Diagon Alley has been decked out in the most splendiferous fashion for this event, as if no expense was spared in the preparation and decoration for this event. Along the roofs of each of the shops are small fairies, sitting and chatting amiably to one another, apparently quite pleased at being chosen to hold a variety of colored glass balls, enchanted to glow. These little lights create a dim, festive atmosphere throughout the alley. Many of the same fairies fly above holding their small globes proudy and fluttering with smug looks on their tiny faces. Small tables dot around the alley, off to the sides, all swagged in blue and purple fabric with a pale cream tablecloth underneath. Each table has a tea tray with seven tiers, each progressively smaller than the one below it. On each of these tiers, varieties of truffles, small cakes and various novelty candies are arranged in a beautiful fashion. Simple chairs, with padding that matches the table cloths are arranged around each of the tables, though no plates or silverware is apparent. Each place has a cloth napkin, in the same cream of the tablecloth, with blue and purple stripes on each edge. A string quartet is at one end of the alley, manned by an up-and-coming musician from France who seems to constantly look slightly green. Other than the external decorations, the alley itself is unchanged, using only the decorations and lighting to change the atmosphere of the alley which is so familiar to many of those hoped to attend.
Flouncing about rather excitedly, Eva seems to be checking every truffle on every table as she makes her way around the alley, glancing only momentarily now and then back at her husband. “Please keep the movie going as constantly as you can,” she directs to the young woman in charge of the quartet with a wave of her hand, spinning around and then stopping. Every thing is perfect. “People should be arriving any time now,” she tells him and strides over to Tom.
Among the first few to arrive is Rosemary Pantall, her curly red hair reminiscent of her oldest daughter pulled back into a sleek bun atop her head, held in place with a sparkling silver hairpin. Jet black fabric is cut close to her figure, flattering her shape, and held at the waist with a black sash, fastened with a silver clasp under her bustline. It is evidently a new robe, for it is in very near perfect condition and as she stops to chat with a close friend of hers, she gestures to her robe with one delicate hand. It is only a moment after this that she flutters over towards Eva, offering one hand to the woman with a smile. When she speaks, it is with a smile and a distinct sort of accent, the kind of one who is raised in a lower-middle class area and is trying without success to sound more high-class. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fallon. I can see you have put so much effort into the occasion, it’s positively delightful.”
Having been present at the site of the soiree for some time to help Eva make the last-minute preparations, Tom Fallon is feeling like he is definitely in the mood for a party. With all his children out of his charge until tomorrow morning, Tom presently stretches his arms above his head, sighing as if breathing in the atmosphere. The place does look beautiful, and so does Eva, he notes, with a glance in her direction as she addresses him. Tom himself is not as opulently dressed, but does have a cleaned-up air about him. The majority of his clothing tonight is black, with material at each hem in a gold colour, rather matching the embroidery of Eva’s dress. “About that time?” he asks, checking his pocket watch out of habit more than actual curiosity. “You look beautiful,” Tom says, suddenly and a bit awkwardly. As Rosemary comes by and greets Eva, Tom steps back and just stands, hands behind his back.
Dressed in a blue and bronze dress, almost seeming an homage to her house at Hogwarts, Noémie apparates into Diagon Alley, holding her plain navy mask in her hand. Hers is on a stick, for ease of removal at her whim. She pauses just where she has come in, watching the fairies flutter about and taking in all the fantasy created while she waits for her escort to arrive.
Angelina Whynn never mastered the art of parties and social gatherings, despite the number of then she’s attended. The young woman is clad in a dark violet colour, the dress itself a bit more revealing than what Angelina considers couth (that is, her upper arms are visible). Her sister assured her it was in fashion, though, and so Angelina arrives, as self-conscious as she ever has been. Dresses were so complicated. Men had it so easy. And then there was Martin, who looked stunning in anything he wore. Angelina had helped him choose his attire. Perhaps she was meant to be a boy? That’d be strange. Eventually snapping out of her reverie, Angelina stands alone at the edge of the action and hopes that Martin will arrive soon, too.
It is only a moment afterwards that Joseph makes his way in, choosing to walk in from the Leaky Cauldron rather than apparate. His robes are, of all things, a mixture of pale pink and dark brown; the latter predominating, but the cuffs and hems the former. He seems quite comfortable in this robes, perhaps because with his full-face mask, reminiscent of a clabbert, there is a strong chance that no one will quite identify who he is. Rather than make his way immediately to Noémie, however, he hesitates at the edge of the action, offering Angelina a charming smile (quite hidden behind his mask, but reflected in his eyes) and offering a quiet, “A beautiful woman like yourself should not linger on the edges shyly.”
Picking his way through the alley strides a regally costumed figure. Decked in plum, leaf green, and midnight blues, the costume is an ornate thing befitting the royalty he has chosen to represent. The plum-wine cloak drapes languidly on his frame, coming to a whispering halt just above the back of heels. A midnight blue tunic is half-open, revealing his pale chest and a sash of silver wraps around his thin waist. Leaf-green breeches fit his form and are lost to the high topped indigo boots he has donned. Daniel has given up his blonde curls lieu of a gleaming sheet of silvery hair, it is quite possibly a wig but it is also possible that it is of magical design for the event. To complete the costume he wears a mask that covers the bridge of his nose and dips to hide his high cheekbones, it sweeps up into a grand crown of leaves and feathers that covers the top of his head. Oberon, King of the Faeries, has arrived and immediately moves toward the Queen of the event – Eva. “Oh Queen of the evening and her royal consort,” indicating her husband, “it is an honor indeed to be among such companions. I trust all is well in the kingdom?”
“All is well, yes, as you can well see,” Eva tell Daniel with a grin and a wave of her hand. “It’s time for everyone to arrive of course,” Eva tells her husband and then turns to Rosemary with a grin. “Good evening,” she tells the woman. “So good of you to join us!” Eva turns, grinning to herself a bit and then grinning wider to those around her as more people make their way into the alley. “Welcome everyone!” she exclaims loudly and takes the skirt of her dress with her hand, reaching out to slip her arm in Tom’s so that she can make her way around, and, likely, be shown off.
Closely in tow behind his father Daniel, Tommy Darian is dressed in what looks like a ruffled pink and purple suit with a similarly colored jacket and beret. The thin mask that covers only his eye area, leaving the rest of his small face free is a darker shade of purple than his outfit and the edges are fringed with small iridescent feathers that seem to change colors every few seconds. Everything about the little boy’s look screams refinement today and even his hair has been doubly curled giving him the appearance of a little girl’s doll. And obviously it’s a little uncomfortable and he can be seen tugging at the tight collar of his shirt mumbling softly in protest, that is until he see’s how Diagon Alley has been decorated and just how many people have shown up for the Soiree. Clearing his throat Tommy tugs on Daniel’s cloak gently to get his attention, speaking up in a careful and practiced tone. “Father, do you think I might have a fairy as a pet?” Obviously his eyes had wandered over them first as they are still lit up with curiosity leaving his worries about his attire far behind his boyish curiosity.
Grinning to Daniel and the other guests, Tom nods in response to the man’s question, not commenting on his getup. Tom‘s own mask was laying on a table somewhere, and he makes a mental note to procure it soon. However, as little Tommy arrives, Tom lowers himself to one knee and pulls a lollipop from a pocket, offering it to the boy. “Hey there, what’s your name? Don’t eat this yourself,” Tom warns, a glint in his eye. “Give it to one of your friends. As soon as it gets wet, it pops and squirts green goo everywhere. A real crowd pleaser!” he exclaims, standing again and taking Eva’s arm. “Time to make the rounds, then,” he says, grinning and starting to walk.
