Outfit.

Bristol had mingled around at the party endlessly, chatting to old Slytherin friends, mates from the team and other old flames and great names here and there. Of course, there were those familiar faces that would even attend the opening of an envelope, but Bristol did well to avoid them. 'Gossipsnakes' was the unofficial title; women that would get drunk and prowl and look for an athlete or a politician or a singer to take home for the evening and spread vicious rumours that weren't altogether untrue. Bristol had learnt of these witches (and one wizard, in his youth) the hard way.

With a glass of champagne in hand, he'd counted down to midnight with a few of his favourites. There were plenty of cheers and man-hugs and drinks in the air, much to the chagrin of the more refined guests at the benefit. You could take the wizard out of Essex but you sure as Merlin couldn't take the Essex out the wizard. The fleeting hype of the countdown calmed down. It was always like this at New Year - a full-on anti-climax. He'd originally arranged to spend the night with Poppy playing games and taking her down Diagon Alley for a more family friendly affair, but last minute Anna had family apparating over from the Ukraine and of course, the Ziesling clan took precedent. Bristol didn't argue so much; his daughter had spent the majority of her Christmas with his side, and although he despised his ex-wife, playing fair was all part and parcel of the divorce process.

The boys had dragged him out and in an instant, Bristol had been suited and booted for a blowout New Year's Eve. Dressed immaculately with glass of champagne perpetually in hand. Hair side-parted. Shoes polished to perfection by a very eager House Elf. Needless to say, Bristol was dressed sharper than usual and felt even more confident this evening; the lovely Eleanor St. James had evaded him at every opportunity and even Muriel had suggested he call it quits. It was probably for the best - a far more dangerous being had captivated his mind as of late.

And there she stood. Looking divine, unattainable and utterly dangerous, Charlotte St. James posed on the arm of her foul boyfriend. Even seeing Apollinaire made Bristol want to send charms and hexes his way. They stood, laughing falsely at a joke Bristol guessed was pretty terrible, surrounded by middle-aged bores that were always on the edges of these events. Unbeknownst to his one-time lover, Bristol gazed, throwing back the rest of his champagne ambitiously. A teammate cheered his bravado and was about to buy the Tutshill Chaser another round but he was gone. The figure of Bristol maneuvered his way across the tricky dancehall battlefield. All around him were the giggles of women as men held them close, the splash and chink of crystal glasses and the loud but tuneful noise of the classical in-house band.

He'd decided then and there. Charlotte St. James came in earshot - but he'd already decided. He wanted her. He wanted her again, the risk, the lies, the strange repulsion mixed with complete attraction. Chasing girls was a hobby for Bristol but this one had stuck. He'd partially decided that round two was necessary, and Bristol theorised that he needed one last time to get her completely out of his system. Nobody knew of the affair (that would be really treading on thin ice) but those closest to Bristol would assume his lingering attraction wasn't a need for closure, but a need to keep Charlotte close. He, of course, would never admit such a notion.

"Charlotte," he greeted with a polite nod and a mischievous grin. It was better to act like nothing had happened. Finally, he acknowledged her suitor with less gusto and a more abrupt tongue: "Apollinaire." The Olivier golden boy tilted his head fractionally, as if irritated by some small gnat. What a tool. He's lucky I don't knock his head back further. Trying to push some tempting visions away, Bristol nodded again through gritted teeth.

"Just came over to wish you a happy New Year," he lied. Intentionally, an arm went to pat Apollinaire's elbow - he knew that would cause the utmost of annoyance.

"Happy New Year to you too, Collins," Charlotte's boyfriend replied curtly. It was all very clear to those around that he did not wish to get into a conversation with the Tutshill player. Whether it was instinctive or subconscious, his arm tightened on his girlfriend's waist, a sign that all competition for his 'prize' was severely unwelcome.

"Since it's a new time for everyone, I was going to ask your permission for a dance with Charlotte, for old times sake." Bristol played to the small crowd, shrugging his shoulders before widening his eyes a little more innocently as his ex-wife's best friend came into focus. "I mean, we used to be good pals at school, you and me, right? One little dance isn't going to hurt anyone."

"Oh, how could you pass that up," an elderly witch tittered from nearby. Her limp hand grazed Bristol's shoulders in a mock slap; her reaction was simply quite perfect. Apollinaire stiffened but forced out a smile like a cat spewing up a hairball - it had to come out at some point. It seemed to most that this was the closest Bristol was going to get to a verbal approval. The Frenchman said nothing more.

Extending his hand to Charlotte, Bristol flicked up his eyebrows. "Go on." He smirked.

Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes.

Draped in a long, clingy dark dress, Charlotte St. James perused the evening’s crowd from her place in a small circle of society types. She held lightly to the arm of her suitor, and her eyes returned, with vivid attention, to the woman across from her. Charlotte spoke, engaging the young woman with tale about a more recent trip to the beach (someone had wistfully mentioned hot weather). The tea room was peppered with ancient wizards whose pockets were endless even without charms to make them so; young ladies with portrait-like faces painted painstakingly atop winter-hued gowns; older, regal women whose witchly fashions were the envy of muggle fairytales; fraternity-like droves of twenty-somethings with sharklike smiles and Slytherin pedigrees, rubbing elbows with (and in some cases nearly massaging) the gatekeepers of cushy Ministry positions.

It was midnight, suddenly: toasts of clinking glass, little moneybags of plump green grapes, and kisses for a prosperous New Year. With a false modesty, she polished off the last of her sweetly sour treat (securing a year’s worth of good luck), smiled against Apollinaire’s lips, tasted lingering champagne, and cleverly dodged a more heated kiss for mystery’s sake. His mouth met her cheek, ear, hair, and he whispered something about what would come later. Charlotte seemed agreeable enough, but somehow said nothing. It was an art, a sort of miming, these social graces.

When her eyes locked on Bristol Collins, whose name she had seen on the list most briefly upon their arrival, she tilted her head just so in his direction. Taller than Apollinaire, a natural in his suit, with a face that could sell anything, it was not just Charlotte’s attention he drew. If she herself looked sweet, amiable, gracious toward the witches and wizards who had come out tonight, it was more an act for some than others. But Bristol… Charlotte’s friends expected cheekier, more derisive interaction. He had come out of nowhere, surprised the group, surprised her, even— and certainly surprised Apollinaire. The arm about her waist was not lost on the St. James woman. Tread lightly it said to Bristol. The school girl who had bickered with the younger version of the famous Chaser, and who had graduated to continue in much of the same fashion, was aching to have a word. So, too, the woman who had shared a night with him recently. “Bristol," she said, keeping her eyes fastened upon him as he invisibly poked at Apollinaire, tested his limits. Bristol Collins was, after all, a star quidditch player. One did not arrive at such lofty places without testing limits. “Happy New Year,” she echoed. “Are you enjoying your evening?” It was, perhaps, a loaded question. Despite her boyfriend beside her, she had eyes only for the Chaser.

There was something in her gaze when he asked. Her eyes trailed to the elderly witch, back to Bristol. Her lips parted. She turned to Apollinaire, smiled. He had already agreed, had been forced to after the woman had spoken up. Besides, it was Charlotte’s decision. Even Apollinaire knew that. “He did ask very nicely,” she said, her voice carrying, as if Bristol weren’t standing there. Of course he was. She had said it for him.

She turned back to the Chaser. “To a new year.” She smiled a slightly more mischievous smile, took his hand. They moved a few feet away from the group. As she rested a hand upon his shoulder, she recalled being in his arms in her tattered living room. She drew close, perhaps slightly closer than necessary. “The nerve of you,” she whispered between them, not disapprovingly.

Bristol's chest subtly swelled as Charlotte made her own decision. Apollinaire wanted to object, wanted to poke Brisol Collins in the chest and put him in his place, but social grace told him otherwise. He'd been a bully through Hogwarts but such behaviour had to be exercised in other ways when one reached adulthood. Charlotte had almost been Apollinaire's superiority, but even now, the lowly halfblood nouveau riché Quidditch player was gaining the upper hand. "To a brilliant new year," Bristol reiterated her sentiment. He cast each of the guests involved a polite nod and wry smile; Apollinaire received an even bigger smirk. Better luck next time, Olivier. The Frenchman didn't need to be telepathic to realise Bristol was feeling rather smug at this poind.

An arm instinctively wrapped around her waist, the other taking control of her slender, delicate hand. "You looked bored," Bristol explained. He raised his eyebrow questioningly. "Just doing you a favour, darlin'." Everything in his voice, his demeanour, was so far from the usual Ministry rising stars - Bristol knew that his gruff, cocksure attitude was a welcomed alternative to high society. He didn't belong at such events, but he was always invited.

He gazed into her face momentarily, his expression softening as Bristol took in her regal beauty. "You're still with Mr Paris Pixie then? Anyone would think he's got something to offer," the Chaser joked, grinning once more. Apollinaire had, indeed, everything to offer - money, looks, a legendary dynasty, fame, education, charm and acceptance into the upper echelons of wizarding Europe. So why was Charlotte St. James agreeing to Bristol once more?

