A Stitch in Time
--⬩.2/15/25, Afternoon ☽☆☾ Club Ambrosia.⬩-----
Needle and thread, flesh and bone, spit and sinew.--
February 14th had been disastrous.
A great overstatement, perhaps, considering all that could have gone wrong on the day; there were no Amortenia spikings (to Xailah's knowledge, while she was attending the French celebration of the day), lovers spats, or drugged Valentine's candies for the populace to consume; in fact, Valentine's at Beauxbatons school had been surprisingly tame for a change. A surprise, no doubt, to any Hogwarts alumni, despite how safety during related events should have been a standard and priority. Quality checks slipped under the radar and far too many of Hogwarts' own encouraged such degenerate antics. It truly was a sad reality.
And yet, in spite of surviving multiple instances of the worst possible experiences Valentine's could have possibly thrown at her, Xailah never found herself harboring regret as she did now. Typically, she did not feel much towards the day- maybe resentment at most, due to the failings of Hogwarts' staff and her own peers- but today she endured the aftermath of the 14th, conscious of an ache that had been forming in her chest since the early hours of the day prior. And it was all because of one silly, miniscule reason: she had chosen business over pleasure.
A visit with Hogsmeade's resident fortuneteller on the 10th, had revealed some news she had never expected to hear and later discovered to be true. Days later, she was still processing it. Ultimately, the encounter would influence her regrettable decision to work on Valentine's evening, instead of staying home with her spouse to celebrate their first experience of the holiday together. Knowing that she had done so out of aversion, only made the choice taste all the more bitter. Barrow did not deserve to be neglected in such a way. Nor did he deserve to be withheld information- but alas- uncertainty was a daunting enemy.
Sometimes, he was too patient and forgiving of his wife's actions.
Xailah silently swore at herself as she clocked into work in the evening. Her pace was slow, perhaps a little reluctant, as she slipped though Ambrosia's lingering purple-pink haze toward the back rooms at the far end of the building. A wide corridor- marked off to prevent unwanted patron access- led to a pair of heavy double doors, where the locker rooms and communal costume closet were located. She was as quiet as the doors would allow her to be; pushing through them and guiding them closed before beelining to the costume closet- which really was more of a whole other room in and of itself. To call it a "closet" was a severe understatement. It was still small enough, however, for it to be a little more private than the other spaces Ambrosia's performers shared, making it a perfect spot to sneak away for a quick break from the buzz of club life. Or just life in general.
Ironically, regret had not deterred all avoidance. The lesson here had not yet been learned; evident as Xailah slipped behind a costume rack, out of immediate sight.
Garments hung in shame as a curtain of distressed cloths. Some were worn down from extensive use- the threads that brushed flesh frequently were worn to thin strands or ripped open entirely- or they were missing buttons and back zippers. Sequins had fallen out of a place on few while some were gone entirely, leaving behind the sad implication of where the glitter of a rhinestone should have been. This particular corner of the costume closet was where all the misfit costumes came for their final performance: the intricate dance between needle and thread; a necessary show of repair for the intricate details a swish of magic could not fix as well as human hands could.
Xailah took a seat at a tiny table erected within arms reach of the clothing rack, and unhooked a glittery suit from the rod it was hanging from. It was far from the worst worn costume in the pitiful collection, but it was still very much in need of a little extra care in a few spots; namely around the cuffs and collar where a few buttons had presumably popped off at some point during a strenuous dance routine, and were no longer anywhere to be seen. It was an easy fix, but it would let her take her mind off of things for a while- or at least until someone noticed she had come in for work but was nowhere to be seen on the club floor.
The table's top drawer contained all she would need for mending: needles, thread, a number of different fasteners ranging from simple snaps to complicated rivets, velcro, elastics, beads, a variety of colored gems and sequins, and scrap fabrics for small cloth repairs and the occasional reinforcement. If only her own circumstances could be alleviated with a stitch and a couple of buttons.
Last edited by Xailah Alptraum-Leveret on 22 Jul 2025, 16:27, edited 1 time in total.
Before me, you rightly tremble. But, fear is not what you owe me. You owe me awe....
Stamina: 12 ~ Evasion: 17 ~ Strength: 2 ~ Wisdom: 16 ~ Arcane Power: 4 ~ Accuracy: 17
Student Account: Martyr Daeva-Lazarus
A Stitch in Time
On the other end of the club, Ambrosia had its own problems to sort out. Although, they were much less perplexing than the woes of its employees. A package had been delivered to the niterie's back doorstep alongside the usual shipment of club goods and supplies that came in around late noon. Greatly anticipated, Chauncey, the club's owner, wasted no time in retrieving that particular box and opening it to inspect the contents. "Cybil, our order arrived!" He announced from his office. He wouldn't bother to wait for the assistant. His hands were quick as they undid the spellotape holding the flaps of the box shut; once open, he shifted through the tissue paper covering the goods (that was presumably there for some level of protection, but likely just existed for looks and added opening excitement), tossing it away without much of a second thought, like a child on Christmas morning. His joy quickly turned into disappointment, however, as he lifted a bundle of shiny fabric from the bowels of the box.
A waterfall of reflective, cool-toned pink fell over his knuckles and ring stacks, pooling onto the mahogany desk below him. "Oh." There was no better word that embodied displeasure. Then, in what could have been misconstrued as a poor magical (in the muggle sense) comedy act, he began yanking endless lengths of the fabric out of the box; perhaps in a final act of desperation, or Neanderthal analysis. For a few good minutes, it truly appeared to have no end. "No, no, no... this is all wrong." Chauncey groaned, planting his face in the cup of his hand once he finally got to the end of the fabric river.