Panic! Angelina Whynn actually takes a step back as Joseph speaks to her, glancing around nervously and scanning escape routes. Help, a clabbert is talking to me… help, someone is talking to me, thinks Angelina as she tries to be brave and musters up a weak smile. “Oh, I… I’m not on the edge, really I’m just… well, waiting? For someone?” she almost asks, wondering if she even knows this man. “Martin Rathe? I… I don’t know if you know him but… you might know him, so… well, I’m just waiting,” Angelina finishes, biting her lip and taking a deep breath.
It is not quite clear which direction Erica slipped into the party from, but her pale costume is ethereal in the evening’s light. Her face is expressionless, her mask the likes of a Greek statue. Not even her eyes show through the mask. Nor do her lips move as she greets those she knows as she passes. Plaited hair stays firmly in place, looped near the crown of her head to fall only to her shoulders before winding to the crown of her head again. Her white robe reflects the light along the street but is dull compared to the brilliant glistening of the scissors resting lightly upon her left hip. And when she greets a guest masquerading as a hill giant (albeit smaller than actual size), her voice is flat and rings hollow as she says, “Good evening, William?”
Not seeing her boyfriend just yet, Noémie strides over to a table and picks up a small truffle examining it idly for just a moment before taking a bite of it. Apparently the bloom is thoroughly off, for Noémie doesn’t even flinch as she sees Joseph sidled up to her former Quidditch captain. She doesn’t hesitate to make her way over, though, putting on her happiest smile at seeing both. “Hello, Angelina!” she greets the former Ravenclaw, merely glancing at her boyfriend as she cuts in.
Turning his head marginally to look upon the small child at his side, a dagger’s flash of a smile slides over Daniel‘s lips. “The faeries would not like that and I do not think that it would be good fortune to imprison my people tonight child. Speak of this another time when their ears are not so perked and perhaps you shall have a different answer.” Twitching the cloak just out of the way of Tommy’s fingers, he nods an imperious farewell to Eva and Tom as they move to make the rounds. Searching the crowd, he quietly sizes up the masks and the costumes and only when he’s satiated himself visually does he begin to make his way through the crowds with a predatory air. Smiling vibrantly, he speaks little except in passing greetings and a few words to those he might actually recognize.
“Joseph Wexler,” the clabbert-faced one introduces himself. “If I am not mistaken, dear saint, you — oh, hello, Noémie.” He stops abruptly, turning to face her and offering a small smile to her in turn. Indeed, he seems to treat his girlfriend much the same way as he would treat any other member of the opposite sex, regardless of their relationship. “You do look lovely this evening.” He smiles again, holding out a hand to her, to take hers.
Having been given a prank lollipop, Tommy‘s eyes widen to massive proportions even under his mask. “Wow thanks!” Says the boy excitedly as he looks to joke candy over inspecting it thoroughly before remembering his manners. “I’m Tommy Darian.” He says and pauses a moment to look at Daniel for approval “And it’s a …. pleasure to meet you sir. Tommy finally finishes the greeting sounding as though he was struggling to pronounce every single word correctly. He slips the candy away into a pocket and looks up once more at Daniel with a small smile and a nod. It looks like he plans on asking again about the fairy.
“Oh, Noémie,” Angelina breathes, actually feeling the relief flood over her. There was no solace like that of a familiar face. “Gosh, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s the Quidditch team doing? Saphia wrote to tell me that we– or, I mean, that you won it this year. It’s excellent! Did you beat the others by a lot?” Angelina asks, though not before glancing around and scanning for Martin once more. Where was that man?
Adorned in his black dress robes (and his green tie–oh the joys of green!), Martin Rathe practically runs into the West End of Diagon Alley. A white mask that covers Martin‘s entire face smiles ironically out at the crowd. Thick black eyebrows and a similar moustache have been painted onto the mask along with a goatee on the chin and a small amount of rouge which has been applied to the cheeks. A black wide-brimmed hat rests on his head. Martin‘s eyes are his only recognizable facial feature. The rest is covered. Peer through the crowd, he spots Angelina and glides towards her , Joseph, and Noémie, “Greetings Darling.” He winces at the pet-name–he’s been trying new ones out for weeks and none seem to come easily. ‘Dear’ sounded old, ‘honey’ redundant, and ‘darling’ forced. “I’m sorry I’m late–I was held up. . . just reviewing some old case files. . .” He frowns behind the mask, even his eyes frown behind the mask.
“We creamed them,” Noémie tells Angelina with a grin. “We’ve missed you, though. It isn’t the same without.” She pauses, nodding to Martin. Of course she’s familiar with him. They’d gone against each other only the year earlier in Quidditch. She takes Joseph’s hand, glancing to him again only momentarily. He seems somewhat cowed at being caught in such a way, though it is no secret that he behaves this way, even to Noémie. “How have you been? What are you doing now?”
“Hello,” Eva greets Erica, though the name of the woman is unknown to her and begins to make her way out around the alley, greeting several people as she passes them. “Savor those tarts; I made those earlier today. Only the finest ingredients,” she tells one of the patrons who is looking over a strawberry tart whilst in conversation. “Isn’t it lovely, Tommy?” Eva asks her husband with a wide smile. Old habits die hard, apparently. “This night should never end.”
“No one agrees with you more than I do, love,” replies Tom with a laugh and a little squeeze of Eva’s arm. “An entire night off from the children. Listen, I can hear myself think,” Tom comments wryly, still leading her among the crowd. “There it is!” he exclaims suddenly, detaching himself from his wife just to run to one of the tables and grab his mask (also on a stick, and resembling a jester’s face with rosy cheeks). Taking Eva’s arm once more, he grins and puts the mask to his face. “Are you amused?” he asks.
“Good evening,” Erica politely replies to the hostess as she passes. Turning back to the hill giant, she takes a second guess. “Frank? Come on, now. Just fess up and I won’t hex you.” The hill giant’s laugh booms and echoes against the store fronts. While her masked complexion remains demure, her small hands clench into fists. In that lifeless voice, she finally says, “You think you’re so clever, Tate, but anyone could recognize that obnoxious laugh, regardless of a costume. Good evening. I have other people to greet.” A tart is plucked from one of the many trays of goodies as Erica makes her way through the party. Tate’s laugh dies abruptly and he takes a few steps after her, despondently, “Oh, Calwern. Don’t pick tonight to be a prickly pear. Lighten up.” Erica doesn’t even look at him twice as she works her way further into the crowded area.
Motioning behind him to keep his son nearby, Daniel begins to casually gesture to some of the crowd, speaking in low tones to Tommy at his side. Passing by the alabaster woman with the hollow sounding voice, he stops and does a visible double take of the creature. A pleased smile spreads over his lips, lapping upward to his eyes and spreading out across his face. “The fates themselves are with us tonight boy, stay close and keep watch.” Indicating Erica, he points out the scissors to the child and then dips his head toward the lady in question. “Madame, is the mortal issuing offence to you? If so, I could have him removed if you would rather not cut his thread short tonight.”
Simply glowing once Martin finally shows up, Angelina sighs, almost faint with happiness as she latches herself securely to his arm. “About time,” she whispers, though the rebuke seems to be light and scathing only in a teasing sort of way. “Noémie said that Ravenclaw just massacred the other Quidditch teams this year,” Angelina recounts happily to Martin, smiling. “It looks like Slytherin will just never win!” Feeling warm and much less exposed now that Martin is here, Angelina is able to calm herself down somewhat.
