonistic greeting. Azize's dark eyes suspiciously moved from Charlotte to Bristol before a glint of amusement caught the African's eye as he sat up and uncrossed his legs.

"With someone like you around I don't see why he would," the African then pulled himself over his seat into the row above him, and then moved himself over to the empty seat next to the witch before he gently lowered himself in the seat next to Charlotte, with a smile at her, "This wasn't for your date, I hope?"

Despite being rather boyish, Azize realized, from Charlotte's greeting towards Bristol that he would need to change seats, else he wouldn't get to see or take part in the real game that might unfold tonight. Hopefully, no one was actually sitting in the seat he just took.

1.	Plotted with Kelly about Flynn and Delilah accidentally finding something that would cure Azize, but not entirely find a cure.

"Azize, come on man," Bristol laughed, displaying a hand in reference to the greatest sport on the planet. The only thing that made it marginally better was the luxury of the VIP box. "This is poetry in motion, hardly anything tops playing a good game. Not the finest butterbeer in the world, not a fantastic lay off a real Diagon Alley stunner, and certainly not taming a bloody erumpent." The former Slytherin grinned boyishly at his companion, glad to be back in old routines with even older friends. Azize and Bristol had been part of the same circle in their Slytherin, and as such, had been great mates ever since.

Narrowing his eyes to concentrate on the game, Bristol gave a waitress a nod as he took a pint from her tray. He'd tip her later. The only thing that could break his concentration on Quidditch was Poppy acting especially cute and/or demanding. Little else could prove a distraction. Well, at least that's what Bristol thought until a beautiful St. James nemesis came over.

He glanced at her, pursing his lips to contain a smirk. She was always bloody popping up, this one, and she was only good for winding up. And providing a rather lovely figure for Bristol to slyly gawp at. "Charlotte, always a chore, never a pleasure." It was just the beginning of an insult barrage; it was fun arguing with Anna's coven. They constantly tried to belittle Bristol with remarks against his crass attitude or well-published 'private' life - but he always hit back where it hurt. With Mitzy, it was comments about her rather sordid past with the Weird Sisters in her groupie days. For Demelza, he focused on the frightful financial credit history that plagued her family tree. And with Charlotte? He was still pinpointing that little insecurity, but after feeling around a little, perhaps it was that drip of a boyfriend.

As Azize questioned whether the chair was for her date, Bristol swiftly put a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "No no, I doubt Charlotte has a date today," he sarcastically explained. "Her bloke is probably too busy crying into a handkerchief and writing in his journal about feelings and emotions and the beauty of true love." Bristol giggled a little, looking up at Charlotte with humoured, squinted eyes and an impish, upturned mouth. "Am I right?"

Staring back at the game, Bristol inched out of his seat a little. Quality pass from keeper to chaser, it had to be said. "Quidditch is a welcome break from all the bogus babysitters my ex-wife leaves our daughter with," he murmured, not even bothering to gaze in Charlotte's direction. "Honestly, all her awful mates have been a pain in the arse recently, I'll tell you that for free." Another dig, another minor victory. Or at least Bristol thought so.

Darian lazed at the bar, dressed for an evening party rather than a Quidditch game (which was admittedly fairly normal for him). At the front of the box sat his companions. It had been a while since he'd visited with Bristol, and longer still since he'd been to a game. Oh, sure, they had a waitress. But Darian had a good eye for indulging his vices, and knew already he wouldn't get anywhere with her; the bartender was far more obliging. But when Charlotte St. James stopped to speak and then continued on to claim a seat next to his companions, Darian knew it was time to leave such frivolous flirtations behind. Besides, the match was starting.

He sauntered back to the seats like a tomcat full of cream, sinking into the only chair left actually next to somebody (Bristol, as it happened, who had surrounded Charlotte with himself and Azize and left Darian in the outfield where there were no beautiful women. He supposed that was what he got for taking so long to get a drink).

