paths of victory [casey]

It had all started with a Quidditch magazine, something Fabien read rather more often than he tended to admit. A Quidditch magazine, and a competition to win a VIP ticket to a charity non-league match between the Quiberon Quafflepunchers and Montrose Magpies. Neither was a team he had a particular interest in (beyond being able to name most of the players and their positions, but most normal people could do that, surely?) but the questions had been simple, the prize included an overnight stay in London together with dinner and breakfast and so he'd tied the entry form to Duc's leg, sent the owl on his way, and promptly forgotten about it until three weeks later when he received a congratulatory scroll informing him that he'd won.

Fabien didn't get excited about many things, but he was genuinely pleased about this. Normally he bought a seat in the standard area, but this time he would have the best view in the arena without parting with so much as a single knut. From his seat, he was able to watch the reporters scribbling down their opinions of the match...that was when he wasn't observing the players, of course. The Quafflepunchers were clearly outmatched, their flamboyant playing style not making up for the skill of the Magpies' keeper, who only allowed through a single goal during the entire three-hour match; and only then to avoid the twin bludgers that had been sent hurtling in her direction.

Needless to say, the English team had won decisively, and from there a portkey led to a popular London bar for the after party. Fabien was less enthusiastic now; not being keen on crowds meant he hoped to simply find a quiet corner with a good bottle of wine and amuse himself watching people getting drunk, but there was the opportunity to meet the players (who were obviously just ordinary witches and wizards and probably not interesting at all) without looking like a fanboy. Despite his preference for robes, Fabien had dressed in attire that wouldn't look out of place in a muggle area, being unsure of the location of the event. Now, as he scanned the cocktail menu he realised too late that old habits died hard...he had left his walking stick in such a fashion that it could be easily tripped over in the crowded bar.

"Excuse me..." he said, pulling it closer as he saw someone had indeed been about to fall victim to what had once been one of his favourite tricks. Perhaps later it would be amusing, but not when he had only just arrived. Certainly not when there was a Daily Prophet reporter interviewing the disappointed French seeker just a few feet away. And really, he if he wanted to irritate someone then he would pick some smug, rich drunk who thought too much of themselves, not a pretty blonde woman who... Fabien did a double take and, before he realised he was even speaking out loud and about to do the very fanboy routine he intended to avoid, asked "@Casey Regan ?"

The witch wasn’t terribly thrilled to have a meet and greet combined with an informal press event after the match but knew it wouldn’t be a terrible way to spend the evening, not really. It was one of those evenings that she’d rather be out with Kerrigan and other Regan cousins, but also at home on her couch watching some muggle movie. When it came down to it, Casey didn’t know what she wanted, other than knowing that she didn’t want to be at this bar. Casey wasn’t even in a bad mood; her mind was just elsewhere.

She had made a point of speaking to the press almost as early as possible, as much as she enjoyed it, the witch had wanted to get it over with early so that she could spend the evening milling about with her teammates and not have to worry about much else. Post-match attire at these events was always weird for Casey to plan out. They didn’t want players to blend in completely, but neither would they make it a requirement that they stand out. Wanting to be comfortable, Casey had chosen a dark pair of jeans, tall boots, and tugged on a ¾ zip up pull over with the Magpie’s logo on the front and her number on the back. It was nothing flashy, but it seemed to be a good compromise between her comfort and visibility.

She’s spied Finn in the back corner talking to one of their beaters and was making her way back to them, a glass of vodka and sprite in her hand when she thought she heard someone say her name. The blonde witch turned first towards the reporter, who appeared to be too far away to have been the owner of the voice and preoccupied with interviewing the Quafflepuncher’s seeker. Looking the other way, Casey found herself blinking at a stranger. His words finally made her look down and realize that he’d saved her the embarrassment of tripping in front of the press, and the rest of the people in the establishment. It was still strange for people to recognize her and for her to not know them in turn, but she was getting used to it as time went on.

She offered the stranger a warm smile and a small nod “Ah, you’ve spotted me, I see” she said with a small laugh. She was already losing the side-bet she’d had going with the team about who would get recognized first out of the newer players on the team. Not wanting to be rude, and considering that the wizard in front of her hadn’t been weird about his recognizing her, the witch set a hand on the back of the empty chair in front of his table “You don’t look like press, so I’d wager you’re one of the winners of the contest?” She asked carefully, but bluntly, not wanting to offend, but also wanting to know out of curiosity.

She took a sip of her drink while he answered, and nodded in response “Well, congratulations and thank you for coming out…” She told him earnestly. After another moment she continued “Are you a fan of either the Quafflepunchers or the Magpies? Or who do you cheer for regularly?” She was genuinely curious, and found it was best to find out where someone’s quidditch loyalties lay before she accidentally offended someone. She’d learned that one the hard way.

Fabien cursed himself inwardly for his stupidity. Why couldn't he just have said 'good evening' or congratulated her on the match? He had, in the past, approached and requested autographs from a couple of the French national players, but he'd been a good deal younger then. He hoped she wasn't going to think he was doing that here, and felt relieved when she smiled and seemed to think he hadn't said anything unreasonable. She was pretty when she smiled. He hadn't noticed that during the match. 

“Yes, that's right” he looked down and felt slightly embarrassed about admitting it, but he supposed at least he wasn't going to get drunk and try to dance on a table with any of the players. That seemed to Fabien the sort of thing that a fan who won a magazine contest might want to do, even as he conveniently overlooked that, in fact, he was the sort of fan who entered and won a magazine contest. And now that he had got past the initial greeting, he couldn't think of a single interesting thing to say.

