The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
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[ W I N T E R x C H A R I T Y x G A L A ]───────────────────────
| XXX | XXXXXX𝕹ot in a million years had Milica expected to be standing in front of the Hestridge manor on this dark, cold evening. She was not here to quarrel with the Hestridges nor to tear down the property. As it happened, the young dhampir had an invitation to the '5th Annual Winter Charity Gala'. Neither her nor her parents, who were equally as surprised as she was, knew what it entailed. The household wasn't particularly eager to attend either, unable to imagine being welcomed with open arms. Still, one bit of the invitation caught their eyes, this being the mention of the British Part-Human Advocacy Foundation. The mention of the Foundation intrigued her parents. After an extensive debate, the family took it to a vote. Her parents voted in favor of attending the gala, with only one vote against it: Milica's. Hence, here she is, against her will, attending a social event which involved interaction with the worst kind of wizards and witches. The ones who are extremely full of themselves, unable to see their faults. Purebloods. Her mind calmed slightly upon learning that her roommate, Cecelia, would be in attendance as well. Milica couldn't help but wonder whether the two would be able to speak in a setting such as this one. Surely, her only friend had connections with others with much higher standing than herself. Would she really have to spend the entire evening with only her parents as her company? On the one hand, this meant she could spend the evening taking it easy. On the other, she was ashamed to admit that it would be rather embarrassing to be the only one without any companions. Worrying wouldn't make the situation any less dire, Milica reminded herself, as she took one last good look at her outfit to ensure it looks pristine. Her hair was done up in an elegant-looking but slightly messy bun with some dark hairs loosely framing the front of her face. It was different from her usual style as she usually preferred to wear her hair down or in some special occasions, even curled. She was wearing an elegant black floor-length dress, slightly fitted at the top but flowing down smoothly at the bottom. The top was decorated with little silver crystals, mostly concentrated near her neck area but spread across the rest of the bodice like a little waterfall. Her choice of jewelry was modest, only wearing one silver bracelet on her left wrist, matching the crystals on her dress. In her other hand she held a little black leather handbag, holding her wand and other essentials. At the very bottom, hidden underneath the skirt of her dress, she was wearing black kitten heels, matching the color of her dress. All in all, the outfit was much more elegant than one would usually expect from the girl. Milica wouldn't be surprised if her classmates, used to seeing her in reserved dark academia-style outfits, wouldn't recognize her in this get-up. Finishing her mental pep-talk, Milica sent both her parents a nod before the household walked towards the entrance of the estate. The outside of the manor looked flawless, as if it was built up solely for this special occasion. The girl had always lived comfortably, never having had to experience a sliver of poverty, but the sight of the imposing building reminded her that there were families who were unnecessarily wealthy. She imagined her father grew up in a mansion similar to this one before he was banished by his family. It was breathtaking, but also confrontational. Her grandparents used to live on the streets due to unfair circumstances, while others could live in a mansion such as this one. Life is simply unfair, she noted. When she and her parents ultimately made their way to the large double-door, their names were checked off and their coats were handed over to staff members who attended to them. Milica rolled her eyes at this undisguised display of wealth. Show-offs. This interaction made a question arise in her brain, a possibility she hadn't considered before. Could it be possible that her 'family' on her father's side was invited as well? Would today be the first day she could meet her aunt, uncle, or grandparents? Did she have any cousins? She was indecisive about the question whether she even wanted to find out. She supposed the only course of action for her to take was to face the possibility of seeing them. In any case, it wasn't possible to turn back now. Finding their way over to the ballroom was simple as the path was clearly depicted by the signage on the walls. Finally, the family was met with large wooden doors right behind an easel. The easel showed a seating chart, showing the group where they would be seated. Milica recognized some of the names. "Merrick, Bloodthorn, Gemmell, Rocier, Cunning, Noxley, and Hestridge of course," she said to her parents, letting them know which of the other attendees she already met before. Reading the seating chart more closely, she realised to her relief that no Hargraves would be in attendance. Whilst she wondered why their names weren't mentioned on the chart, she couldn't say she wasn't pleased. One less thing for her to worry about. Milica entered the ballroom with her head held high, quickly finding her seat with her parents following behind. As the seating chart foretold, she recognized multiple