Too slow for champagne, not too slow for quidditch.

[Emmett Beauregard]

Sitting on the sideline was getting old, very quickly. He worked hard every practice to show his potential, and it just didn’t seem to matter due to seniority. He hoped, when all was said and done after tonight, if Mr. Pettigrew weren’t interested in his talents – of which he absolutely felt he had – he could simply say he’d gone to the party for free food and alcohol and why, he’ say, would he leave his own team just to join another as second-string. However, his position off the field allowed him to avoid potential injury from that bludger gone amok at the last game against Puddlemere. The injuries had been bloody and brutal.

Though he very much hoped there was a proper position available he could swoop in and take.

He was dressed in near the same outfit he wore to the last Hogwarts Ball. His nicest suit that his parents had purchased for him. But he was still feeling a little out of place as he tried not to attract too much attention from his own team members, in case he happened to run into Mr. Pettigrew himself.

Only he didn’t really know what he looked like.

To make the situation even more embarrassing, his cousins were there. Harvey, of course, working for Mr. Pettigrew, and even Owen. If Owen got first string before he did, he would absolutely die. And why hadn't Harvey put in a good word with Mr. Pettigrew in the first place?

He’d been accidentally standing under a rather pushy snitch with a sprig of mistletoe for the better part of ten minutes. He hadn’t a clue why girls walking past were giggling, and some of the other men were giving him winks and nudges with their elbow. He flushed bright red when he spotted it and quickly rushed away to the refreshments table, also a little bit peeved that nobody had actually attempted to kiss him.

He was eyeing the bread pudding and was reaching for the last glass of champagne at the table – he was sure there was more somewhere, but he didn’t want to wait – when someone appeared at his elbow and snatched up the last glass.

@'Thom Pettigrew'
For your information: @'Harvey Beauregard' @'Owen Beauregard'

  

[Thom Pettigrew]

Thom had just finished his first little recruiting pep-talk of the night, with one Mr. Owen Beauregard, which had gone passably well. The boy was only a fifth year, so the pressure on him to make any decisions was comparatively quite low. As such, Thom had been appropriately circumspect in their conversation--much more reserved than he would have been with a seventh year, who would be facing the decision on whether to try out--and for whom--in just a few short months. Having concluded his business with one Beauregard, he was on his way to try and find another--specifically, his assistant, Harvey. Having lost his last two assistants to marriage (the incompetent, short-lived ones in between didn't count, never counted), Thom immediately assumed that he couldn't find the lad because he was probably off flirting somewhere, dammit. He didn't know why he even let his assistants come to these types of events--but of course he did know why he let them come, and it was because he would be get off track and distracted and do a lot of drinking champagne and having fun and not enough business-related schmoozing to justify the expense of the extravaganza if someone wasn't around to remind him of these things.

He was still scanning the ballroom for a trace of Harvey's blond hair as he approached the refreshment table to change out his champagne glass, so he wasn't paying much attention to the other bloke reaching for the same glass until it appeared, from the corner of his eye, that he was about to spill champagne all over the man's sleeve. Swerving his hand away to avoid an incident, Thom turned to see who he was unwittingly battling for his champagne glass, and didn't immediately recognize the face. That, in and of itself, was a bit suspect--Thom followed Quidditch closely enough to recognize the faces of all but the newest first string players, and of course he knew the faces of the Hogwarts players, since they were half the reason for the party. That left two options; he was either a second-string player--and one who didn't see much, if any, field time--or a Ministry official. Probably the former, judging by his build.

"I'm sorry, how rude of me to snatch champagne away from a guest," he said, surrendering the glass with a disarmingly boyish grin, still surveying the other man for some clue as to his identity. Cannons, he remembered suddenly. He wasn't sure what had jogged his memory, but there it was; he was at least reasonably convinced that he was talking to a Cannons player. A second string one, probably. Or perhaps their new beater, after the injuries over the past weekend? No, he didn't have a beater's build, Thom decided. "You play for the Cannons, isn't that right?" he said, deciding to play it safe and not assume more than he already knew.

  

[Emmett Beauregard]

He was ready to fight for that glass of champagne. Clearly, he saw it first. But any reply or rude thing he could have said was quickly halted as he registered the man's words. Guest.. Was this Mr. Pettigrew? He looked at him carefully, finding him very familiar but not at all sure if that was because he's already seen him at the party, or a different party previously. 

As far as rudeness goes. This man had surrendered the champagne and Emmett had already taken it back before the man's words had registered in his head. So there he stood, stubborn, with the champagne as the man looked him over.

But he was recognised. Emmett always felt a thrill of pleasure when that happened (it wasn't that common unless they were old school mates).

"I do," he brightened, holding himself up a little higher... still holding that damn champagne. "Though, just second string." If this was Mr. Pettigrew... "I don't get nearly as much time on the broom as I had hoped."