Cybil announced herself with a peckish knock at Chauncey's office door, before letting herself in to find the sorry sight that was her boss and his lost battle with the pink fabric. "You called?" Cybil asked, pushing up her cat-eye glasses with the tip of a lacquered middle finger. Chauncey gave an exasperated nod.
With the hand that wasn't (poorly) hiding his distain, he gestured to the twisted, shiny, pink lump on the floor. "Look at this. This fabric is supposed to be purple. Not mauve. Not magenta. Not fuchsia. Purple." And certainly not pale red with "purple influence". "Capital P-U-R-P-L-E," The man declared. "Every time we order from Madam Malkin's, this happens. Every. Time." His fingers slid from his temples to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes crinkling shut. "How hard is it to send someone the right color of fabric? We even picked out the colors we wanted in store. This is getting ridiculous."
If the mistake alone wasn't frustrating enough, Cybil had one more thing to add, just to rub a little more salt into what was already an irritated wound: "A refund is not applicable here, either." The woman stated plainly. "We should consider switching to a different fabric provider. A one-time mix-up is a mistake. Twice is a coincidence. Three times-"
"Three times is a vendetta, is what it fucking is," Chauncey groaned. After a moment of deliberation, he'd miserably stoop to regather all the cloth he had discarded. "And now we have yards- and I mean yards- of fabric we never wanted. I don't get it. What are we supposed to do with all of this?"
"We don't have much of a choice other than to use it. We paid for it, if we toss it we might as well dump a couple hundred galleons down the drain too, for good measure." It was a painful consideration for anyone with an ounce of business knowledge. "We could try to alter the color with charms, but I'm not sure how well they will hold up for long-term use."
Chauncey sighed from behind the mountain of pink before snapping his fingers. The fabric floated out of his arms and rolled itself into a hovering bundle right at his shoulder. "It would be a shame to let it all go to waste. And I hate throwing away my hard-earned coin. Maybe we can use it for décor somewhere instead of for new costumes, like we had planned?" He tried to reason. He blew a puff of hot air out of his mouth as he made his way past Cybil. "I will get this put away in the meantime." He left his office with his rosy train of shame trailing right after him.
Xailah had heard the door to the costume closet open but it did not coax her to stir. Her corner of peace kept her grounded in the moment; and for a couple of minutes she went unrecognized by time as she peered at the world through a needle's eye. It was the sudden whiff of Chauncey's signature sweet cologne that would draw her from her work, and make her acknowledge she was no longer the only person to occupy the closet. Visits from him to this notch of the club were rare, seeing he was often needed on the floor, but of course he had to check out the costume closet when it was most inconvenient. Humans had a sixth sense for hanging around places where they were not wanted.
The pantheress penitently waited for him to leave- only, that was the problem. He was not leaving. She wasn't sure how long she sat there waiting, but it was long enough for his silence to evolve into tapping, then whistling, and eventually internalized chatter to smite his employees, after he discovered some out of place items thrown carelessly on a rack. The worst part? It sounded like he was getting closer to where she was.
Before me, you rightly tremble. But, fear is not what you owe me. You owe me awe....
Stamina: 12 ~ Evasion: 17 ~ Strength: 2 ~ Wisdom: 16 ~ Arcane Power: 4 ~ Accuracy: 17
Student Account: Martyr Daeva-Lazarus
A Stitch in Time
Chauncey ventured dangerously close to Xailah's hideout several times. She braced herself for discovery during each. It would be her fate, she knew, as he came to the rack she was behind for what would be his final time. She watched his tanned hand grab one side of the metal structure and roll it out of the way in what felt like a very unglamorous curtain call, making the metamorph the shameful star of the show.
It wouldn't be her first time on the receiving end of alarm. Chauncey unfortunately made himself a frequent victim to her silent nature. He leapt back on queue and Xailah watched him stumble, without so much as a flinch. "UAAH!" Chauncey yelped, sending the pink fabric he had been carrying flying into the air. Although used to these encounters by now, he was not immune to them. He did, however, recover quicker with each scare. Disquiet became relief as he swiped a hand over his face to reset himself. "Xailah, we cannot keep doing this."
Xailah eyed fabric coiling down from the ceiling, idly. "My apologies," she offered politely. "I did not intend to startle you." She followed its movement as it was drawn back into the air and rolled up on itself.
This time, the material would not return to its hover at Chauncey's shoulder. Instead it was taken, folded, and thrown over the man's sleeved arm. "What are you doing here? You're aware you had the day off today since you worked Valentines, right?" Chauncey moved around the small table to get to a shelf behind it, careful not to disturb Xailah's work.
"I am."
"And?" Chauncey crossed his arms.
"I had some projects here that I wanted to complete." Xailah lied, dropping her gaze to the needle and thread in hand.
"Riiight..." The man squinted. "Well, since you're conveniently here now, why don't you tell me how yesterday went? One of the other performers there said they saw you leave early."
Before me, you rightly tremble. But, fear is not what you owe me. You owe me awe....
Stamina: 12 ~ Evasion: 17 ~ Strength: 2 ~ Wisdom: 16 ~ Arcane Power: 4 ~ Accuracy: 17
Student Account: Martyr Daeva-Lazarus