It doesn’t take long for Tommy to stray away from Daniel and the other adults to go and get better acquainted with the many sweets out for the taking, although just as he does he is motioned back. Taking a tart himself before he returns to Dan’s side all smiles and busily chewing on the sweet. A giggle rises seeing the scissors and though he’s not as well versed as Daniel there symbolism is obviously not lost on the child either. “You’d better be careful, she might cut your’s.” He comments softly through a mouth full of tart.
“Ms. Ribouet, a delight to see you here,” Martin soothes shortly after his minor rebuke. He smirks at the idea of Slytherin never winning and shakes his head, “Sweetie,” he winces again, “you forget that Slytherin won when you were Head Girl. Perhaps they couldn’t win under me, but Mister Morris did a fine job of keeping everyone at practice and in-line.” He pauses and then adds, “I was preoccupied with other things. . . like the House Cup.” He shrugs and then grins at Joseph and Noémie. “Tell me, who won House Cup this year?”
“Tate Worthing? Offending me?” It is the closest Erica‘s voice comes to having any inflections. “His only offense is that his thread is too long and he doesn’t know what to do with it.” The woman puts clenched fingers together and begins to slowly draw them apart, a grey thread materializing between her hands. Her head tilts to look at it before she puts her palms together and it disappears. “Now yours, our gracious host,” Erica begins to draw her hands ever so slightly apart and there is a dark, variegated glistening for but a moment before her palms come together again, “I suspect is much more interesting.”
“The way of the fae is always more interesting, but alas our threads either stretch on for an eternity or are soon cut short.” “I suspect mine is all knotted up, but it is not even Oberon’s place to stare upon his own thread.” The smile hangs, caught for a moment and then melts away as he finally realizes what Tommy has said. Reaching down and placing his hand upon the child’s head, Daniel gives his son a gentle pat. “I suspect you are right Tommy. When dealing with the fates one should always be most careful, no matter how tempting they may be.”
“Oh, very, love,” she tells him and chuckles. “Very fitting.” She grins as she says this and greets several more people. She then makes her way around again, standing near the door of her shop. “That one is blueberry,” she tells someone looking quizzically at a candy. “Careful with those, though, they fizz in the center.” Eva grins widely and glances toward Erica and Daniel. “What a quaint costume,” she remarks to the man near Erica. “Is that meant to be… a giant of some sort?” She doesn’t wait long for a response, though, greeting another person who has tapped her on the shoulder. “Tommy, do you mind?” she asks her husband and detatches her arm as she makes her way over to a table to schmooze with some people nearby.
Having finished his tart Tommy pats the crumbs away from his face and smiles giving the strange woman his best bow. “Hello, it’s a pleasure ter meet yer Miss.” He says just a little too quickly not hiding his accent as well as before. Standing up again the doll-boy stops a moment to straighten his mask which came a little crooked with his bow. “Father is dressed up as a fairy, see?” He ask’s softly as if Daniel were invisible, obviously grasping for anything to converse about as there weren’t many children at the party other than himself.
Smirking, Tom eventually sighs and replies, “I guess I don’t mind and will set you free…”, but Eva is already walking away. As he is not very well-acquainted with many of the guests at the party (raising so many children had a bit of an effect on one’s social network), Tom makes his way over such that he is standing fairly nearby to the little Tommy. “Pssst. Psst, Tommy Darian,” whispers Tom, wondering if the boy will hear him over the constant chatter of those surrounding them.
Tate Worthing turns slightly, a half eaten bonbon lightly held in one hand and a bit of chocolate at the corner of his mouth mixing with raspberry sauce on his lips. “A hill giant to be exact,” he explains to Eva, delighted that someone took interest in his costume. “You can tell a hill giant from a forest giant by the difference in their gate.” But, lo and behold, Tate is only as good as his job as a giant researcher for the Ministry. A boring and long winded one at that. “Of course, there are less noticeable but considerable traits you can also use to tell them apart.” Those of which he begins to detail at length.
“Gryffindor did,” Noémie responds begrudgingly, as if she is rather displeased by this. “We won the Quidditch cup again, though. Quite thoroughly, I might add.” The girl grins, not even realizing that she is repeating herself. “How have you both been?” she asks them, looking at Joseph a bit awkwardly. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come after all. The girl leans in closer to him, biting her lip a bit, the awkwardness of this encounter’s situation getting to her a bit.
Erica Calwern‘s head turns and she stares in the direction of Tate for some time before looking back at Daniel and his child. Not tilting her head down too far to regard Tommy. “The pleasure is mine,” she replies. “And your father does make a stunning Oberon, I dare say. Though I’d take care with fairies as much as with fates. Neither are predictable company.”
“Oh, right, Walter,” Angelina muses, smirking. “I’d almost forgotten about him. I suppose you must see him fairly often at work. Luckily for me, I’m no auror cadet,” she says. Clearly, not many have put Angelina in the much-hated spotlight like the former Slytherin Morris did (save for the two other Slytherin girls whom Angelina tries to keep from her thoughts), and Angelina‘s not quite forgiven him for it. Now isn’t the time to dwell on the past, though, thinks Angelina as she looks again to Noémie. “We’ve been… pretty well, wouldn’t you say?” she asks Martin. “Well he… he proposed,” she says, nervously raising her left hand for Noémie to see. “We haven’t set a date yet, though,” she adds, smiling almost in a defensive way.
“You speak the bitterest of truths m’lady.” Another nod of his head and Daniel almost bows, but doesn’t quite. “But they are both much better company, however short or fickle the duration, than the coarse giants and their bumbling ways.” A snide sneer curls contemptuously directed at Tate and then flits away again quickly. “The evening wears on and the sound of my people’s music draws me away. It was a pleasure to speak to you lady fate.” Drifting away, this time forgetting or choosing to not keep Tommy close by he wanders back into the crowd to exchange pleasantries with others.
“Gryffindor. . . interesting. . .” Martin wonders how many points Tallis and Suki lost Slytherin this year and if the prefects were intimidated by the pair. “Well, I’m sure that it was a close race. It normally is. It came as a surprise that Slytherin won last year.” He turns to Angelina and smirks behind his mask, “Yes, I see a lot of Walter. But we’re working together. . . it’s different. And yes, we have been doing very well.” His face flushes slightly as she shows off the ring. “Weddings are precarious events. So many people to invite! So many schedules to coordinate. I still think we should elope, but Angel’s parents wouldn’t be. . . impressed.” His eyes twinkle with mischief. He barely received consent. “The Ministry is pretty exciting too. I’m mostly examining old case files at the moment though. They need a fresh set of eyes.”
The smile crossing Tommy‘s face widens as the two adults talk and it only widens more when Daniel passes into the crowd, leaving him to his own devices. Just as he was about to again head to the sweets Tommy hears the older Tommy‘s whisper of his name and he turns to look curiously at him. “Oh Hello again Sir. It’s a bangin party ain’it?” No long trying to hold the proper accent that Daniel had been teaching him now that he is out of sight Tommy seems a bit more relaxed than before.
“Very banging, yes,” agrees Tom with a lop-sided smile. “Look, Tommy Darian, I was wondering if you could help me with something. You see, I couldn’t help but notice that stunning young woman over there,” he notes, pointing at a very young-looking blond witch wearing quite the revealing dress, who simply can’t be out of Hogwarts yet for how juvenile she appears. “I’ve never seen her before, but I doubt her father knows she’s here and dressed like that. And I think blokes need to stick together, don’t you?” Tom asks Tommy. “In any case, I was just finishing a new product at my joke shop when I left. It was a letter that, when opened, would blanket the opener in a kind of sheet, binding them in place. It’s brilliant, really,” muses Tom with a grin. “But she would think me quite strange, coming up and giving her a letter, don’t you? That is where you come in,” Tom says, pointing to the boy. “Would you give it to her?”