people. Held back by the crowded ballroom, she didn't make conversation with anyone. She was glad her parents were here, shrinking her anxious feelings. While her mother sat down elegantly, her father shot her a reassuring smile. The girl wondered what others would think of her parents - her mother being a vampire and her father being a banished Hargrave. Nobody had come over to ridicule them yet, but surely it was only a matter of time. She could already see the gorgeous Ravenclaw she met at the Fall Ball, Vi - something - Bloodthorn, staring at her like she's an invasive fly who should be swat out of the mansion. Her own stone cold mask showed no emotion in response to this. All that could be seen was a slight glare pointed towards any direction she happened to be looking at. Since none of the attendees seated at her table had arrived yet, there was nothing left to do for Milica but stare off into the distance and listen to her parents talking amongst each other. What am I doing here. |
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XXXX date ; 27th of December, 2025 time ; evening outfit ; 𓍼 location ; the Hestridge Estate ooc notes ; perm from vi for slight gmod XXXX |
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XXXX open to interactions ; status entering the area ; action 1,087 ; wordcount - graphics and code by - 𓍼 Violence Bloodthorn 𓍼 XXXX |
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STA ; 4 𓍼 EVA ; 7 𓍼 STR ; 8 𓍼 WIS ; 2 𓍼 ARC ; 1 𓍼 ACC ; 8 // DHAMPIR 𓍼 ABILITY
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
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The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
Maria insisted on trimming Astra's chopped hair before attending the gala. Her elder cousin's nerves were clearly shot- honestly, everyone except Sibkey was falling apart at the seams- and Astra hadn't felt up to arguing with anyone but Roderick since early November.
The two girls would attend for the family. Originally meant to be something for all when they received the invitation months ago, they were perhaps the only ones well enough to. Helena and Elliot were incredibly occupied by the birth of their daughter, Morella had been knocked out on calming draught for most of the past two months, Hyperion could hardly gather himself to do much more than help Sibkey run trays of tea around the house. She could hardly describe Raymond's state, and she wasn't going to try. And, of course, Jesse and Roderick had managed to come down with actual illnesses and neither of them were very good medicine-takers.
Astra and Maria wore similar attire: black slacks, crisp dess shirts, shiny shoes of semi-expensive make, long overcoats. Maria sported a mauve tie and her wizarding camera plus accessories, Astra the silver chain bearing its emerald pendant which Aunt Aces had given her two years ago. A weight rather than a gift now.
Their arrival was mundane, garnering only a slightly strange look as the staff member who was checking the guest list realized there were far more than two names bearing "Lerian" and "Norrick." Upon entry, the girls found their hosts and greeted them. Mr. and Mrs. Hestridge weren't terribly interested in Astra, which suited her just fine, occupied more with Maria and her camera. Maria had offered to do a photo op to help garner support for their charitable cause (and to balance her portfolio a little more).
Astra fiddled with the gemstone at her collar, eyes scanning over the grandiose house. Nothing would beat Moredell, of course, but the Hestridges had a rockin' pad. Crystalline chandeliers looking more like drops of ice than pieces of rock shimmered high above, and down below the people moved as a many-faceted beast of elegance and class.
Astra stood a little away from the crowd. She was not part of the beast.
Tables set with pomp and circumstance, people armed with the same, it was all rather funny, really. The grand game. Who could flaunt the grandest pretties, who could secure the richest shinies, who could smile sweeter while they did it.
Astra spotted Koko. For a moment, everything stopped- the band, the chatter, the flittering light, Astra's breaths- and once it all started back her feet were already carrying her.
The redhead was now three inches taller than the elder year- adult, now. Wow. Anyway, three inches taller instead of her same height. Insane. "Koko, hi," she greeted. Her voice came out strange. She cleared her throat, dropped her hand from her necklace. "Fancy seeing you here. I didn't really know you were..." Pure? You had a fifty-fifty chance of that being the case with any Slytherin. Rich? Important? Astra's speaking skills had apparently died with her aunt. "It's good to see you."
interactions : @koko riddle
notes : i'm planning to interact with livia later so feel free to make it a short interaction lol, i don't want to bother you too much
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
Glitz and glamour, indeed. Koko lifted her flute of champagne to her lips, had a sip, and set it at her place on the table, ensuring it was to the upper right of the plate-to-be, as was necessary. The light flavour and effervescence of the selectively-sourced drink mirrored the tilt of Koko's mood when she surveyed the attendees of the gala. Many of them were youths accompanied by their families, which, of course, made proper sense, considering that the Hestridge family themselves had a young heir, Esme.
