To Morrison's surprise, the night was not dragging on nearly as slowly as he had anticipated that it would. It wasn't the Morrison was uncomfortable in such a formal social setting; this was what his life had consisted of since he was old enough to be taught how to behave at such functions. It wasn't even that he didn't enjoy this part of his life. Growing up in a privileged family had infinitely greater pros than cons, and he had learned to appreciate the obligations, no matter how superficial they may be, that came with the lifestyle he lived. The man enjoyed the best of everything life had to offer, even if he did have to sacrifice himself as an occasional mention in the Daily Prophet gossip column. Besides, he looked damn fine in a suit and tie, and certainly didn't mind taking the time to remind everyone of that.
The only part of the night that was throwing him off was the noticeable absence of his father from the night's events. Morrison had not even been intending to attend the event; his father had mentioned in passing of a sizable donation made on the family's behalf a month or so ago, though it had hardly registered any importance in the young man's mind. It wasn't until a familiar messenger owl arrived at his home earlier that evening that he was even aware the donation was toward the medical bills of those still suffering prolonged afflictions after the Plague spread at the Victory Ball, now over a year prior. Due to last minute business obligations, his father was unable to attend the event in honor of the benefactors, and Audra Thorne was requesting her son's presence. Conveniently, he had nothing much of importance that night, a rarity for Morrison, so he
suited up and was out the door promptly to escort his mother.
Having only attended such functions without the elder Thorne a handful of times, it was always blatantly obvious once he arrived that he would be expected to remain at his mother's side for the larger duration of the night. Typically, after a drink or two he was able to separate himself from his parents, milling about and networking as he wished. Tonight, however, they were two strong, and he was slowly making his way through the endless rounds of guests every ten minutes. Like clockwork they would briefly catch up with his mother, as though it had been more than a month since they last spoke, and then turn their attention to himself; it was getting quite boring vaguely describing the latest happenings at the Ministry, especially avoiding anything evenly remotely incriminating about his own behavior there, but true to form, Morrison never passed up an opportunity to talk about himself.
The conversations became second nature quickly, and he had managed to settle into a routine of only halfway listening to anything directed toward himself. For the most part, he didn't need to give them their full attention to know exactly what they would be asking; he felt as though he were being asked the same questions all night. Being easily the youngest man in attendance certainly had him feeling on display, which he of course, did not necessarily mind. He was rounding out yet another conversation about just how
fascinating life in the Magical Transportation Department was, when something caught his senses that immediately commanded his full attention. Morrison knew better than to even think of bringing a pack of cigarettes that night, but the familiar combination of menthol and nicotine was easily distinguishable amidst the whiskey and scotch filled glasses surrounding him. His head swiveled, searching for the source and immediately honing in on the young blond headed toward the bar; the exposed back of her dress stuck out easily among the slightly more moderately dressed women, most assuredly many of which were twice her age. His interest was officially piqued, and with that it was time to make his exit.
"You'll have to excuse me for a moment," he offered, holding up an empty glass and tapping it with his forefinger. Morrison extracted himself from the small group of witches and wizards that had gathered, and strolling casually through the room. Just as he was nearing the bar, he was approached by a man whose name he could never quite put his finger on, but was always reminding him of how much he looked like his father. While he had no intentions of whisking off the woman who was undoubtedly not here alone, who was he to deny himself the company of the only person within a decade of his own age. Morr was able to make brief eye contact with the woman, dodging questions about his father's exact whereabouts that night before finally making his way to the intended spot beside her. "Is this taken?" he questioned, motioning toward the empty seat beside her, pretending as though he didn't already know the answer.
His empty glass was replaced with a freshly poured whiskey, immediately being raised to meet his lips. "I was fairly certain I had met everyone here tonight at least thrice before, and yet I can't place a name to your face. And I am quite certain I would have remembered it." His natural, charming tone slid easily between syllables, pausing momentarily to extending a his free hand in a well mannered greeting. Her youth was much more obvious up close, but her appeal still undeniable.
"Morrison Thorne, and the pleasure is all mine."