“Fascinating,” Eva cooes at the man and grins her most amiable grin, though she couldn’t be less interested. “Have you tried any of the truffles?” she asks and glances in Erica’s direction, almost helplessly while hoping that someone else will come to her rescue. Someone might need her attention, after all! “I assure you they’re excellent; made by my cousin Maura who is just over there,” she pauses, fluttering her hand in Maura’s direction, where she is chatting with a group of women, all seeming to listen intently. “And comprised of the finest ingredients.”
The smile crossing Tommy‘s face widens as the two adults talk and it only widens more when Daniel passes into the crowd, leaving him to his own devices. Just as he was about to again head to the sweets Tommy hears the older Tommy‘s whisper of his name and he turns to look curiously at him. “Oh Hello again Sir. It’s a bangin party ain’it?” No long trying to hold the proper accent that Daniel had been teaching him now that he is out of sight Tommy seems a bit more relaxed than before.
Nearly jumping at the chance to play a joke Tommy stands on his tiptoes shaking eagerly at the proposal. “Sure oie kid do that!” Pipes up the boy a little too loudly, he stops and looks around over his shoulder and then back at Tom with a smile. “Should I just hand it to her or should I tell her it’s from someone or what?” Because having a back story is always better than going into a mission unprepared right?
“Yes, well,” Noémie responds with a laugh. “It’s better, I suppose, than nothing. We’ve hopes for it this year. Little Odetta Croft was made prefect this year, too, can you believe it, Angelina?” Noémie shakes her head. “I’ve just had a letter from her this morning. Oh, you’re at the ministry?” Noémie seems to have uncorked her awkwardness to the point of being chatty at least. “The wedding,” Noémie gushes. “Oh, she deserves to have a beautiful wedding, Mister Foster,” the girl tells the older acquaintance.
Around and around and around she goes. Once Erica surmises she has done her social duties, she pursues Eva’s attention in more earnest. Slipping off her mask and becoming considerably more human by doing so, the young woman puts a hand on Tate’s elbow. “Tate, you’re having the hunt party this fall, aren’t you? Why not be a good gent and favor us all with a sweets basket. I am sure Mrs. Fallon here could put together something lovely for you.” Tate nearly blushes at Erica‘s direction. “You know I’m horrid at that sort of thing. I was thinking of asking my sister to arrange the food. I wouldn’t know what goes with what.” The look he flashes at Eva though might as well be the male equivalent of a damsel in distress.
“Fabulous,” says Tom, nodding excitedly. The man looks positively boyish as he holds out his hands to Tommy, saying, “One moment, I haven’t actually got it with me. I’ll be right back,” he assures the boy, disapparating instantly only to re-appear a couple minutes later, a pink envelope in his hand. “Right,” he says, getting on one knee again and whispering to Tommy conspiratorially. “I think what you should do is…” he trails off, rising to his full height and scanning the crowd. Coming back to Tommy’s level, Tom points out a dashing, fresh-faced young wizard, presently chatting with two other young witches. “I think you should say it’s from him. I don’t know if she knows him, so this might backfire. If, when you tell her, she reacts badly, just say that it’s an apology. Either way… it should work. All we need is for her to open it,” he says, finality in his tone. “Alright,” Tom Fallon says, handing the envelope to the little boy. “Good luck and Godspeed.”
Looking just a little more than surprised as the man disappears and then re-appears in front of him Tommy is silent for a moment and listens to what Tom has to say. When handed the pink envelope the boy holds onto it protectively as if it contained all the secrets of the universe and salutes the man as though he were a soldier headed out on a mission of the upmost importance. The small boy makes his way through the crowed passing stealthily as only a boy of eight can through a crowd of chatting adults. When he reaches the young lady who is dressed a bit more risque than the occasion requires he smiles to her and greets her. “Hello Miss, I was asked to give this letter to you by the gentleman over there.” He says softly pointing directly at Martin through the crowd. With what looks like a flattered smile the young woman takes the letter and thanks Tommy as he goes again to get away from her before the punch line. Just as he is halfway to the sweets an annoyed yell comes ringing out as the girl opens the letter and is blanketed by a large white sheet trapping her in place. It’s all young Tommy can do not to fall over laughing so he stuffs his mouth full of as many sweets as he can fit into it.
“Well, have her get in touch with me and I’m sure we could work something out,” Eva tells Tate with a grin of relief in Erica’s direction. “So how have you been enjoying the evening, er, ma’am?” Should she know this woman? Does it even matter? Eva greets another person nearby, smiling sweetly at a young woman who appears to have been goaded here on the whim of her parents who flank her on either side. “Tommy, what are you doing?” Eva hisses toward her husband, glancing only momentarily as the little boy departs. Her question is answered quickly as a young woman yells. “Oh, honestly, tonight of all nights?” she asks loudly, making her way over toward the woman in an attempt to help her, though others already appear to be attempting this.
“Merlin’s beard!” exclaims Tom exuberantly as the young woman protests the white sheet enveloping her. Smirking only slightly as Eva reprimands him, Tom races over to the scene of the action, putting a hand on the sheeted-lady’s shoulder. “Now, ma’am, there is nothing to fear,” Tom assures, projecting his voice as if he were hosting a program. Drawing his wand, Tom performs a series of spells on the sheet in an ‘attempt’ to remove it. As these tries seem to prove fruitless, Tom exclaims, “Odd, it seems as though this sheet doesn’t want to leave! Though, if I were the sheet, I wouldn’t want to, either,” he jokes, grinning still. “However, these things to tend to wear off at midnight,” he says, rather feigning true ignorance. In reality, he knows this will wear off at midnight. “I suppose the best I can do,” he says, raising his wand, “is make an alteration!” with a flick of his wand, the sheet changes in consistency and colour, matching the girl’s dress almost exactly, only with a much more conservative neckline. At the nervous clapping of a couple people in the onlooking crowd, Tom bows, opening his palm to the littler Tommy with a smile. He does flash a look of, ‘sorry dear, but look, it all worked out for the best..!’ to Eva, hoping he’s not in the metaphorical ‘doghouse’ for this.
Ivy Thornweld pries herself away from her family at long last, murmuring something about fetching a refreshment or getting air away from the crowd, and loses herself in the crowd. Behind her mask (decorated, like so much Catarina Thornweld has procured for her daughter, with emerald ivy leaves and vines) her eyebrows furrow together, and she heaves a lengthy sigh. Of all the places to be stuck with her parents and without a certain Frenchman. Besides which, she is here. And he isn’t. “Thank goodness,” mutters Ivy, her exposed cheeks flushing. Dressed in fairly light–both in color and design- dress robes, she at least looks good, if not, you know, particularly happy to be here. With a slightly bored expression (that is, what’s visible from the nose down sort of conveys boredom), she slinks through the crowd, trying to avoid anyone she might have to talk to, and also the spectacle with the joke sheet.
Blushing at Noémie’s words, Angelina does try to move the topic off of her wedding, though she’s not quite sure why. Further introspection might reveal to Angelina that she’s quite nervous about the idea of her wedding, and being the centre of attention for a whole day. All the same, Angelina smiles as she repeats, “Oh, Odetta Croft?” and nods. “A solid choice, that’s for sure!”