Most of the younger individuals were ones Koko did not recognise. A spindly young girl with dark hair and emerald-green eyes (@Livia Machavariani) made eye contact with Koko, and the blonde shot the girl a winning simper in response. Most of the others were just blurs against pretty holiday decorations... until a solidly familiar, obnoxious teenager entered Koko's periphery. Aware of how she appeared, she turned her head daintily, maintaining her well-trained posture and angling her chin towards none other than one Harlan Montgomery. The smaller boy next to him (@Camille De Varenne) was not someone Koko recognised, but the sour expression on his face made her think he was someone of decent intelligence.
She was too aware of her role to play – sophisticated, gorgeous guest of honour – to satiate the disdain in her soul upon seeing Harlan here. She didn't hate him. But she also wasn't stupid, and she didn't think he particularly liked her, which could complicate her goal of being a positive presence for the Hestridge family. Koko decided it was best, then, to avert her gaze. She lifted her glass once again and took another sip of champagne to distract herself.
When she set the glass back on the table, she returned her gaze back to the scenery only to be met with a familiar face. Something about the younger girl seemed a bit off, the air heavier, the sparkly and bubbly air of the room brought back to reality as she approached. Koko's amber eyes landed on Astra's hand, which fell from some jewellery at her throat. She returned her gaze to meet Astra's and offered a warm, friendly smile. 'Astra!' As was usual with those she did not dislike, Koko's voice was airy and light. She noticed, but refrained from addressing, the slight hesitation. Didn't know she was from a well-off family? Didn't know she had connections? At any rate, it didn't matter – what mattered was that she was here, and she was more than ready to see this opportunity to its full potential. 'Yes, it's so lovely to see you! I would have expected more people around my age – but I suppose that singularity is the privilege of this particular honour.'
She wouldn't elaborate just yet, instead offering Astra a well-meaning smile. 'At any rate, how have you been? I hope this year at school has been treating you well.'
@harlan montgomery & @astra norrick
open to further interactions
open to further interactions
[pc] koko riddle · 'pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and pull yourself together.'
'it always starts and ends with birds.' · cyrus darsel [inpc]
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
A cold, fearfully stiff hand rested on Archer’s shoulder, and he trembled beneath its touch, her fingers curling inward against his suited skin. He steeled his body as much as he steeled his mind. Although his pulse quickened, eyes kept on the distant treelike asserted a petulant sort of indifference. His gaze trailed the gentle rise and fall of the hills, the soft curves of earth’s body and nothing like the cliffs he had grown up on, so mild and trail were their altitude it calmed his swift heartbeat, and laid his anxious hands to rest. Body rigid, he refused to relent to the interrogative stare of his grandmother.
“Crawford,” he hissed under his breath.
Introspective hazel eyes crept downwards and he turned to meet his grandmother’s gaze, a good head taller than her with his teenage lankiness yet still not quite as intimidating as the glare that bore into the very depths of his soul. They were unwavering, reflecting the light of the chandeliers in their pitch black pupils, not a shred of tenderness in her solid gaze. Archer furrowed his brows as a mask of distaste was drawn over his features, accompanied by silent prayers that he would be spared from her torturous tedium of teachings.
“Archer Theodore Duncan,” she said pointedly, the name hitting him with the intensity and disgust of a wet trout to the face. Hands gripped white knuckled on the railings, tight enough to snap the metal, he returned the elderly woman’s glare with the same genetic stubbornness that she must have given him. Despite his best efforts, she did not back down, only regarded him with dismissive patronisation. “I did not secure a place for you at this esteemed gathering just for you to brood about on the balcony. You had better come inside and make some use of yourself,” she continued, jabbing him in the side of his arm with her extended wand. “Don’t be like your father.” There was nothing but disgust in her voice, and she did not bother to shield it.
Archer shot her a look, and without words, reminded her that she had better be grateful that he was in a good mood today. Otherwise, the Hestridge's might just have found their floors newly adorned with blood, an unconscious body, and foul resentment.
