WHO: Miles Lufkin and Winnifred Llewellyn
WHAT: His father is trying to set him with the nice young lady from his office
WHERE: Lufkin home!
WHEN: Tonight!



He laughed a bit too loudly at the joke his mother told, slapping his knee, giving them the works. He turned toward the blonde sitting beside him, grinning from ear to ear, “Did you understand? No?---I will try...no, no, it is just not as funny in English.”

Miles sent the girl, Winnifred they had called her, a poorly feigned frown of disappointment. He was actually quite gleeful that she could not understand a single word he and his mother were going on about in French. His mother always reveled in the times Miles would speak to her in her native tongue, and even a proper hostess as Angelique Lufkin could not be compelled to break her giddiness because of some little guest. Especially a guest who was not invited by Madame Lufkin herself, and had been sprung on her by surprise. Miles was glad he had someone on his side, as his father bringing over this---this little girl to try and impress him was not something he appreciated at all.

Surprised was not a state Miles usually found himself in. As of late he had taken to keeping out of trouble, so he had been limited in the shock factor. But what he had thought was normal family dinner had immediately turned into...what would you call it? A courting? His father had introduced Winnifred Llewellyn as the lovely receptionist in the hitwizard department.

Wasn’t she pretty! She’s so quick, and she learns quickly! He may just be stealing her as his own, one of these days! Miles, my boy! Isn’t she pretty?

“Miles----” His father interrupted sternly, but with a smile on his face. Miles frowned, knowing what was coming. “Why don’t you show Miss. Llewellyn the garden? It would please your mother so to show off her roses.”

Damn it. His mother, though he loved her to death, was a flighty woman. She immediately forgot the silent arrangement she and Miles had going on, to ignore Winnifred with their French conversation and cooed that he simply must give the young lady a tour!

“Right,” Miles snapped, standing and pushing the chair in with a bit too much force, “this way.” He didn’t wait for Winnifred to get up as he stalked out of the dining room and through the glass doors that led into the gardens. Maybe she would get lost in the high-bushed maze his mother prized.

Winnifred Llewellyn had done a lot of kissing up in her life. It was one of the directives from her mother that she doubted she would ever forget, that one caught more doxies with honey than vinegar. Why anyone would wish to catch such filthy creatures was beyond her understanding, but the general principle was evident: being sweet will get one what one wants.

It had been a good axiom to Winnifred, as she rarely encountered something she could not get. Her present life's ennui was due mostly to the fact that she didn't know what she wanted. She could be as sweet as a sugar quill to the whole world, but it wouldn't help her with that small dilemma.

Much to her surprise, Winnifred found she almost enjoyed life as a receptionist to the Hit-Wizards. She was very efficient with the little dispatching that came her way, and had the big one, Dobbs, almost entirely at her beck and call with the smallest quirk of her eyebrow. Worst things had happened to her. It also introduced her to a wide number of witches and wizards, particularly those associated with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and her favourite amongst them was Bradworth Lufkin. Always a smile, and a kind (often flirtatious) word for her, he'd taken to insisting she come home to dinner, to meet his family. The wife was French, the son did something famous and important (she really couldn't be bothered), and it was so unfortunate a lovely (well-bred) girl such as herself was so dreadfully alone. And because Bradworth had seemed genuinely eager to have her over (heavily hinting at how she and his son would undoubtedly hit it off), she hardly felt she could tell the man that she had given up Pure-blood hunting in favour of growing horribly old with naught but a coterie of Kneazles to keep her sour old bones company.

It was but fifteen minutes before she wished she had done just that.

Madame Lufkin was possibly the rudest person of her acquaintance, but she was French, so that was hardly a glowing report about her. Her son was no less, and as they tittered away in their nasal language, she turned the full wattage of her smile upon Bradworth, who probably only had a small hand in choosing his family and thus should be forgiven for their shortcomings. She regaled him with her (partially flawed, but he needn't know that) Italian, and he in turn gave her a proverbial nudge of the elbow and winked his eye, only to go on to tell the story of how he and his Angelique's met and fell madly in love.

She drained her goblet in a hurry after that, and wished it contained something much stronger.

Then the unfortunate joke had been told, and she beatifically speared what remained on her plate and massacred,more than masticated, it.

Watching Miles practically sprint toward the door after his father's pleasantly-veiled order, she slowly dabbed her lips with her napkin, laid it painstakingly beside her goblet, pushed her chair back, and rose with steady dignity and a gracious smile to her remaining hosts, just as Miles's foot disappeared out the door. Hardly surprising behaviour, but a lady did not forget herself or rush, regardless of how much of a boor (or booress, Madame Lufkin) her host was being.

"Well, it's hardly a wonder your father has taken it upon himself to fix you up," she said as she delicately picked her way through the garden (roses, honestly, how trite), following the almost-visible trail of smoke. "I thought it would merely be because you were unfortunate-looking, but your rudeness is nearly a disorder."