“It’s Rathe now, actually,” Martin corrects before pressing his lips together. “I had my name changed.” He nods at Noémie’s question, “Yes, I’m at the Ministry. I’m an Auror-Cadet. Not the most glamourous job, but I like it. Angel is also working for the Ministry.” Martin gives Angelina’s arm a squeeze. “And yes, Angelina deserves whatever her heart desires. She’s too good for me, I’m afraid. I’m certainly the lucky one.” He chuckles lightly as he quirks a smile.
“Thomas Gabriel Fallon, you know better,” Eva chastizes him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry dear. Have a chocolate, won’t you? It’ll help the anguish.” Eva looks sternly at Tom and then turns back to her previous company, only to be interrupted by yet another woman to her left. “Yes, ma’am, that does have chocolate in it. It’s chocolate on the top. No, I assure you it is just regular chocolate.” She smiles and starts to explain the recipe vaguely to the woman, her cheeks a bit red behind her mask which only comes down halfway over her cheeks.
Nodding and smiling along with the conversation, Joseph says very little, though his eyes wander through the crowd without any thought for the young woman by his side. His gaze falls on Ivy, or at least his full-face mask is pointed towards her, and he tilts his head slightly, watching her. Is that – well, only one way to find out for sure. He raises one hand to Noémie, the univeral gesture of ‘be back in a second’ and approaches Ivy. “Hey you.” He offers. “You look awfully nice this evening.”
“Darling, she’s fine!” Tom defends, wincing at her use of his full name as if he were one of their children. “Look, she’s fine,” he says again, nodding. Still, not wanting to press his luck or make another scene, Tom ducks out of view, sitting down at a vacant table and looking to try out one of the truffles. Ah, if Maura could do one thing splendidly, it was make chocolates, thinks Tom as he lavishes in the flavor of the tasty morsel. Deciding to remain on the down-low somewhat for the rest of the evening, Tom smiles as he sits, just enjoying the clean and happy environment.
For a moment, Noémie doesn’t notice that Joseph has gone, and continues on with the conversation. “Oh, really? Did Professor Rathe adopt you then? How peculiar! I imagine her children must think that quite… interesting.” The girl chuckles a bit nervously, unused to being alone at things like this. So many adults around, after all, and her still at Hogwarts. “She’s so quiet,” Noémie responds to Angelina’s comment finally. “I was surprised that they chose her, but I imagine she’ll be as good as any of us in the end.” It is a moment longer before she starts looking around for Joseph again. What could he be doing over there, and with her? “Will you excuse me a moment?” the seventeen-year-old begs off as she turns and make her way in the crowd over toward Joseph. The amount of people who seem to have suddenly stepped into her path, impeding her progress toward Joseph.
Ivy Thornweld eyes Joseph through her mask, trying desperately not to wrinkle her nose at the boy. After all, she’s only 99.9% sure who it is. With a mental sigh, she smiles back at him, eyes flickering through the crowd toward Noémie. “Oh, in this old thing?” Her smile gets a little bit sweeter and she focuses on… well, the mask in front of her. Rather than attempt a return compliment that will sound forced, Ivy just tilts her head slightly and takes perhaps a smidgen of a half step closer to Joseph. “Thank you so much. It is so good to see you here.” And she’s very, very bored.
Perhaps Joseph has noticed Noémie, and is just choosing to ignore her, perhaps he feels he is out of sight, or perhaps he has just forgotten about her completely. Either way, he does nod his head slowly and lean forward a tiny bit more. “Quite alright.” He offers, voice pitched slightly lower than before. After a moment, he adds, “How is it that you don’t have an escort here with you tonight?”
“Well, they chose me,” whispers Angelina in response to Noémie’s comment about Odetta being a quiet girl, though the conversation seems to have moved on and her remark was likely too soft to be heard by anyone except perhaps Martin. “S-should we sit down for a while, Martin?” asks Angelina before the two duck out, moving towards an empty table that appears to have most of its truffles still in tact.
Having finally remembered to put her own mask on, Rosemary Pantall swans around with her – appropriately – half-mask shaped like the face of a black swan, breaking off at the suggestion of a beak. As she overhears part of the conversation between Angelina and Noémie, she turns, seeking out someone to share her news with, beaming brightly. “Mrs. Fallon! Did I tell you the family news? My oldest daughter has been made a prefect this year. Rosemary, you’ve met her, haven’t you? We are, of course, very proud of her.”
Turning from the conversation she has just finished, Eva grins at Rosemary. “Oh, Kelly, yes. She’s friends with my niece, if I recall right.” The woman grins. “I am so glad to hear that! I’m sure she’ll live up to it wonderfully,” the confectioner tells the other woman cheerfully, apparently quite pleased about this fact, despite only generally knowing Kelly rahter than very personally.
Making her way slowly around, Noémie does not interrupt Joseph right now. If she’s looking right, that’s Ivy that she sees. Of course, Noémie can’t be certain. From behind a group of chattery women, Noémie spies at them, her brow furrowed. She’s heard rumors like this for months now, of course, and while they plague her mind, she has yet to face any of them directly. Keeping an eye on Joseph from this distance however, Noémie finds herself stewing and merely hoping that the girl she sees is not the one so unfortunately familiar from school.
To admit she came with her parents would be akin to social suicide, especially since she is technically a legal adult(or at the very least will be quite soon). Even if this is Joseph Wexler. Ivy bites her lip oh-so-slightly, “To be honest, I’m not sure. I could certainly…” her hand tenatively reaches out to his arm, just for a light touch, not to rest, “use one. My being alone is a horrible oversight of…” she flicks her eyes upward at his, “someone or another.” Ivy isn’t exactly giving him her Thornweld all, but then she’s heard that Joseph is not exactly the pickiest of boys. As this thought crosses her mind, she frowns, briefly. And then she smirks. He is, after all, supposed to be with Noémie. There’s even part of a slightly inappropriate giggle, which she sort of swallows by tilting her head again and willing herself not to blush.
“Oh, really?” Joseph replies, a smile tugging at his lips, however they are concealed behind his mask. After a moment, he pulls his mask away from his face – “Awful warm, isn’t it?” – and leans closer to her again, his tongue running against his lower lip just a little. It’s not exactly a display of his intention, it could be quite innocent… but it’s probably not, particularly as he then reaches out to take her wrist. He looks steadily into her eyes, almost expectant, if not inviting.
Ivy Thornweld spreads her (completely exposed) lips into something of a predatory smile now. Just who is doing the hunting here, anyway? Her cheeks, despite her best efforts, flush, as she tilts her head again–this time subtly upward, lips oh so minutely parted when she isn’t speaking. “It is, isn’t it?” Briefly she breaks eye contact, and then when her eyes focus on his again, she reaches her (free) hand up to perhaps brush back a lock of his hair. “Perhaps we should find somewhere… shadier?” This is not-so-subtle Ivy code for ‘Let’s do this where my mother won’t see and make a scene, if we’re going to bother’. Her rather intentionally shaped eyebrows raise, although the gesture is more hinted at through the movement of her eyes through the holes of her mask than seen. She makes no effort to either release her wrist from his or move, except to subtly straighten already good posture to make her taller, closer to him. Some sort of movement, anyway, and now her eyes are fixed as well. Well, she’s sort of done something like this one or twice. Okay… once. And she was really drunk at the time.
“Sure.” Smiling – though perhaps his expression is more inclined towards a mischievous smirk – Joseph tugs her wrist lightly, as an invitation to follow him, and begins to make his way through the crowd to a sort of shallow gap between two stores, big enough for the two of them, and private enough for such events, but not too far away from the soiree. Once there, he pulls her a little closer, reaching out to put one hand on her waist, and meeting her eye again, still smiling. “How’s this, then?”
