WHO @ofpansy
WHERE Puddlemere Stadium, River Piddle.
WHEN 4th May, 2003.
It was a scrambled attempt for good press, at its heart, Rabastan supposed. Something to steal the headlines from ongoing tributes and investigations into the tragic death of the Minister of Magical Sports and Games and every troubling update on just how deep the damage had gone into the infrastructure of the Floo System. The Atrium would be shut to the public for weeks. Fundraisers like this, with sweet-faced little wixen being goaded onto broomsticks by professional players for the benefit of photographers, while well-maining patrons sipped champagne and gushed over how sweet it all was, were precisely the kind of press that the Lestrange name needed ā no matter how much Bellatrix resisted the rebranding of their name.
Rabastan had taken three drinks and wandered the soft grass of the pitch, pledging a hefty donation early on in the afternoon before he could forget to do so, (the value would swiftly find itās way straight back into their profits when he made an official offer to the club) when his eyes caught, for a moment on the sight of an argument. His head tilted, eyes darting between player and member of the press, before he pressed on, taking a bite out of a canopĆ© from a passing tray and wrinkling his nose when it proved unappetising.Ā
It was on his next loop, having shaken hands with the current manager (far too excitable) and a keen-eyed Head Coach (much more amenable) that he spotted her again, The media pass looped around her neck declared her from the Daily Prophet, but he knew her for a Parkinson long before the name was legible on her pass.Ā āIsnāt it a shame that Minister Parkin isnāt here to see this,ā he offered loftily, recalling a nervous conversation with Pansyās fiancĆ© a few mornings ago. How much had Theodore seen fit to share with her of that night? Of the morning following? She seemed familiar, the longer he stood here. āHe did so love giving back to the people.ā