“Fix me up? Ha!” Miles began to walk backwards, to properly sneer at the girl. She was no one, absolutely no one. Miles had no particular interest in settling down, as it would be quite detrimental to all the fun he was having. Fun---fun now that he was no longer seeing Catriona, even though the sting of their breakup (would you call it a breakup if it should not have been occurring in the first place?) had not truly worn itself off. Like a proper young stag, he had been going out with his every free night, and taking home the birds he never wished to see again. Those were the best types.

“I am an internationally renowned quidditch player,” he said, eyebrows high. Miles knew this garden like the back of his hand, and turned to his left while continuing to walk backwards. He had hidden in the maze many a time to escape his father’s demands or his mother’s stories, and he also knew how to get ‘lost’ with a girl in the bushes. He also knew how to lose a girl, as well. But she was insulting him, and letting her traipse through the garden, in the dark, was not a worthy punishment for her words. “There is no need to ‘fix me up.’”

Literally or figuratively. The Pride were on top of the league, he was getting along better with his teammates than he ever did as captain, and the ladies seemed to be amazed with his story behind stepping down from the captain seat. Letting the team lead themselves as a whole was proving to be a smart move on all parts. Until they named another captain...but until then, things would be just fine.

“If you are as much of a catch as my father seems to think,” Miles said, stopping abruptly and blocking Winnifred’s path, “then why are you part of this ‘fixing up,’ plot?”

Quidditch player, that's what his father had said he was. So "boor" hadn't been entirely incorrect, then. She took an involuntary step backwards as he cut in front of her, which caused her to bristle. She had danced with suspected Death Eaters at cotillions, she did not step back from Quidditch players with ill-gotten senses of entitlement.

"Of course I'm a catch," she said with her nose only a little in the air, because, well, really. "I happen to be here as a favour to your father."

With her hands on her hips, she took a step toward him, just to gain the ground he'd made her lose, her nose firmly up in the air now (largely due to their respective height differences, but it certainly aided in her projected image). "But I can see that there's little to be done about you. You're obviously content enough with the company of your mother."

Ooh! She had a mouth on her! Miles let out a howl; her snips were quite amusing, but they didn’t cut like she intended them to. Let this little girl think that he would never find his mate, as if he wanted to be tied down and left to rot in the aisle of matrimony! He’d never been able to settle into the role his father wished of him, it was why he was sent to Beauxbatons. Any trouble he might get into would be kept within the halls of the prestigious castle in the sky, and would not get back to the diplomat friends his father so loved to please. Plus, what if it did please his mother to go to her beloved Beauxbatons? One should always be kind to their mother.

“I am much better company than you think,” he said, putting his arms out to grasp onto the branches of the maze. Miles leaned forward, his lips twisted into a smug smirk. She would be pretty if she did not have such an ugly look on her face. “But I do not share these talents with my mother or little girls like you. My mother because I am not un pervers, and you because...I do not deal with vierges.”

His expression turned into one of disgust, his eyes looking her up and down. “You are most definitely une vierge.”

Was it a characteristic of the French to be so utterly dismissive of personal space? She would have dodged, were it not so terribly unladylike, in addition to being an abhorrent sign of weakness in the face of perceived intimidation. But as it was, it placed them in an uncomfortably close bubble of shared space, which, though she would never in one thousand years admit it, was slightly (just slightly) intimidating.

Biting back the urge to sigh, roll her eyes, and blast him in Italian (a feat she had not yet tried, but was confident could be done), she chose her favoured path of affected indifference. "I do not know what you just said, as I am a civilized person and prefer civilized languages," she said as loftily as she could manage, given the situation, and tossing her hair back for effect, "but I'm certain it was quite rude and does not deserve an answer."

But it was possible the picture suffered a little when her gaze grew flinty and she prodded Miles in the chest. "But for your information, I am twenty-one and hardly a little girl." It was her youthful face, she was sure. Winnie told herself it was of no consequence, for when she was ninety and still looked sixty, everyone would be biting their tongues.

“I said you are most definitely une vierge---a virgin.” Miles took no mind in anything else she might say (or was already saying). This sort of talk either caused the women he dealt with to prove him otherwise or sent them running back through the rose garden, never to be seen again. Miles would be fine with either, but this little ice queen would make things much more difficult than he knew he would like.

He was over difficulty. He had tried it with Catriona and he no longer had any desire for something that required effort. All the sneaking around, the secrets, the blackmailing---he was sure he owed Arista for the rest of his life for not running to management and tattling on the pair. Not that Catriona would have been scathed---Miles would have been punted off the team instead of demoted. His ego had not been fine with his title stripping, but he was finding that the less pressure he had on his shoulders, the better. Being a captain was nice, if you wanted the attention (which me most surely did), but Miles would admit (only to himself) that his ability to concentrate on the game and his players and the bludgers soaring at him was not exemplary. Just look at the winning streak the Pride had going! With his focus on himself, they were rising far above the scoreboard.