Ivy Thornweld follows, with no few furtive glances around to make sure that they are not, at the very least, getting closer to her family. Still, she seems oddly at home in this slightly shadier area, pulling her mask up unto her forehead. Now, with her full range of expression, she smiles expectantly, eyebrows raised just a bit. “It will do nicely.” Pressing her lips together, briefly, she again tilts her head upward toward him, leaning her whole body in toward him, perhaps on purpose but more likely than not unconciously. She’s just not that aware… probably. “So–” is murmured as breathlessly as she can without sounding incredibly stupid. One hand reaches, again, to brush back his hair.
The two of them move out of her line of vision, and while she is temporarily distracted due to nearly tripping over one of the ladies who moves quickly into her path, causing a bit of a scuffle while she tries to get over to see what’s going on. After apologizing profusely, she manages to get over to a different angle, enough to see what is going on in the darkened awning between the shops. Noémie‘s eyes narrow behind her simple blue mask and she crosses her arms across her chest.
As Ivy draws closer to him, Joseph releases his hold on her wrist and slips his other arm around her waist, leaning forward a little more. At this point, there is little to do – not even poetry or complimentary word-spinning, after all, she’s already here in his arms – but kiss her. And kiss her he does, lips very slightly parted. Despite the slight opening of his lips, it is only fairly chaste, but with the option open for something more, if Ivy is amenable.
Ivy Thornweld is so amenable, because the worse it looks when (hopefully Noémie but certainly) someone enievtably spots them, the better. Besides which, even if it is, as stated, Joseph Wexler who, oh my, has snogged lots of girls including Noémie Ribouet–(at this point in the thought process the kiss or kisses or kissing as the case may be become rather fiercer and her hands meet around the back of Joseph’s head and dally with a bit of hair tangling for good measure)–anyway! Whom she doesn’t particularly fancy, the whole kissing while sober buisness is fun. So she might as well take advantage of it while she’s here. And, as mentioned, more is beter. Still, part of her is certainly thinking ‘and remind me to find someone good with memory charms because I do not want him leering at me in the hallways or across the library or accosting me for an encore later’. Mostly there’s kissing and trying to make it look like they’re both rather into it.
Gasping aloud as this happens, Noémie‘s cheeks color red, and her jaw sets angrily. She isn’t sure which person she’s more angry with at this very moment while she pushes through the crowd toward the secluded area that Joseph has snuck off to. She pulls her mask away from her face, crushing it in her clenched hand as she comes to stand right near them. “How dare you,” she breathes in an angry hiss, and it is not immediately clear to which person she is speaking.
Well – if this is the kind of thing Joseph‘s going to get from Ivy, he might well try and seek her out for an encore later. As he hears, registers, and identifies Noémie’s voice, though, he abruptly pulls away from her, cheeks flushed warm pink, and looks at Noémie. After a moment, he clears his throat and offers, “Um. I’m kinda busy, Noémie.” At this point, nothing he says can actually make it worse, right?
Ivy Thornweld has nothing short of a beam on her face as Joseph pulls away and she turns to face Noémie as well. It disappears into a steady ‘and this is what you get’ gaze, but she holds her tongue for now, tilting her head sideways and sort of leaning against the nearby wall. Her lips press together again, and she brings part of her bottom lip in to… not exactly chew on, but she’s hoping it will call attention to said lips, anyway.
“You– you– !” Noémie points at each of them, apparently so angry that she is at a loss for words. At Joseph’s comment, she rears back her hand and slaps Joseph squarely across the cheek, her eyes starting to well up. “Busy?” she asks him angrily, her voice high and strained. At this she turns and looks at Ivy, catching a glimpse of the smug look on her face. “Busy!” She reaches back and slaps Ivy, too. “You’re both — horrible! What’d I ever do to you to deserve this? You’re out there making out with all these girls and all this time I thought people were being malicious, and you! You knew better and just didn’t care! You… hussy!” At this, large tears make their way down each of her cheeks as she clenches her fists, looking from one to the other, her face now quite maroon.
“All these -” This seems to be all Joseph can manage in response, his hand flying up and clutching his cheek. “She’s only one girl, not a lot.” It is a weak protest, and he seems to know it – and at the same time, he seems not to care terribly that it is weak, more troubled by the fact that she’s crying and that he was caught out at all. “Noémie, it’s not like I’ve been snogging every girl in the school. And it’s not like you’ve never done it.” It is true that he hasn’t snogged every girl. Some weren’t amenable. And some were too young or too ugly.
“I’m the hussy?!” Ivy‘s voice is shrill, a side-effect from the shock of actually being slapped. “I don’t supposed you’ve heard what people have said about you, you brazen, man-st.. seducing trollop! Don’t blame me if you can’t hold onto your sweetheart for five minutes at a party!” Ivy yelling at Noémie is ridiculous on several levels, at least one of them being the amusing height difference. Like a chihuahua barking at a Doberman or something. “It’s not like I gave him a come-hither look or-or… invited him anywhere on purpose!! Don’t you blame me, when it is clearly your fault you’re just just…” and then she sort of listens to what Joseph has been saying. “… Clearly an idiot.” What does that make you, Ivy?
“What on earth do you mean by THAT?” She rebukes him, her eyes flashing at the accusation. “I haven’t so much as looked at another boy in that sense since we’ve been together! Not even once!” Noémie‘s voice is shrill as she says this and she turns her gaze to Ivy. “You — what — I — I have done NOTHING to deserve that. Take it back right now! You are being such a cow.” Oh, well said, Noémie. “You went along willingly, I saw, so don’t lie. You wanted to. Don’t you be calling me a trollop when all this is your doing!” Reaching up to wipe her face on the sleeve of her robe, Noémie shakes her head. “You are heartless and don’t think I’ve been oblivious to the rumors. So many different people get talked about that it doesn’t even matter whether it’s true or not, because it happens so often that some of them just have to be true and even one is too much. Joseph, you are… rotten!” The tears continue to fall readily.
“Oh, sure.” Joseph scoffs in response, though he seems increasingly aware that he is unbelievably in the wrong. “Not even looked, huh? I don’t believe that, not for a minute.” A pause, and he draws himself up a little taller, folding his arms and glaring at Noémie. “Besides, you’re a cold fish.” Well, compared to, say, Carrie Whittier. “You can’t expect me to stick around for that and not fool around a little.” A pause. “It’s not like I slept with her.”
Ivy Thornweld snorts. “I … yes you did do things to deserve and don’t call me a cow you clabbert!” That’s right, some sort of glowing monkey-type creature. Ivy folds her arms and glares at Noémie for a moment before readjusting to put her hands on her hips. “Anyway, you < commited this crime first, so don’t sob at me for paying you back in kind, Noémie Ribouet. It isn’t my fault you are a tr–>” halfway through speaking in French just because she can, Ivy sputters, stares and Joseph, and shudders. She’s bright red now, recoiling away from her partner in crime as she imagines the unspeakable horror of what they may or may not have done and what Joseph may or may not have done with other people. “Apalling!”
