9:37 a.m.
Slytherin Common Room




Five days after the last match– after Slytherin had lost dreadfully to Gryffindor in the most incredible, absurd tie in the history of… well, ever –the team had lost members. Again. And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, it was without a captain, too.

Now, Gracie was captain, and coming up with a decent team was her burden  responsibility to bear. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done—something Gracie had expected, because she was nothing if not a realist, but it was still disheartening. She still had her pick of the crop– there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she’d be able to produce some faces at the last minute –except she didn’t want some hasty pickings. It wouldn’t be enough to just have a team, they needed to win. No one – not her Head, nor her House, nor even herself – would be satisfied with anything less. Anyway, the thought of starting her captaincy with a loss made her want to grab her bat.

But, as luck would have it, her first choices were proving to be pretty elusive. For all that his brutish figure made him stick out like a sore thumb, Bulstrode was nowhere to be found, amazingly enough (she supposed she could just ask Whitman, but the less one had to with him, the better), and Waverly seemed to have foregone sports for her studies for the moment, not to be disturbed. Li was busy, Strellie was busy, Tawse was busy (-probably with Strellie, but Gracie was not about to touch that with a ten-foot pole)—which left… well. Not a lot of options, really.

There was Bellatrix, except she’d gone recluse since winter, and Trishna, who seemed like she could have a good arm for Beating or Chasing (what with all the punching she’d been caught doing over the years), but she was hardly ever seen on a broom, which was probably a sign; with the constant references to muggle games and things, it was likely that her hand-eye coordination didn’t extend past a gaming console. And then there was Inkwood, whose oily, slinking manner seemed like a good basis to found expectations on—except that wasn’t right, was it? Gracie knew it was stupid, especially considering all the loafing around he seemed wont to do in his free time. Too many of the things he did were affected; something so sincere as sweating was probably too strenuous for those coattail-riding glutes of his…

Making her way toward the Slytherin dorms, Gracie stopped and curled her lip, taking a moment to let the universe feel the brunt of her disgust. Thinking about Ezra Inkwood’s greasy bum was not enjoyable.

Tragically, however, that left only one, and it was probably the one that made her captain’s heart shrivel the most: Tony effing Hoult. If there was anyone else, Gracie would have picked them in a heartbeat; he was rude, crude, and utterly without finesse, and would probably let them all drown in fouls if he wasn’t watched. Getting him to follow directions would be a trial in and of itself. If there was anyone else, anyone else at all, she would pick them, but there wasn’t and she was nothing if not pragmatic. She would just have to… make do.

Ugh.

And so she went down the hall, footsteps long-spaced but muted until they stopped in front of a wall. The blessed thing about dorms, she decided as the wall split open, was that while boys couldn’t enter the girls’ dormitory, the same couldn’t be said for the girls and the boys’ dorm; if she had to look for him there, she could–

But thankfully, didn’t have to. There, draped over one of the loveseats like a lumpy, hairy, bad-tempered throw (how could you, Gigi?) was the man himself. Praise Merlin.

Target spotted, Gracie headed over to him, delicately arched brows narrowed and lips pursed into a thin, stubborn line. Just out from Arithmancy, her sleeves were pushed past her elbows, revealing lightly tanned forearms speckled black with ink, and they were never more apparent when she strode over to him, hands swinging by her sides in loosely curled fists, already speaking. “Okay, Hoult,” she barked, stopping in front of him with a fist on her hip, looking for all the world like she had other places to be. (Which, to be fair, she did; Runes was at ten and she was supposed to meet Raine and Alex at the library.) “Spot’s open. Lemme see your guns, I know you’ve got ‘em,” and she snapped her fingers at him, her fingers flowing into a flapping, impatient gesture for him to rise.

---

With a huff that spoke of both anger and exhaustion, Tony let his body fall sideways into the love seat, legs hanging off over the side. Pressing a hand to his temple, he forced himself to keep his eyes open: for, when they closed, he was haunted by memories and hurtful figments of his imagination. And Bran bloody Blackwell was at fault for it all. Each time Tony tried to dream, he saw only the young boy gripping his hips and whispering obscenities into his ears. Tongue dragging across his bottom lip, teeth grazing across it, the sixth year toyed with the temptation to hex one of the seventh years that was chuckling a bit too loudly and rather too evilly.

Just an hour ago, the Slytherin had left a third year's nose bleeding profusely. He really had deserved it, honestly, considering he'd been pestering Tony for advice on hexing, but something told the sixth year that any professor would not take that as an excuse. Nor would they find any irony in the fact that Tony had hexed a smal, growing tree until it burst into flames just the previous afternoon. As a matter of fact, he'd been a bit too volatile the past few days, and it was sheer luck that he hadn't so far been caught. He didn't fear detention, but he also didn't find it fun.

Presently, he found himself considering skipping Ancient Runes. After all, the reason for his higher than normal anger was his lack of sleep, so why not try to nap? Of course, any attempts would only lead to frustrating images of Bran doing unthinkably awesome and annoyingly exciting things with his lips. And stuff.

Such were the thoughts going through his brain when Grace walked up to him, every thing about her impatient and stern stance making him want to shove his wand down her pie hole. He settled, instead, for quirking an eyebrow at the girl. "Thought you wanted a player," he growled. "Not a boy toy." Still, this here was a chance to make someone else feel just as uncomfortably... Warm as he always did lately. With one swift movement, he sat up, positioning himself so that she was caught almost tightly between his thighs. Without breaking eye contact, he quickly pulled his shirt off over his head, dropping it to the ground. Her breath tickled his bare collarbone, making him think of Bran leaving kisses right there. With a small growl, Tony lifted his arm and flexed his toned bicep at her. "You can touch, I promise not to tell." He teased.

Anthony never had a chance. As soon as he’d grabbed for her, Gracie let him, as one would with a very eager, if dull-witted child grabbing your hand; it’d be less troublesome than making him cry.

Or rather, it would be, if she wasn’t his dueling club president– and, possibly, his captain. Unfortunately for him she did have an image to uphold, and if this little meeting was going to turn out even partly as she’d hoped then they were going to have to settle some things first…

With something akin to pity, Gracie sighed. And then, with one swift, surprisingly strong movement, she slugged him right in the solar plexus, her thumb smartly tucked under her fist, the blow swift and bruising. As far as options went, this one was, in fact, the kindest. “You don’t have to throw yourself at me,” she told him, looking down on him, exasperated, as he caught his breath. Moving away, she flexed her hand; it ached some, but it was nothing that wouldn’t go away in a minute. “I told you before and I’ll say it again: you aren’t my type.” If he was looking for virginal nervousness, Gracie would disappoint; she was a bit past that by now. More importantly, she had never quite appreciated his appeal; the whole ‘bad boy’ shtick was less impressive when you rocked that gig better yourself.

If he made a move, just a single move for his wand, she would hex his head off like a buckshot. And then strike him off the club roster with a sip of tea.

But– Tony was right, alas, for all his actions showed differently. She did need a player. And when he’d so generously displayed himself, that bicep had been, admittedly, adequate. (Though everyone knew that size didn’t necessarily translate into quality.) “Since you seem to know why I’m here–” which rankled, naturally, but was hardly surprising, “we can drop the posturing.” Rolling her shoulders, Gracie forced herself to relax, until they sank to their usual, indolent slant and she looked like any other slender, five-foot-seven girl, rather than one of the most brutal Beaters to grace Slytherin in the last seven years. Logic said that looking harmless often helped one gain compliance, but then, one never knew if something as sensible as logic would work the way it should with someone as insensible as Anthony Hoult. “Stand up, Hoult, so I can see you.”