Padma was being cosseted into a dress she didn't really want, to meet people she really didn't want, to do something she really didn't want.
Clearly, things were not going in Padma's favour at any given point in the scenario.
"Mum, what is the point of this?"
"Of what dear?"
"Of this." She gesticulated wildly with her hands. "I hardly doubt they're going to change their mind if they find my dress sense horrific. In fact, I think even rags wouldn't deter them. If I thought it would have helped, I'd have tried it." The last part of her reasoning was muttered, but the older lady caught it just the same.
"I wouldn't doubt it, darling."
"And it's not even like my sartorial sense is bad."
"No it isn't darling."
"Then?" Padma put her hands on her hips and questioned, unconsciously imitating the very person in front of her.
"It's because..." her mother released a sigh indicating long suffering and a tempering of thoughts, "...It's because you don't go for the shiny stuff."
"A BA in English Lit. and shiny stuff is the best thing you can come up with?"
"My BA never asked me to describe my daughter's tastes." Nandini sniffed delicately. "But you know what I mean. Given the choice between sequins and lace, you'd go for the lace. Between raw silk and satin, you'd go for satin. Between burgundy and red, you'd go for burgundy. Jacquard before print. I could go on."
"You do realise you just pointed out that she'd pick the more expensive option, right?" Parvati asked the question from her corner with a slight bemusement to her tone.
"Expensive, yes, and rich too, but quiet. You never stand out." Unlike your sister, went the unspoken clause, but really, no one needed that said out loud.
"I'm fine the way I am Mum."
"You are, and do I normally dress you up? Uh uh uh-" Her mother raised her hand in the universal stop sign as she saw her daughter's mouth open, "Bas, that was a question not meant to be answered. This is a special occasion, just concede to me this once."
"Is that we're calling it now?" Another helpful heckle from the peanut gallery.
"Shut up Paro. Not like you're being sold off."
"We're doing no such thing, do stop being so melodramatic. Your word will be final say, and you know it." Parvati paused for a beat before adding, "It's just that we all know how awkward you are in that department."
Nandini didn't chastise her first born when she threw the pillow with a shriek.
Padma walked down the stairs deliberately, as if she was struggling with her dupatta, when in fact she was trying to gauge the guests by the sound of their voices. She caught the faint purr of an Italian accent, the voice high enough to be womanly yet deep enough to be sensuous. and then a deep chuckle and rumbling answer that was her father. Even as she rounded the final spiral of the stairs, she had no idea who their visitors were.
Raising her gaze which she had cast down onto the steps in concentration, she automatically opened her mouth to greet the party, when the salutations died on her lips. Words dying on lips were a cliché that she had always mocked, and now, experiencing it first hand she regretted her scoffing; things had a way of biting you back. and mortification was a taste she would never acquire. Even as she fought against the halt her brain had ground to and the chagrin that followed, she knew why she hadn't been able to place the voice. She wouldn't have been able to place the voice in a million years, because it was never on her list of possibilities.
Blaise stood up from his seat as she had entered, reaching out his hand to shake. Her hand met his in a firm grip, nearly on the edge of bruising, and a smile quirked on his lips as he replied back with nearly equal pressure. His grip seemed to wake her from her surprise, and he knew this because he could literally track her every thought as she righted herself into perfect manners.
He released her hand and she pulled back, but the retraction took a moment longer than it would normally, and Blaise felt something stir in the back of his mind, in that area which normally roused itself when he found himself in over his head. The fact that it was starting to chug along then was a startling thought, but he managed to compartmentalise it away to a later time, where he could examine it in leisure; right now he had other tasks.
He watched her as she graciously greeted his mother, brought in tea despite the three house-elves whose eyes he could feel on the back of his neck, poured and served, and took a seat beside her sister. Her sister's eyes were another pair that was drilling holes into him, and were he not used to scrutiny, he would have fidgeted mightily. He made the mistake of once looking up, and catching the overt promise of death being aimed his way, decided to look only at the person they'd come here for.
She was answering when she was spoken to, nodding and smiling the rest of the time. It wasn't her being polite, though she wouldn't correct anyone who would assume so. Her forte simply didn't happen to be aimless pleasantries at the best of times, and now, being distracted so, she didn't trust herself to open her mouth unless someone was providing a topic for her words to shape around. Her distraction was being made worse by the fact that he kept staring at her unabashedly.
She must not have been the only one who noticed, because suddenly the adults- funny how she thought of them that way when she'd been one for a bit now herself- were encouraging the pair of them to go out to the garden and have a nice little chat and "get to know one another" while the rest of them proceeded to... she didn't really know where, because by that time her brain had been screaming so loudly she didn't really register any more words.
And then there was Blaise's hand in front of her again- funny how that kept happening- and she'd taken it, and he was leading her to the garden in a way that would suggest to the outsider that she were the guest and he the host.
They had scarcely made their way outside when she beelined for the Swing, a long divan that levitated and rocked, leaving him to follow in her wake. She sat down and breathed a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, before she turned around and faced him.
"So, what do you think?" Her tones were level, calm, suggestive of a deposition more than a conversation between two people who'd been schoolmates for seven years.
"I think," his eyes were locked onto hers, and his voice was calm, even, measured, deliberate, the kind one would use on a skittish horse, "that we should get married."
I've written this chapter in record time- I think 25 minutes? And honestly, it shows. But it was a plot bunny at a rare opportune time, and so here it is. I've always wanted this pairing even though I'm sure most people will look at me like I'm insane (which is rude because that's completely besides the point rn). I just felt that brown people were so scarcely represented and I just... wanted to go back to my roots? I suppose that's a good way to put it as any. I think I may be using a lot of anglo-indian slang, so do let me know if I should include a glossary of sorts around every chapter?
Anyway, thoughts very very highly appreciated~