attire

Thus far, Colette had gotten no further than the entry of the Ministry. Upon announcing her affiliation with the Prophet and her business here, to speak with Tamis Raynor, the reception cooled visibly and she was told to wait.

Colette had been standing there twenty minutes, her spirits falling and her temper rising. The pace of her foot-tapping accelerated progressively as she folded her arms across her chest.

It was at twenty five minutes that Colette knew she would not be permitted an audience with Miss Raynor. Sighing, she looked about for anyone who might be able to help her meet with the woman; God knew it wasn't that she was particularly excited to be doing this; she just felt it the right thing to do, and as she had learned today, feelings -- particularly of the noble variety -- could be damned inconvenient.

But it wasn't her nobility that she cursed. Reaching into her satchel and pulling out a small clock, Colette set her jaw, tucked her hair behind her ear, and muttered darkly, "Bilching Aurors."

It could little be denied that Colette was most herself when in such a mood, so customary had it become, yet even Colette lost her composure a moment as she spied the mysterious man from several weeks ago cutting through the crowd of pin-striped cloaked workers. So he was Ministry. She'd not have pegged him as that. She felt a vague sort of disappointment and tore her eyes away from him. He had not yet seen her. Good.

Anxiously, she stuffed the clock back into her satchel and, shifting it on her shoulder, attempted to occupy herself with going through its contents -- anything to avoid detection by the man. As she did so, her dark hair veiled her face, hiding her from sight. She must not be seen. She was intrigued, certainly, but not in the mood. Somehow, the sight of him made her uneasy. Besides, she was here for business and could not be distracted just now. Unless . . . he could get her to Raynor.

Snapping her head back up, Colette peered through her hair to see where he had gone to and caught sight of him once more. Tucking the strands  behind her ears, she ventured a smirk which looked very nearly like a smile.

The ministry still made him feel uncomfortable. For the most part he was a black sheep, seen as an upstart. A no good Auror turned werewolf who had fallen from grace. So much of his previous identity had been tainted and destroyed by his transformation. Now working for the ministry once more he felt almost out of place, as if he was betraying his former life to go back to playing it straight and narrow.

Covi, gave him a new lease on life. It was an opportunity to right the wrongs he was dealt through out much of his adult existence. Much like his childhood with the Reids, Simon had been slighted, shoved to the side, and chalked up as a piece of trash not good enough to be stuck to the bottom of one's shoe. With the held of Covi, his new boss, Simon thought he could really be a thorn in the side of those opposing his lifestyle, his affliction.

There were too many people. Always too many bloody people milling about the ministry. Though he might have caught her scent if he had been paying attention to the girl following him through the halls on a day when there are fewer individuals clogging up and clouding his senses.  Having been working on a proposal for Covi, his mind was else where not concentrating on his surrounding unlike his usual cautiousness.

Maybe he was unnerved by the fact that he made it through the halls without his usual gaping and growling. When Simon walked into an empty hallway a sound hit his ear as well as a scent. It was some what familiar, he wasn't alone. Slowing his steps he turned towards the person following her. The face had a flash of recognition for him but he never did catch her name. Taking the parchment proposal he held in his leather encased hands he slipped it into his robes pocket. "Do you make it a habit of following men you hardly know?" Simon couldn't be certain she was following him but with a recognizable face like the one she wore it was hard not to think she was up to something. Cocking a brow, "Do you even have clearance to get anywhere here?"

Ah. She'd forgotten he was like that. She'd also forgotten -- or perhaps she'd never noticed -- that his eyes were quite that blue. Her eyes were momentarily fixed on the document and the leather-clad hands that held it, but shifted up to his face once more as he hid it from sight.

Colette smirked and folded her arms across her chest as he spoke to her. "I'm thinking you must make a habit of throwing out speculations that sound vaguely like accusations." A light chuckle resonated in her throat as she thought of the various adjectives thrown at Arius Tristisa.  She gave a light sigh and added, "And no. Mine's not a habit. Mother wouldn't approve." She smirked here. "But maybe I'll make it one." For a moment, Colette wondered if her coquetry had failed her; if that sounded as forced as she thought. Perhaps she had lost her touch.

