When I was six years old, I broke my leg
I was running from my brother and his friends
tasted the sweet perfume of the mountain grass I rolled down
I was younger then, take me back to when I
Found my heart and broke it here, made friends and lost them through the years
And I’ve not seen the roaring fields in so long, I know, I’ve grown
but I can’t wait to go home

@jonathan

There was nothing quite like France, and Blanche hadn't been home since she'd left. Even the little spit of Calais-- it was embarrassing, really, but her knees nearly knocked together with relief. Silly of her-- it had only been a year, if that. And it was Calais, at that, not even Paris or Marseille. There were those who did affect their Parisian accents, of course, who tamped down their northern burrs, who pronounced words as Blanche had been taught.  She'd kept her hint of drawl when she'd been at Beauxbatons, to her mother's slightly pinched lips. Of course all the better families preferred the Parisian accent when out and about, and a distinct Marseille accent was looked down upon more, but a hint of one. . .

Well. Few had turned down their nose at a de Villère daughter, half-British who sided with her mother's blood so strongly that her French had a distinct regional accent, kept carefully light for their ears. She was French from the top of her curly blonde head to the bottom of her well-cared for feet, marked by an English name. The rivalry ran both ways, after all, and it was irritating to cast off as much of the French heritage she'd loved to fit in with the British.

It was her mother's birthday, and Camille had wanted her daughter home for it. She'd left a few days early to attempt some half-reconnections, to make sure her reputation was unchanged in her year. She knew her expectations-- no balls unless she was specifically invited, and by a relative or friend, rather than a familial friend. Not so much as a punishment, but rather more so she didn't fall back into the easy routine, that she was less likely to stay. Her parents worried about that, she knew. They wanted her to wed a British lord, rather than a French châtelain. Her mother thought she'd have a better chance there, away from Cato. If he ever married a woman (which Blanche did have her doubts about), he'd be able to marry French, and Blanche, admittedly was somewhat jealous at his luck. He'd disgraced them, and he was able to stay. 

She knew she was being unfair. The de Villères were a good family, high enough that they were acceptable enough for a Warrington heir, high enough that Blanche could befriend any of the daughters of the highest-ranking families and be invited to their gatherings once they moved past her father's name. She was good enough for their daughters, but their first sons, perhaps less so. That her father was so recent an arrival-- well, simply everyone knew why Cassius Warrington was in France, and the quick succession of his children was no mere newly-wed bliss. By removing the role of heir of the family from Cato to giving it to their English cousin, Blanche would, theoretically gain a much higher match in Britain than France.

The sea air-- different than Marseilles, she knew, and logically no different than Dover's-- was making her sentimental. She needed-- into a store, which itself was hazily familiar. Good food, good French food at that. She checked the coins in her pocket-- yes, she ought to have enough. 

As a general rule, Jon didn't eat out or buy fast food. Mostly because everything in Calais was sort of expensive and who the hell had money for that but also because meal times were great at the house they were living in. They've always been like this, really, ever since he and his friends sort of broke the barrier of friends and became family instead. They would all sit together for food and relax and joke around and share about their days. Since life was busy as heck even before the whole runaway thing, those were the times they had to just be with each other and connect. That and marathon time but that only ever happened on Friday nights so. These get-togethers were exactly what he'd missed in his home, with his biological family. Not Lexi, of course, because she was awesome even if he'd never tell her that but with Mhari and his mum and his dad. They never had this thing, about being united and close, and after mum and Mhari found out about Jon and Lexi being magical...it had all gone to shite.

However, he'd met with Cato for brunch that day and he was in high spirits - but hungry. Certain that he missed lunch and that those spiteful bastards didn't save him anything, Jon decided to stop by that nice grocery shop that sold fresh fish and the amazing cinnamon bun and get something to eat on the way. Also, he wanted fish and chips so there. Unless he bribed someone to go buy it for him, if he wanted to eat it he'd have to purchase the ingredients himself. Since the place was not exactly out of the way and the place where they mostly bought their groceries, Jon just steered himself in that direction after he left the bistro where he and Cato caught up over pastries and coffee.

His friend, apparently, was still locked in a uphill battle against his parents and had all but lost the place of heir of his family or whatever. Jon admitted that he had to draw a lot from Game of Thrones and similar stuff to really understand all of that pureblood shite but it couldn't be easy to be passed over for a distant cousin just because you were a decent bloke. Still, Jon was proud of Cato for standing his ground and not giving in. Considering how his family in Britain was thick in the middle of the clusterfuck that drove Jon and his sister back to France, many wouldn't blame Cato for folding and going back to his scary, weird family. It would certainly make his life easier, since he was apparently cut off from the loads of money that the French Warringtons had - and his de Villère family wasn't being helpful either.

Jon looked up when the tacky bell above the door chimed and- oh, talk about terrible coincidences, Jesus. For a moment, he was tempted to pretend that he wasn't here and hightailing out as soon as he could but- Jon was home. He was a French national and he was in France and little Blanche Warrington couldn't do anything against him. And, if she tried, this wouldn't be like Britain. People would help and Jon could bloody well defend himself too. It would be fine. Here, he wasn't a mudblood on the run. Here Jon was but another bloke buying shite. Taking a bite of his cinnamon roll and placing a package of fresh shrimps n his basket, Jon chewed and called out. "Little Blanche. That's a surprise."

tags: @ blanche

outfit

Castle on the Hill

Blanche was rarely thought to be threatening. She'd cultivated that reputation carefully, charming accent, soft smile, and being petite only increased it. She'd trimmed her nails down, rarely shone as much as she ought to have in Potions, let her partners dice herbs. Her five closest friends at Beauxbatons of course, knew the facade.

Really, the only times Blanche might be dangerous was when she held the truth. She was in Prêtresse, after all, and she nearly always did hold the truth. It depended on when she used it, how she used it, if she decided to. Truth was usually the most reliable to use, especially when twisted.

Blanche had a handful of truths to grasp at for situations such as this. However, none of them truly mattered. To ignore the boy would be almost worse, really-- he'd only make a fool of himself and therefore draw attention to her. Her nose twisted, as if smelling something particularly rank.

"Riley. I hope you're not still panting after my brother? You know there's never going to be a wedding." She glanced at him disparagingly. Mudbloods, there were in English, the half-rhyme in her head as thick and plodding as the language itself. "I rather doubt he's come to his senses enough to reject you so much to beg after his sister."

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