"I bet you've been thinking about me." It was a bold comment - made even bolder by his refusal to look anywhere but her face. "I know I was drunk, but I remember everything. I know you do as well." His words were reinforced with the several glasses of champagne he'd drunk; there was no limit to such unabashed confidence, and Bristol made sure he turned it onto maximum to prevent any nerves coming through.

There were a few moments of silence. "You're a rough player, St. James," he muttered as they drifted across the dance floor, keen to keep his voice away from the ears of function room gossipmongers. "I had to explain all the scratchmarks to my coach - was not an easy task. Were you... frustrated or something?" The muscles in his back involuntarily flexed; Charlotte was a lively one, and for that, he could only thank her.

“I looked bored?” She questioned, raising a brow. There was a small smirk on her lips, one of doubt, amusement, and almost, almost fondness. This was Charlotte’s forte, a charity gala. She knew how to dress, whom to speak with, what to say. She enjoyed herself. If it was true that there were lulls in conversations, that some guests were more entertaining than others… Charlotte was too skilled with social cues to let it show. Most of the time. “How tedious is this for you, Bristol?” But it was true, this was more interesting— far more interesting— than listening to another story from one of Apollinaire’s friends about how he had thoroughly charmed some woman without the aid of his wand.

She warmed slightly to the change in his expression, blinked as she listened. “He’s a good man.” Charlotte said it as if she believed it. She was very convincing when she wanted to be. “He treats me well,” she continued. Her eyes flickered to Apollinaire, and back to Bristol. "I realize you had a schoolyard rivalry a decade ago, but not everyone can be in love with you, Bristol. You’ll get used to it eventually.”

But if Apollinaire had never been taken with Bristol Collins, it did not mean that his girlfriend had not had her moments. She didn’t blush, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She remembered. She remembered being pinned between his arms and the table, the wall and Bristol; she remembered the whiskey on him and how it tasted. She had felt safe and dangerous at once, ecstatic. And his pride in the morning… and the promise he had made. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she agreed in a whisper. She leaned up a bit, into his arm, spoke slightly closer to his ear, neck, shoulder, ever mindful of the eyes upon them. “About making you say my name when you can’t help it.” She moved back to a slightly more casual poise, continuing slow, leisurely dance.  “Did you know?” She added, more loudly, with the falsities of polite conversation. The woman dancing beside them looked toward them. “Someone broke into my home. I don’t know who does your security charms, but I could give you the name of the new company I’ve hired.”

A rough player was a title she would accept. She smiled at him, charmingly. For a moment, anyway. Her hand tightened upon his shoulder. Charlotte looked over her own; the woman whose attention she had so carelessly— purposely— drawn was no longer looking. The look on Charlotte's face nevertheless said it this time, said what she hadn’t, that she did think about him and that she couldn’t help it. “Maybe,” she admitted. Her hand in his seem to give way slightly. She could feel Apollinaire’s eyes on them now. “Are you sensitive to scratches?” She asked gently, recovering.

“How’s Poppy? She gave me the cutest Christmas card.”

"Not so tedious, not anymore," he murmured with a grin, doing his best to maintain Charlotte's eye contact without gazing for too long. That'd only raise suspicions. Not that he cared - to the contrary, he was known for such ridiculous life events and another sordid affair wouldn't surprise anyone but a withering, work-stressed Muriel. His silence was for Charlotte, a woman that had built a reputation on being the virtuous perfect template, an example of elegance and class that others looked towards. Revelations of their tryst would damage - no, destroy- her standing, and although Bristol had no concern for high society etiquette, he couldn't do that to Miss St. James. That would be wicked without the rewards.

Bristol glanced at Apollinaire and back at Charlotte, raising his eyebrows questioning. He felt like she was telling half the story, like she was trying (and failing) to convince Bristol everything was as rosy as one would expect in the rose garden. Yeah right. "And the fact he's the former French Minister's golden boy has nothing to do with it? Does that make the bullying tactics and purist leanings less of an issue? Or is he as good in bed as he is acting like a fairy?" He smirked once more, keen to highlight everything that was wrong with her partner. Not that he was any better. Bristol had flaws, thousands of them, but at least he admitted to them and was unafraid to act his genuine self. The thing that angered him about Apollinaire was the whole masquerade, pretending to be something far more noble than the real article beneath. "I know he's an easy option."