He leaned into the conversation, eyes flicking between parties. Bristol was being catty, which intrigued him: Darian had not known he and Ms. St. James were on the outs. His sarcastic words were not particularly stealth - less slow poison, more an attempt to drive her away, and so Darian's part to play here was quite obvious by anyone's standards. His mate was all sly smiles and snippy commentary, squinting and grinning in a routine as old as their House allegiance. Dolly hated her family, and there was no doubt that if Darian so much as touched that he'd be facing her shut door forever.

But on the other hand, Charlotte was quite lovely and Darian would hate to be rude. Azize, he was pleased to find, was currently also set at neutrality.

He applied a judicious elbow to Bristol's side, smiling blindingly at Charlotte to disguise the action. "Somebody's bitter," he purred, eyeing them both. "I sense a story. Share with the class?" The Quidditch match, though entertaining, had nothing on the potential of this. But damn, this conversation was happening too far away. Darian stayed where he was, sipping serenely at his drink while his ulna got personally acquainted with Bristol's ribs. Fortunately all his friends learned early that their personal space was his personal space.

"Charlotte, always a chore, never a pleasure."

“I’m not sure what I would do if you found me pleasing, Bristol,” she said, as if it were a relief. (And if Charlotte found the chaser pleasing, visually speaking, well... that was irrelevant.)

"With someone like you around I don't see why he would... This wasn't for your date, I hope?"

She tore her gaze from Bristol and fixed it upon the newly-relocated Azize. The flattery helped persuade the invisible halo over Azize’s head just as Bristol’s comments earned him horns. That, and the smile.

“No--” she began, still smiling. But before she could answer, Bristol did it for her. She listened with marked patience, and then rolled her eyes. Something in her jaw seemed suddenly pouty as she stared out at the field between them. Finally, she elaborated. “No, no date. A friend... she’s come down with something. I’m sure she’s devastated she’s missed this charming man giggling about diaries.” Beneath thick lashes, her eyes flickered to Bristol again, in a two can play this game way. But why did he insist on dragging her boyfriend into it? “Where’s your date, Azize?” She added, turning back to him with subtly inclined brows. If his date was Bristol, she would have to help him question his own taste.

After pleasanter conversation with the Slytherin alum to her left, she watched her favored player for a few moments before indulging Bristol again. “How charitable...” She might have said something about the people he left Poppy with, but if Azize was among them, she supposed she couldn’t fault him for it. “And yet, you still leave your child with them--” By which she meant me-- “And she always leaves happy.” She locked eyes with him.

When Darian reappeared, apparently the third member of this trio of eligible (or otherwise) bachelors, Charlotte leaned just past Bristol (perhaps a little into or over him) to smile at him again. “No one’s bitter,” she assured him, though her tone was one of cheerful irony as much as it was promise. “But, Darian, do you know any good babysitters? Bristol is having awful luck,” she said, with utmost sympathy in her voice. As if Darian were exactly the sort to have a stock of child minders at the ready. If Bristol wanted to tell the story of how Charlotte was an awful dragon lady, she’d let him.

She leaned back in her seat again, eyes landing on the field. “Who’s that chaser? He seems like he’s going to make the game.”

When Charlotte asked if Azize had a date, the large man tilted his chin down towards her and raised a thick black eyebrow as he gently smiled, "Hmmm?" The conversation continued as Darian seemed to egg both Bristol and Charlotte on, before Charlotte began to distract herself with the chaser again. It was clear that Charlotte and Bristol were taking shots at each other whenever they could--and it wasn't terribly hard to fill in the vague gaps and insinuations they made. Despite the tension, it was still teasing, and it made the large African chuckle.

"I suppose that depends on the game," his heavy voice teetered onto curiosity, "Ours seems to be a social conflict, yes?" Azize hung an arm over his chair as he looked towards Charlotte and his other companions, "So to make things fair, since I believe I'm currently filling in for someone's who's at home with a cold, perhaps I should be your date, Charlotte," and then, with a playful smile and disinterested wave of his hands he added, "And Darian can have Bristol--how's that?"