“{Don’t even start with me, Ivy Thornweld, it is not my fault this happened. You are the cow who decided to snog my boyfriend, and I have done nothing to you. Never!} I don’t even know {what could honestly be causing this! You are a vindictive, awful girl.}” She pauses from her half-French, half-English tirade and then glares at Joseph. “Don’t even! How have I even been a ‘cold fish’ as you say? Haven’t SLEPT with her?” Noémie‘s voice seems to rise a whole octave as she shrieks this, and now there is a small group forming around them, but Noémie doesn’t notice. “Don’t even insinuate things like that, Joseph Wexler! You are an attrocious cad! I can’t even believe you! Does this mean you’ve slept with someone else?” She pauses. “Oh, I don’t even want to know. You are disgusting.”
Meanwhile, the throng of people around are staring and at least one person here is in so much trouble when she gets home it isn’t even funny.
“Well, certainly not you.” Joseph replies, though it is hardly a witty response, and he glares at Noémie all the more furiously. “Aren’t you overreacting a little? If YOU’RE not going to, you can’t expect me to just, just wait around for you!” Never mind that he’s probably never actually propositioned her like that, or at least not in a situation where they had the chance, or seriously enough that they’d start looking for a chance. No, no, this is all about Noémie’s refusal to get that intimate, of course. “Besides, you were off talking to, to what’s her name, the ex-Ravenclaw, and Martin, and what else was I supposed to do?”
“{Honestly, I think you may have a problem larger than me dallying with your boyfriend},” Ivy says in what might almost be a sympathetic voice, if it weren’t for the dripping with disgust and still be angry part. “{But that you won’t admit what you did to me and insist on playing the victim here tells me that perhaps you deserve this problem.}” It just sounds cooler in French, alright? She scoffs at Joseph, then, and actually clucks her tongue in annoyance and tries to scootch away a bit.
from somewhere to the left comes a high pitched “Hey, watch it you big idiot!” A broad shouldered man wearing a somewhat small porcelain babydoll mask has spilled someone’s drink over the front of her dress. His mask has a clearly apologetic expression on it as he exacerbates the problem by dabbing clumsily at the spill with a dirty handkerchief. The woman eventually shoves him and stomps away. Casper sighs and continues to shoulder his way through the crowd as daintily as possible, The familiar shrill voice of an upset Ivy urging him forward.
“{What do you know of my problems anyway? And if you won’t even tell me what I’ve done, then I can’t very well admit it, can I?” The girl crosses her arms and glares at Ivy, her jaw set as she watches the girl attempt to sidle away. “You –” she starts at Joseph, shaking her head. “You should be with me, and talk to me, with me… it’s what people do! You saw Angelina with Martin!” The young woman shakes her head and frowns hard at her boyfriend, the tears not having quelled since they started. She doesn’t move, though, just keeping her arms crossed across her chest.
Scoffing again at the Ravenclaw girl’s words, Joseph shakes his head a little, looking upwards rather than at his (by now, probably ex-)girlfriend. “I brought you roses! I recited poetry for you! I gave you my ring! What else could you possibly want me to do, Noémie Ribouet? What more do you expect from me, if you’re not going to do anything for me in return?” Because everything she has done is discarded at this point, in his anger. “I gave you my ring, and you gave me a damn box of sugar. I recited poetry for you and gave you roses, and what did you do? Nothing, Ribouet, nothing.”
Ivy Thornweld really inches away now, trying to squeeze through the crowds of people (who are muttering things like ‘scandalous!’ and ‘shocking, aren’t they schoolchildren?’ and even ‘I guess you won the bet, what was that, three sickles five knuts?’.) At just the right moment she averts her eyes more upward, trying to see past some woman’s ridiculous hat and spots of all people — “Merde.”
“I’ll give you nothing and you can have your stupid ring back, you ungrateful wretch!” Noémie shrieks, wasting no time as she quickly removes the ring and literally throws it at his face. “You don’t deserve even what I did give you, you selfish cad. You’re awful and selfish and… horrible. I hope you rot.” Such angry words Noémie is throwing at him and she turns, putting her back to him, only to see the crowd gathered around them. “Oh, sod off,” she tells them rudely and starts to push through the crowd, just a bit behind Ivy, her face quite maroon and tearstained.
Finally making it over to the group, Casper raises his hand and begins to scold them in a very prefect-like manner. “Oi! You three! What do you think you’re doing making a scene like this!?” He places his hands on his hips and asks, “What’s going on Ivy? Noémie?” Noémie’s name is spoken in a more surprised tone, as Casper is rather dense and hasn’t seen this coming at all. “You three are embarrassing yourselves!”
Scrambling for the ring and managing to catch it before it hits the ground, Joseph does not offer so much as a token ‘Noémie, wait!’, slipping the ring back onto his own finger and shaking his head at her. Well, if word of this gets around, it’s going to be more difficult to find a date, that’s for sure. And it is probably for this reason, rather than the implied breakup, that causes him to run his fingers through his hair and mutter, “Well, sod it all. Hadley, get out of it.”
Ivy Thornweld almost literally tries to melt into the building or something. “{Oh merciless Fate, why do you torment me by sending Casper Hadley to this social event when he has the culture of a bag of green potatos, when you may well have known that I would, just to begin, be wearing the white dress robes, and to top it off end up kissing a Wexler in front of the world, it seems, in what has turned into a horrible mess, despite the fact that it makes Noémie Ribouet unhappy?}” A stream of unhappy French indeed, as she fumbles around to put her mask back on at the very least, and wishes heartily she had gotten a full face one. Almost as an aside–”Don’t talk to Casper that way.” is muttered in a very ‘because it’s my job’ tone.
“Casper?” Noémie sniffs disdainfully. “I am doing no such thing. It’s not my fault that this happened at all.” She says this quite confidently, giving a defiant look to a woman who is looking on with interest. This will surely make it into the Daily Prophet now. Noémie seems at a loss as to where to go and pauses just where she stands, hearing only parts and pieces here and there of what Ivy mutters from afar, understanding little of it in her emotional distress. Yes, Noémie appears to be quite lost.
Casper Hadley points a finger straight at Joseph and tears his mask off, revealing a frightening expression of disgusted anger. “You watch your tone, Cassanova, or I’ll see to it that you can’t chew solid foods for a month.” He firmly puts his hand on Ivy’s shoulder and looks her in the eye. “Ivy, quit speakin’ tongues, you’re not ‘elpin.” Then to Noémie, “I’m not blaming you, I just want to know what’s going on. Now, calm down and tell me what happened.”
“And you! Don’t talk to Casper at all!” Ivy is about as rational as an abandoned left shoe, as is typical, and should really think twice before yelling at Noémie again. But she doesn’t because, as demonstrated, a suprising lack of something usually referred to as common sense. All at once the re-masked Slytherin is waving her finger and shouldering to keep any space between the two at a minimum 100 yards. Or failing that, at least an arms length. She launches into, “Casper Hadley, I did not expect to see you here, what an interesting mask how is the sheepherding and the bar-room brawling goi-.” Oh, he’s touching her. She shuts up. And scowls a bit in a frankly obvious attempt to keep from doing something doubly foolish, like smile.
“The whole thing?” Noémie sniffs and then glances at Ivy, shooting a glare at the young woman. “SHE snogged HIM and they’re both rotten. He decided it’s over, I guess, so it is.” She sniffs loudly and wipes her face on her sleeve again, attempting to dry off her tear-stained face. It is obvious that she has been crying, however, so this attempt does very little to help her. “Oh, I don’t know.” She glares at Ivy hard, as if the girl were the whole cause of the situation.
Ivy Thornweld actually squeals, “I did not!! There was no such thing! You’re hallucinating! It was his fault! He started it! I taught you how to dance!” That is, she squeals in Casper’s direction. And then she goes really really really quiet and almost visably shrinks, horrified, shrinking backwards and looking very, well, small and scared, sort of like a trapped mouse. Her brain is just repeating a certain curse word over and over again now.