Despite murmurs and smiles that would make their exchange seem a lot more innocent to the onlooker, ears could always detect the faintest whiff of scandal at such events. Bristol acted along. "Yes, I heard about that," he replied, widening his eyes in faux shock. Moving over to Apollinaire once more, Bristol nodded at the man with a sickeningly sweet smile. "I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, you must have fixed things for Charlotte, right old chap?" He waltzed away from his rival before he could gather a response - giggling in the process. Apollinaire could only look on awkwardly with blood that was quietly simmering. Perfect.

Her hand tightened on his shoulder. He took a deep breath was he heard her hushed, lust-filled words: "are you sensitive to scratches?" Girls like Charlotte knew exactly what they were doing. Not that he cared. "I'll need a repeat session to make a fair judgement on that." His own hands were aching to pull her closer, his lips dying to plant a lingering, cheeky kiss on her neck to make the old women gasp quietly. His own restraint was making Bristol even more angry in the most delicious way possible.

His smile softened at the mention of Poppy, and he dipped his head in pride. "I know. I helped her make it." It wasn't a lie, and Bristol felt rather embarrassed at his own admission, quick to revert once more. "Only because she asked me to."

"Not so tedious, not anymore.”

The fond smirk softened into a demure but genuine smile. He was a quick-tongued man, often colorfully blunt. Their bickering knew few bounds. But if this wasn’t Bristol Collins softening around the edges, just a little… but then, it could easily also be Bristol being his usual, suggestive self.

“Are you accusing me of dating a man only for his status?” She asked. “Or are you accusing me of being a bully, too?” Apolloinaire’s status was a large part of why Charlotte had picked him, but she did not need any man to elevate her own. She had plenty of money, plenty of recognition. It was simply what was expected, and after a long relationship (for Charlotte) with someone for whom she genuinely cared, she had not wanted anything complicated. And so choosing a man who made a habit of complicating the lives of his career opponents had worked out well. “You know, your derogatory remarks do nothing but make him more attractive,” she pointed out. “If I didn’t already know better, I would think you were overcompensating.” Bristol, fortunately or unfortunately for them both, was not. She blinked and looked away, pausing for a moment. Apollinaire was fine in bed. The sort of man who liked the idea of himself with an attractive woman even more than he liked the attractive woman. It was what Charlotte had needed when she’d started dating him. What she needed now… was no concern of Bristol’s. Mostly. “I wouldn’t say easy.” She looked back at him, smiling again. Ideal. On the surface, anyway. “So let’s hear more about the models and groupies in your life, Bristol.” Charlotte wanted anything but. In fact, thinking about the women who chased him made her a little sour. But she put on a brave, interested face, her voice slightly taunting.

Putting on a face was easy. Their intermission, in which Charlotte purposely spoke loud enough to be heard by others and Bristol played along was part of the dance. Not the real dance, they one they had to be a part of if they were going to carry on discussing the better memories of that evening. Bristol, of course, had to dance them dangerously close to Apollinaire. It would not be a pleasant evening under the aristocrat’s roof later. Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to ruin my New Year? And I thought you were being a true gentleman.” She could see Apollinaire now, unbuttoning his dress shirt, cursing the Collins man under his breath, brooding over a glass of obscenely expensive whiskey. And Charlotte would be left to pacify him. It was not an enticing thing to look forward to. 

"I'll need a repeat session to make a fair judgement on that.”

The alternative to a moody Apollinaire was much more appealing. Charlotte wanted it as Bristol did, but she kept cool, too. “I’m not sure that’s possible,” she said sensibly. She would make it possible. “And I wouldn’t want to scar you,” she said with a mild unconvincing quality. Her expression offered the equivalent of a subtle shrug that her shoulders were too poised to contemplate in the middle of a waltz.

If there was one thing that made her a little soft about Bristol, it was his affection for Poppy, seeing them together. Even when he was infuriating her in her kitchen when he came to fetch his daughter, Charlotte at least appreciated that he had made such an endearing child and was crazy about her. The attraction was betrayed now, but their bickering and driving one another to aggravation was still a healthy, favorite pastime. Even so, Charlotte gave him the truest, least guarded smile she had given him all night. There something besides a rough-and-tumble Chaser under his charming dress clothes. Only because she had asked. “Yes, of course.” She spoke as if she couldn’t imagine it would be any other way. “But now that I know, I’m surprised it wasn’t in the shape of a dragon.”