"Charlotte," Bristol sighed, intentionally sounding like a disappointed schoolteacher. Was she really going to try discuss the beautiful sport? "Pretending to know a bit about Quidditch are we? I remember at Hogwarts when you were passed a pair of quaffles during flying practice." He turned to Darian and happily received the playful elbow to the ribs with a wide grin. "Shoulda' seen her: didn't know whether to suck 'em or ask 'em for a second date." It was a crass move, but he didn't particularly care. There was no need to woo or impress Charlotte in any way, shape or form - she was an enemy. Aligning yourself with the enemy camp (i.e. the ex-wife) was asking for trouble, and Bristol had no intention of ever letting the grudge die: even if her pins were the best in Slytherin.

Azize (the sly dog that he was) had already begun flirting with Charlotte, joking that perhaps he should be her date in lieu of the absent companion. Bristol had to respect the fella. She was, for all intent and purpose, a 'proper sort' as they'd say in West Essex - 'a rare beauty that turned many a head' in more eloquent terms. Bristol often grimaced at the situation. it was such a shame she'd been all pro-Anna. Bristol could see a lot of himself in her (no pun intended).

Darian was suggested as Bristol's own date, and Azize's plan had gone from convenient to perfect. Replacing Charlotte with one of his favourite lads was a godsend. "Sounds brilliant to me, I'd rather spend my hours with this handsome chap any day," he exclaimed with glee, giving Darian a few boyish taps on the cheek, an arm sloping casually over the back of his friend's chair. "You've got no time for wet-blanket-boyfriends or Hungarian-Whoretail-minions, have you kid?" Bristol questioned, knowing full-well his mate didn't know who or what he was referring to; it didn't matter, it was simply a dig at Charlotte before she left (all wands crossed that she did).

"Besides," he continued in that dreadfully debonair manner, "Azize is a lot nicer than me in every respect. You'll have a great time you two young whippersnappers." His enthusiasm was forced, and ultimately sarcastic; a date with Charlotte would be worse than tonsil tennis with a Dementor in Azkaban.

"I happen to be a wonderful babysitter," Darian announced before his voice lowered to the hush of sympathy. They two leaned towards each other as if Bristol between them was no more than a petulant armchair. "But he doesn't trust me with his offspring after that time in Diagon with the enchanted ducks. I am afraid you will have to resort to the owlpages if you wish to woo him to another: you can understand my reluctance to up the competition of most eligible child minder."

He laughed a little at Azize's smooth move, the admiration of one playboy to another for the sure-footed offer of a substitute date. He didn't know the man well, but he couldn't help but be impressed by such clever confidence. He did not come out too poorly himself in the bargain, though currently his acquired date was still attempting to get a rise out of Ms. St. James. In short order Bristol turned to Darian to share his charming observations about bludgers and blowjobs. Darian's brows rose in perfect arcs of astonishment, though whether it was Bristol's terrible faux pas or the school memory that surprised him remained unclear. "Whereas you," he murmured innocently, "have always known exactly how to handle team balls."

"You've got no time for wet-blanket-boyfriends or Hungarian-Whoretail-minions, have you kid?"

"Perish the thought," Darian agreed immediately, with a quick shake of his head. "Well, the minions come in handy," he amended a moment later, drawing out his answer in an attempt to distract. Merlin forbid this become all about an interpersonal snit, relationship snark turning the night draggingly bitter. He'd come here to bask in the company of his mate, not listen to him get catty with the eyecandy. If he could dazzle, baffle, or distract, Darian would. "They can book the tickets, hold the drinks. Hold an umbrella over one's head when it rains, and make the bed in the morning. They could duplicate your autograph - " he pressed a finger to Bristol's sleeve - "For all your screaming fans. I don't know, minions, they might be rather nice. Whoretails sound exciting. What an exotic new breed. I've no truck with boyfriends, though: more trouble than they're worth."