Casper Hadley looks shocked beyond words. However, he has quite a few to say. “Ivy? Ivy I can’t.. How could you?” There is a pregnant pause, long enough for Ivy to draw her own conclusions as to his meaning. “After all those things you taught me about civilized, proper behavior, here I find you of snogging someone’s boyfriend. And you!” here he points at Joseph. “How could you be so cruel?” looking back to Ivy, he breathes deeply. “Ivy, I’m very disappointed in you.”
“Cruel?” Joseph echoes, folding his arms across his chest. To an extent, he looks mostly like he wants to melt into the wall behind him, and more than a little intimidated by Casper, but he seems to be actively forcing himself into appearing at least moderately cool and collected. “What have I done that was cruel?” He raises his hands, rolling his eyes at the others in the vicinity. “Okay, I concede I was probably, uh, not very nice. But I wasn’t actively being cruel.” A pause. “It was pretty much over between me and Ribouet anyhow.”
“Over?” Noémie squeaks and turns to face Joseph again, both of her fists balled. “Maybe for you it was over. You… you… jerk.” Oh, good one. She turns away, only to find herself with Ivy in her direct view. Noémie, not knowing what to do, or where to go, and with many more eyes on her than she’d like, just stands, eyes downcast, criss-crossing her arms over her chest and now just letting the tears stream down her face.
Ivy Thornweld juts out her chin, eyes flashing despite the fact that her cheeks are blazing with some mixture of embarassment and shame. “Disappointed in me? Since when did you still care about anything I do, Casper Hadley? And..” she falters, momentarily, “and anyway, he was just Noémie’s boyfriend.” As if that justified or explained everything. Still, Ivy retreats as far against the wall as she can, trying desperately to keep her expression from going anywhere but ‘hard and cold’ now. Which is easier with the use of her mask. Under her breath, after Noémie turns, Ivy mutters, “Anyway, he snogged me, not the other way around.”
Casper Hadley clenches his fists and looks at Joseph through slitted eyes and down his crumpled, poorly aligned nose. “Wexler, you are really trying my patience. And I should warn you that I tend to burn through it a lot quicker when I’m dealing with spoiled, despicable weasely… children! who have no respect for those around them.” He casts a quick look at Ivy, the same contemptuous look on his face. “Ivy, I can’t believe… You’re more despicable than he is! What has Noémie done to slight you so badly that you would try and break up her relationship? Or is it that you just wanted Wexler that badly? Are you that out of control?”
Rolling his eyes at Casper (but while not actually looking at him, not wanting to anger him even further), Joseph turns back to Noémie, his voice quieting a little. “Yes, Noémie, over. You said yourself, if it’s not going to last, there’s no point.” Whether this is actually something she has said, some paraphrase of her words, or just what he has extrapolated from her nature is uncertain; he shakes his head slowly at her, and shrugs his shoulders vaguely. “It wasn’t going to last. I knew that.”
“It takes two,” Noémie retorts coldly, and stares hard at Ivy for a moment before turning away again to glance at Casper. Someone’s on her side, at least. Noémie doesn’t know any better than Casper what she’s done to deserve this, but surely she’s innocent in this! Obviously, it’s her, after all! Ahem. “You are a cruel human being and I wish I had never wasted all that time with you.” She pauses. “And I never said that. Don’t go putting words into my mouth. You’re awful and I hope I never see you again.” But, of course, she will. Over, and over, and over. Whether she likes it or not. Isn’t Hogwarts great?
Ivy Thornweld actually snorts, to her non-credit. “Wanted Joseph Wexler? Are you serious?” Ivy shakes her head, expression one of annoyed disbelief, tone rather disgusted. “What Noémie did is. . .” she sighs, eyebrows coming down together, even as part of her brain attempts to be rational. “Irrelevant. I am not out of control. He approached me, I didn’t do anything except fail to ward off the advances of an already wandering eye. And why should I? Don’t I deserve attention from someone?” Ivy‘s voice raises now, slightly shrill, but then tears rise as well and she looks away, unable (or, as is more likely, merely unwilling) to actually speak what it is Noémie did. Not that she’s avoiding it or anything. Really.
Casper Hadley folds his arms and looks crossly at Ivy. “Oh, you think everything is so easy. You think you’re completely innocent because you ‘just let him kiss you.’ Well I’ve got news for you. If you just let a rock fall on your head, you still get a bump. You knew they were together, and you for some reason think poorly of Noémie. That makes it malicious, and there’s no way to back out of that. Even worse, you’ve let yourself fall in with the worst kind of filandering slime.” Casper has found an eloquence that would probably make Ivy proud if he weren’t using it to verbally thrash her.
“Well, you though it.” Joseph responds, as though this clarification makes it all better. “I know you think things like that, Ribouet. It’s what girls like you do.” A somewhat annoyed expression passes over his face as he catches snippets of the conversation – The worst kind of philandering slime? The advances of an already wandering eye? – but he keeps it together, focusing on pushing his sleeves up and making them sit right (which must do wonders for his appearance, should he try to take on Casper – as if it weren’t enough that he’s smaller, he’s wearing pink) rather than on the conversation.
Ivy Thornweld scoffs openly, “Fallen in with him? What do you expect, that I will ever so much as give him the time of day after this? Joseph Wexler has served his usefulness to me.” Now she raises her chin, defiantly, “It isn’t as if I’ve made a promise to the boy by kissing him, after all.” Ivy‘s nostrils flare as her mouth gets smaller, and her arms cross in front of her as well, with an audible ‘hmph’.
Casper Hadley grits his teeth and drops into a vaguely combative stance. “Ivy Thornweld, you are the most despicable person on the face of the planet! How could you even think such a thing? Or even consider using it as a defense!? I used to think you just weren’t raised to be very nice, but even the worst parenting can’t produce something that vile.”
Offering a glare to Joseph as he makes this statement, and then a horrified look to Ivy, Noémie sputters. “Well, I — you are — the most –” She doesn’t appear to be speaking any intelligible language as she huffs at the two of them, offering a glance to Casper, one of pleading or perhaps just a look in passing, as she stalks off. “Mum! Muuuum!” she calls as she vanishes behind a group of gossipy middle-aged women. It is only a moment longer before she decides to leave completely, apparating out of the alley with a loud CRACK!
“Thank you.” Ivy is quickly working up to some rather ridiculous hysteria. “Thank you very much, you overgrown garden gnome! As if you, were it not for me, would even be able to string more than four words together without having to stop and think! The only reason you’re even defending that… that low class strumpet is because she took pity on you and was unable to find someone better to attend a ridiculous school function with, and too polite to mention that you are, in fact, nothing more than a troll in robes!” Ivy has step foreward now, flinging her arms out wildly. “You don’t get to call me vile, you ungrateful, wretched…!” Apparently having run out of words, the young woman turns on her heel and shoves through the crowd, ignoring any comments thrown her way.
Glancing between the three of them, it takes a lot of effort for Joseph to manage to sidle away with some kind of pretense of nonchalance – not much of a pretense, granted, for the having been caught out by his girlfriend, not to mention that oaf, Hadley, echoes in his step, his carriage one of sulkiness rather than of unruffled nonchalance. He offers no further words to any of them and, even though he strikes up a conversation with a recent graduate, his heart is hardly in his flirtations, now.
Casper Hadley looks a little dumbfounded, as everyone has disappeared. Shrugging, he chalks it up to experience and exits, too.