"Better yet," she said, "I can fix the habit." She held her hand out. "I am Colette Wheaton. You now know my name. Shake my hand, tell me yours and it can hardly be said I don't know you," she said. She looked both ways before leaning in and in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, added, "I should add this: you are in danger of undermining your quip here. Stopping to talk to me in the hall . . . initiating a conversation with me twice . . . After a time, it could hardly be said we hardly know each other." She recoiled her hand a fraction. "Perhaps, if you're in a mood to be right, we ought to end this conversation altogether."

At his last question, Colette looked somewhat sheepish, not accustomed to appearing quite so powerless in front of people, particularly . . . men she hardly knew. "No. I do not have clearance. That is why," she said with a broad gesture about her -- teasingly dramatic --, "I am here. In the entry. And not," she now pointed towards where he was headed, "in there."

It was hard to notice anything about a bloke when you were busy ditching him and leaving him to chat up a glossy arse with the mental capacity of a fungus. Granted she never truly ditched Simon per-say, considering they never truly met, however if she had stopped her chit chat for a moment or two he could have slid in there and shown her a proper introduction. It wasn't as if he wanted to talk about himself like the make up faced model. Simon was a little more common in that respect, but that wasn't seen as a negative personality flaw in his own eyes.

Who wanted to talk to ruddy models anyway? What was there to discuss, how  they would be eating food similar to cardboard that evening because of a fad diet in Witch Weekly or the next time they planned to stare at themselves in a store front window? Either choice seemed bland to him.

"Not a habit, it seems like a fabrication if I ever heard one but whatever helps you sleep at night lass," he looked at her curious to why she suddenly seemed interested in following him for the day. It wasn't like when they were at Signature she had seemed overly concerned with him or learning about anything he had to say. Granted that was a first impression, but it was an impression none the less. "If it's a habit you can fix then be done with it then yeah? Who needs to be trailing a stranger," she introduced herself and his eyes just looked her over and stared down at her hand for a moment or two. She was up to something, if he could sense anything it was that she was out of place. "I'm always right, you will realize that in time if you keep tabs on me." Hushed tones, oh that was rich indeed, matching hers he leaned in a little closer to her, "Well Colette that is a risk I guess I am willing to take..." he left his name off. There was no need to show all his cards right away, make her work for it if she was really interested in knowing his identity.

Pausing when she said she didn't have clearance the smug smirk he wore frequently crossed his lips. "Ah, so you are following me because you foolishly hope I might assist someone who abruptly vanished into the night. That is a funny concept, thing is about pubs and clubs you never truly know who you are talking to in them eh?" His cool blue eyes kept locked on her features hoping to read her reactions. Though he could smell her scent clearly, he wished he had a stronger sense like the one to read minds, that would be a true talent far better than being able to tell if someone had changed their socks or not.

At the mention of fabrication, Colette's brows knit and her lips pressed into a fine, thin line. She didn't know on whose side the fabrication was -- if it was his, that was precisely her point -- but once again, the statement sounded rather like an accusation.

"I would like to point out that your barbs thus far have all been based upon a false assumption: that I was following." Or, in fact, that she had been moving at all. Colette knew well -- her high-heeled feet knew even better -- that she had been standing in the same position for nearly half an hour now. She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that someone who thinks themselves always right is bound to make overgeneralisations, but," she smirked, "I don't really think that's the proper way to get to know someone. You sure seem to think you know who you are talking to -- club or Ministry.Unless you're a Seer? Tell me. What else do you know about me that I should know?  Here," she said, once more looking down and digging through her satchel. "A silver sickle. I'd hardly make you prophesy without due compensation. That is the going rate for these services these days, is it not?"

Her smile grew teasing, but as she examined his face, there was hardness in her eyes; Colette did not appreciate attacks. Or presumption. This man displayed both, however well-meaning. She'd turn it into a teasing sort of banter, if she could. Perhaps he only meant to prod; perhaps that was his way of flirting. But more likely, Colette deduced, it was his way of amusing himself at the expense of others. Truth was, Colette could not rightly know. She could not read the man, and that aggravated her a good deal.

To be shut out by Raynor was one thing. That was diplomatic and expected. To be shut out by a man she was conversing with, well. . . Colette's pride didn't very much care for that.