"You get to a certain status through bullying," Bristol whispered, raising a coy eyebrow. "So I guess I can call you both." He was a member of the glitzed, gilded social elite of wizarding England - that was true enough, but Bristol had a distinct aversion to it. There was real hard work with his achievements; hell, he hadn't even been the greatest Chaser on the youth team, but determination and a hint of luck had thrown Bristol a very comfortable wage and countless galleon-spinning deals. There were those in such circles that existed purely through handouts, however. The St. James clan, whilst professionals in their own field, had been born with a silver wand in their mouth - there was no real effort to rise through the ranks. Apollinaire too. The Olivier family were arguably one of the French Ministry's biggest exports, and it was a name that most recognised.

She prodded around for a mention of the other girls. They, unlike Charlotte, would never gain even the slightest insight into Bristol's real life; they were charmed by the idea of bedding a Quidditch player with a reputation. Meeting his daughter, or seeing anything other than his bedroom were simply not going going to happen. "Why talk about them when we could chat about Anna?" he asked with a smirk. "You're still good friends with my ex-wife, correct?"

It was just another 'lighthearted' jab. The excitement of their entirely sordid tryst had just been magnified by Charlotte's allegiance with the other team.

Taking another lap of the room, Bristol could feel Apollinaire's eyes preying onto them. As much as he'd love to tell the Frenchman he'd done more than conquer his girlfriend on the dancefloor, it would be far too dangerous - especially at an event like this. He didn't give a damn about his own reputation but the earbashing from Muriel would be crueler than normal.

"Meet me outside in an hour," he muttered. It was more of a command than a question, and Bristol gave her a brief wink, an experienced hand squeezing a hip momentarily. Soon enough, he was trotting off - waiting for Charlotte to follow.

Charlotte gave him a momentarily seething look before tilting her chin down and slightly away from him, her features calming into the subtle but pretty smile that many the fellow guests expected. “And you get a certain renown running your mouth without a filter,” she said softly, her gaze now on those groups of people who decorated the edges of the dance floor. “But you can’t believe everything you read in the papers, can you?” The irony. The things that came out of his mouth when he wasn’t in earshot of newspaper spies and slimy reporters...

He dodged the question about other women like a bludger and Charlotte looked up again, finally, her light blue eyes settling on his face, the suspicion invisible but there. “Anna is lovely,” she said. “Very colorful when she speaks of you.” She smiled at him. “And your taste.” Charlotte had been in school with Bristol, had known him for a long time. It hadn’t stopped her from siding with Anna— perhaps had partially inspired her to do so. But she knew that the man had more sides to him than his ex-wife, her close friend, discussed; messy divorces tended only to bring out the extreme opinions. Charlotte had seen more than a glimpse of his goodness and of his more serious side the night of the break in. She also knew that the charm, the attraction, did not end with his magazine-worthy mug and clever tongue. But if Anna were to find out that Charlotte knew as much, had experienced it first hand, their friendship would not be the only thing Charlotte would lose.

She was mindful of the eyes watching them, knew that Apollinaire must be growing grumpy by the second. If a part of Charlotte was scared of being caught… by Apollinaire, by Anna, by the public... if that feeling of panic that had surfaced the morning after, when she woke to the sun shining on parts of Bristol that even Witch Weekly couldn’t print... she was able to mask it here in this room. The pleasant burn of danger on her skin, on her spine, that flush just held at bay, made it somehow worth the risk. At least, right now, tonight.

The prospect of another heated evening with the chaser was much more alluring than the idea of calming, coddling, reassuring the ego of her princely suitor. Their dance ended. Charlotte only stared as he walked away, but she had every intention of following through with the meeting.

She floated back to Apollinaire for a bit, gave him the attention he needed to reassure himself that Bristol Collins was only being cheeky, that they had spoken of his daughter and ex-wife, Charlotte’s dear friend— which was true. But the familiar feeling of caring less and less about what Apollinaire had to say was settling in now. Still, she appeared warm, endeared to him, enough to show others that she was his girlfriend, no matter with whom she danced. Which seemed to be enough for Apollinaire.

The hour passed both quickly and slowly, and Charlotte finally made an excuse that she needed fresh air, a moment to gather herself, that she was feeling a little warm and would be back in a while, and no, Apollinaire should stay, keep his friends company. It did not take much convincing, only a fresh round of drinks for the little circle, who were now sitting in a corner discussing the economy.

She wandered away from the crowd with a goal in mind, looking over her shoulder as she came upon the the lavatories and then speeding up as she passed them. She ran into only one wizard on her way to the exit, and he had been enjoying the festivities far too much to mind the witch on a mission. She smiled and nodded at him, wished him a happy new year. She was met with a chill as she exited the building, drew her wand and whispered a warming charm before looking around for Bristol.