fly like paper | barthy & lily
It was rare for Lily to come to things for fun. Goal-oriented, anal-retentive, whatever people chose to call it, one thing was certain: Lily had her eyes on the prize. (Sometimes, even she couldn’t say what the ultimate prize was. Fame, gold, glory? A spell named after her? Her own chocolate card? Questions like that were pointless. Best to look at things right in front of her, like her graduating top of her class.)
Though Al had dragged her here, begging her to have at least a little fun, Lily soon found that nothing at the party entertained her. She didn’t drink, nor did she smoke, and if that was their definition of fun, she needed to get out of here.
She ducked into one of the rooms, hoping for a spot of quiet. Instead, she was greeted with a paper plane in the face. It seemed she’d entered the holding room for Puddlemere players, some of them a little buzzed and all of them antsy. Lily closed her eyes and counted to three, naming all the bones in her right leg. She had almost left the room when she heard a laugh.
"Immature," she said, narrowing her eyes. "And, for the record, last season was Puddlemere’s worst in about three years. I hope you’re all proud of yourselves. Especially you," she said, pointing at Wood, his hand still outstretched from throwing the plane, "with those damned shaky fingers of yours."
"I - that wasn't -" He flashed a glare at the Keeper, who stifled a laugh into his shirt and elbowed the chap next to him, look who's in trouble this time. Fucking bastards, they always got him into their sticky situations and let him deal with them. Barthy tried not to sink down in his chair as the girl pointed at him. Merlin, how old was she, anyway? Old enough to be an enthusiast, but not a bloody critic. He straightened up when she reached shaky fingers.
"I resent that accusation," he muttered, because it seemed rude and a little petty to bellow it at someone younger. He'd let the Snitch slip away once - once! - in his career, and that had been a year ago. He wouldn't dare call himself a Seeker if it was otherwise. Quit the team and change his name, maybe; no one was harder on Bartholomew Wood than himself.
Raising his voice a little, Barthy continued, "But the season before we almost made it to the finals. Ups and downs, you see." He paused. "Miss," he finished, hurriedly, laughter from the team be damned. Besides, no one else was speaking up to defend Puddlemere's name. "And if you're keeping up with our recent matches, we've been catching up nicely." He grinned, a stiff, smile-for-the-camera grin. His PR manager would be proud.