Bristol whined on about Charlotte desecrating his sport or some other nonsense, which Charlotte easily tuned out with pleasant smile and a look she threw at Azize, the kind that said isn’t it cute, the little boy whining about his sport-- But the pleasantness was brief, dissolved quickly. Charlotte snapped her head in Bristol’s direction, outrage and murder in her eyes, which in that moment might have been a searing red, if they were not their usual wan blue. Pursed lips and a barely-held-back fire (also red) which threatened to color cheeks-- which had instead gone pale-- made it clear that the joke had gone too far. Charlotte clutched her wand, her gaze blurring out the bejweled, silver tongued diplomat who was Darian Morgan. She had eyes only for the soon-to-be-sat-out-for-the-season Bristol Collins.

But not a single person in this box could avoid being scandalously splayed across the society page should Charlotte raise her wand. Azize was an international force among the Ministry higher-ups, Darian a prince of the fashion elite, and Bristol a centerfold sportsman. Charlotte was used to being in the papers, too, a fixture of charity galas and blueblood gossip.

It was with great, sheer will that she did not raise her wand, cave to the prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and cast an Unforgivable Curse. Instead, her lips parted, she breathed inaudibly. Her eyes darted down for a moment, cleared, and came back up, softer, less hazardous. She gave him only a second’s pause, a look which still spoke of breached walls and insult, and finally settled on Darian. The words he’d spoken in an attempt to referee their match resonated, finally. “He has to handle someone’s, hasn’t he?”

The implication was plain.

Charlotte was decidedly done responding to the off-duty chaser. Darian, Azize, and the chaser in the sky made for better recipients of her attention. With a casual suggestion that Charlotte be his date, Azize earned a smile. It much easier when she didn’t have to stare past his less deserving friend. “Perhaps,” she echoed. “Although, that’s very short notice, Azize.” There was hardly a look of disapproval as she spoke. “But Bristol’s right--” She would not utter that sentence again. “You’re a very nice man.” She looked him over, down to the drink in the cup holder. Nice was one word for it. When her eyes returned to his, she added, leaning closer, speaking more quietly, so that only he could hear. “But I question the company you keep.” Only some of it.

Darian was excellent company, for example. He not merely the sort of babysitter Charlotte could appreciate, but full of all kinds of wisdom. “A good assistant is priceless,” she said in agreement. But Charlotte wasn’t anyone’s minion; she would show Bristol a dragon if he wanted one so badly. Later. Right now, she was perfectly content catching up with Darian and Azize, and watching her chaser win the game. “A part of me might have to agree with you on boyfriends, too.”

Her eyes returned to the field, just in time to see her chaser dodge a bludger.

Now things seemed to be heating up. Azize leaned on the arm of his seat and towards Charlotte with his hand propping a forefinger against his cheek and pressing a thumb against his chin, and then he just listened to Bristol egg Charlotte on--Azize was somewhat happy Charlotte had never been one of his past flings, else the Collins would certainly be dead by now. Instead the witch seemed intent on matching wits with Bristol before directing the topic elsewhere.

A smile broke across his face as Charlotte turned her attention on him... all of him-- and then leaned in to whisper to him. Azize lowered his voice as well, but didn't put in as much effort into letting the words be heard strictly by the St. James' ears, "I do too," he released his hand from his cheek and gave a helpless shrug, "but he doesn't give the best answers."

Azize then rolled his hand into a fist and rested his chin on it as he looked at Darian and his old friend, "If Bristol prefers to chase a quaffle than fight a dragon, I'm sure that's his business," then he smiled as he extended a finger at the handsome red-head, "Darian has the spirit--a little danger can add some character--even could be fun it you let it stay and grow on you."

Azize finally straightened himself up and leaned back in his seat as he regarded everyone with a heavy chuckle, "I'm afraid I have no experience with boyfriends though, so I couldn't relate them to anything fun or dangerous."