Thankfully she could, and it seemed she didn't think he'd said anything to embarrass himself, at least not as far as the British keeper was concerned. Though he cringed at her next question, because the truth was, he didn't really support either team. He'd just entered the contest because, well, it was there, and he'd had a spare few minutes, and it had actually come as a surprise when he'd won. Still, there was a way around that. “You can probably tell that I have a national allegiance with the quafflepunchers” he admitted “but it is certain your team played the best game today. I prefer to see a good game even when I am not watching my favourite team.” That would have been true even if their seeker hadn't caught the snitch; the French team had been truly outclassed. Fabien wasn't sure his English was quite up to attempting to express that, though, so he was glad when the bartender appeared and asked what he would like.

Fabien ordered a glass of cabernet sauvignon, then looked to Casey and asked “do you wish for another drink?” Given that the glass in her hand was only half-empty he assumed she wouldn't, but he didn't want to be impolite. “How long have you played?” he asked, knowing it was a singularly dull question and then compounding it by adding “I was a beater on my house team at school”.

She watched the wizard grimace slightly as he answered her question and found herself puzzled, and not for the first time, why people thought she’d take offence if they didn’t have absolute loyalty to her team. She was of course biased towards the teams she played on personally but growing up she’d almost always had a few teams she admired for one reason or another. Her most intense loyalty outside of that given to the Magpies was to the Irish national team. She knew she’d play for them one day, and hopefully that day was sooner than later, but the point was she wouldn’t hold his allegiances against him, not unless he said he was a Chudley Cannon’s fan anyway. She offered him a sympathetic shrug “I take no offense – we should be everyone’s favorite team, but I know it’s easy to be mislead” she joked, hoping to put the French wizard at ease.

She offered him another small smile at the compliment and nodded as she sipped her drink “You’re kind” she told him a moment later “though, we did seem to be working well together, didn’t we?” she added somewhat sheepishly. Casey admittedly had a fairly sized ego, at least when she was on the pitch, anyway. But rarely did she feel the need to brag, especially when she was talking to someone one-on-one – let alone when the wizard was technically a guest of both teams. Her father had made sure to quash any of that early on.

She waved a hand gently at the man’s offer “I’m alright, thanks. But thank you for the offer anyway.” The witch made sure to tell the bartender to put his drink on her tab, if t wasn’t being comped by the teams or contest already. At his next question Casey had to pause to make sure her math was right “Seventeen years” she told him before she continued on “I started playing youth quidditch at four, and never really stopped” she explained. From the moment she’d gotten that toy broom with stuffed a stuffed quaffle and bludgers that had been it for her.

The ex-puff perked up as he mentioned he’d played in school. Talking quidditch in any way shape or form was always a favorite “I was supposed to be a beater, actually.” She confessed “But one match, back in youth quidditch our keeper got into a fight with one of the older boys from the other team, and I said I’d fill in. Problem was that Padraig never got his spot back” Casey told him, chuckling.

After another beat, the blonde frowned, realizing she’d been terribly rude “I’m sorry, I never asked your name – and here you’ve known mine this whole time – what should I call you?”

Up until fairly recently (fairly recently being the past five minutes) Fabien had always assumed that professional Quidditch players were either singularly dull and had no interests outside of practising and playing matches, that they were fanatically obsessed with their own teams to the point of disdaining everything else, or a combination of the two. The fact that he had never actually had a conversation with any professional sportspeople beyond requesting a few autographs in his teens was evident, and this was coupled with a healthy dose of his own long-held envy and prejudices. Telling himself that had made him feel better about the fact that he wasn't good enough to play beyond school and local league teams but he had realised almost immediately that all his assumptions were wrong. This young woman was nice, polite and friendly and she even knew how to make jokes?

Fabien smiled and even chuckled a little. "Perhaps one day I shall see the error of my ways" he said, and indeed, already he knew he would be following the Magpies in both the British and European leagues from now on. Maybe not just because they were good players, though he wasn't ready to admit that to himself. "It was a great game" he agreed "your chasers work very well together, the Quafflepunchers could learn something from them, I think" Yes, that sounded alright. Not gushing,  complimentary and also showed that he knew a little about the game. But Casey's next words actually made his jaw drop a little.

"Seventeen..?" he breathed the word quietly, barely audible, but it was clear he was impressed. To have flown in a team from such a young age...what must that have been like? He wanted to ask, but...oh, why not? "I didn't know there was such a thing as a junior league until I started at Beauxbatons" he said "Nor did I learn to fly until I was at school. It must have been great, growing up in the sport..." he sounded rather wistful, knowing that even if he had learned to fly as a child he would still have had to spend some years grounded as he recovered from his injuries. Normally, this line of thought would lead into a downward spiral, but curiosity about the tale of the keeper who should have been a beater distracted him, and he found himself smiling again.

"I'm sure he was sorry he had been fighting" Fabien agreed, thinking that Casey would likely have found her best position sooner or later anyway. She didn't seem like the sort of person who would let anything stand in the way of success. The Frenchman would have liked to be like her in that respect, willing to work as hard as necessary in order to get where he wanted to be... before he could consider that absolutely nothing was stopping him except his own attitude, she surprised him again. He paused for the briefest moment in which he remembered that the British like to shake hands, and then offered his own.

"Fabien Sanxay, originally from Poitiers in France,  and I am very pleased to meet you" he said as he took her hand.