Focusing on himself was to be the theme of the night.

“That is how you say it, non? Vir-gin?”

Winnie's eyebrows rose so high, they appeared to be trying to leap entirely off her forehead. "Well, I beg your pardon," she said, "I've gathered you to be rude, but I didn't realize you were a complete savage."

After all, there were some subjects one simply did not bring up in polite company. But that, she supposed, was precisely the problem, as her present company was anything but.

"And while I fail to see how that is any of your business, I am." Truthfully, she was utterly scandalised to be discussing such a thing, but since his feelings seemed to be quite strong on the subject, Winnie assumed it would make him leave her alone faster. After all, she was here as a favour, so there was hardly a need to stand further unsavoury evaluation of her character by such an—a—

Well, the very word escaped her at the moment, but it was a bad one and probably best not spoken in company.

"As the alternative has always been being with someone like you, I'd sooner leave it be."

This line was to be delivered smoothly in transition as she flounced away to leave this forsaken garden and the quasi-Frenchman who knew nothing of personal space, accompanied by an efficient toss of her hair. However, the result was somewhat altered by the fact that upon turning, her hair toss was effectively ruined when she stopped short and faced a fork in the infernal maze, unable to remember if they'd crossed right or left coming into it. Not to mention the direction of the five or six prior turns they'd taken. If Winnie had known she was going to be stranded in a thorny labyrinth with some sexually deviant blackguard, she'd have insisted on a map. But as it was, she stood still and tried to look as if she had a purpose other than trying to avoid becoming lost.

Bother.

A savage! He liked that. Miles watched Winnifred (what sort of ugly name was that, anyway?) stalk away into the maze, and grew even more amused at her hesitation. She was lost. It would be a most opportune time to sneak away, as Miles knew every twist and turn of the garden from his years of losing nannies and other obnoxious people who entered the labyrinth. He had even created some short cuts of his own, branches that only reacted to his wand and shifted out of place when he needed a quick escape. It would be terribly easy to let Winnifred lose herself for an hour or so, but Miles was mildly amused by her and by how she admitted she was a virgin. He had been expecting to stun her into silence with his vulgar tactics, but instead she stood her ground. He would at least admire her for that.

She actually reminded him a bit of----Miles shook his head; the last thing he wanted to think about was Catriona, but the way Winnifred stood her ground and matched his insults word for word, it was precisely what his old flame would do. Hell, he would even be bold enough to say that Winnifred could trounce Catriona in a battle of wits, as the younger girl did seem lightyears smarter than his ex (if you could call her that). The thought made Miles recall that All-Star banquet was this upcoming weekend, and all of the Pride had to be in attendance. He grimaced.

“I can lead you out of here,” he found himself saying, sticking his hands in his pockets. He dug his heel into the ground, a nervous habit. Miles felt his chest tightening at the thought of having to deal with Catriona in a public place, “if you attend a party with me this weekend.”

He could not bring one of his braindead floozies to a party with Catriona. She would verbally slice him into little pieces; this way he at least stood a shot of surviving the evening. Miles kept his expression cool, his eyebrows slightly raised as he waited for her answer.

She blinked.

Then, very slowly, so as to compose herself before meeting his gaze fully, she turned and calmly cocked her head to one side.

She blinked a second time, as she thought the situation warranted it, but only because he did not see the first one and therefore no one could say it was unbecoming of her, since she was a lady and ladies were unflappable. All she did then was incline her head and say, "I suppose."

Inside her head, of course, was entirely different story, and she was suspicious and doubtful and wondering what his game was, but as she could not find the proper words to communicate all these unexpected feels, she refrained. And what was she going to wear? Doing favours for people was entirely too stressful, she thought, she simply must avoid doing it in future.

Then folded her hands primly behind her back and stepped slightly to the side to allow him to pass before her. Perfectly executed, as if she had expected this resolution during their entire tête-à-tête (take that, you insufferable French—), "But I will not be sleeping with you."

Dash it all.

That was easy! Miles gave her a short nod before locking his hands behind his back, showing her that he would not be trying to grab at her for the rest of the night. Not that he had bothered to before, but it would be more of a reassurance that this deal they had struck was perfect without the addition of sex. But, of course, as he was the vulgar savage she believed him to be, Miles couldn’t resist teasing her. As he passed Winnifred, he leaned in quickly, his lips almost pressed to her ear.

“We will see about that,” he whispered quickly, breathily, before pulling away and starting going right.

Miles did not wait for Winnifred to catch up as he made his way through, knowing the shortcuts but avoiding them. It would be much more amusing to let her fume about his words, loudly or silently, or at least give her some time to mull over the idea. He had deflowered many a vierge, leaving them perfectly satisfied with their decision; he was sure that he was the right man for the job if it came down to it.