He was practically dragged by the arm, planting his heels into the ground as marble scraped against expensive soles. She scowled, turning just enough for him to see the unpleasant expression, before taking swift steps forward. She left Archer no choice but to follow, and she had made it clear that there would be no other option. Just when the teenager attempted to console himself that all would not be With controlled enthusiasm, his grandmother pointed to a smudge of suit and hair, and, eyes lighting up, offered Archer a small, plain smile. “Oh look, that must be the de Varenne boy.”
De Varenne. He followed her gaze, not that he needed it. With how much the world saw him as their toy to play with, of course it would be none other than the heir he had humiliated himself in front of. Threats of violence, desperation, and when he finally received a satisfactory answer, weak-willed sarcasm. The concept of their forced proximity not only brought boiling bile to the surface but would become a source of embarrassment for Archer.
He would never admit it, out loud or otherwise, but he was jealous of Camille. Fucking Camille.
Archer inhaled sharply, then spoke words with just as much spite as they had been directed towards him, entwining venom in mere syllables, “Just because your ballet dreams failed does not mean I have suffer your consequences by talking to it.”
Crawford dug her nails into Archer's skin, the grip on his wrist tightening with malice, clearly aggravated by what was only truth. “Do not talk back to me, although I am not surprised this is the fruit of your father.” For a few seconds as Archer halted he only stood in complete shock at her words, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. She then clicked her tongue, and spoke casually as if she had not just insulted him to the highest degree, “You should speak to people your age more.”
With that, she pushed him forward, and left him to fend for himself in the throngs of people with such a sharp extravagance they could kill.
Recognition struck a second before relief as Archer realised who stood by the de Varenne brat’s side. Angular features, short curly hair, familiarity he found solace in amongst a crowd of empty, hateful faces. His steps became swifter, his gaze with more assurance, and there was even an edge of eagerness as he walked towards the Montgomery. “Harlan!” He exclaimed, a smile beaming across his lips as if they were old friends. Granted he may not have been any boon companion, with Archer’s remembrance only consequential from one chance meeting and fleeting conversations, yet it was a consolation nevertheless to see one genuine profile in this room of masks. “Why, it is good to see you here!”
It was entirely by choice that Archer had noticed Harlan first rather than his companion. Even without his grandmother’s introduction, Camille de Varenne would have been unmistakable in the crowd as a figure to avoid. The same flawless complexion, the same gorgeous features, and the same, ever so fixed look of self-entitled elitist condescension, on his high horse of self made mythology. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets as they balled into fists, Archer bit down on his lip and harder on his tongue.
Better not embarrass himself in front of Harlan.
While his irrationality begged for violence, disorder, or raised voices, there was still enough restraint in the fourteen year-old, at his peak of teenage rebellion, to save face at a gathering with a scale as grand as today’s. Rationality reminded not to allow his bitter loathing to take the better of him. He would have extended a hand, yet as he forced a mildly cordial smile onto his lips, found the thought of his skin gracing against Camille’s of the utmost disgust. “Archer Theodore Duncan, I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of meeting you before, Mister de Varenne —” he pronounced the French ‘r’ with particular distaste, an inch away from spitting it out — “Your reputation clearly precedes you.”
He glanced desperately at the boy to Camille’s side. Harlan, save me.
@Harlan Montgomery, @Camille de Varenne | banner by Adeline Spinks
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
| C | date: 27/12/2025 location: Hestridge Estate, Canterbury |
mentioned: @Harlan Montgomery @Harvey Barrows, @Archer Duncan |
C |
| CV | It was easy for Harlan to tell him to relax and enjoy the night when he was not the one babysitting a ticking bomb of humiliation. Lack of friends was not his concern: he knew at least one person of interest, though he had yet to spot the daughter of the hosts. Begrudgingly, he grimaced to himself, but still allowed for Harlan to place a hand on his back and escort him further inside. Once among the crowd, the younger boy created distance, careful not to appear closer to Harlan than he truly was, or worse, to seem as if he enjoyed it. Their closeness was entirely forced, a source of dread that he could not escape, even for a night.
On the way to the dining tables, he gauged the crowd once more, spotting a few familiar faces, some more unfortunate than others. His gaze sought out the beautiful blonde woman from earlier. The sight and promise of some refined guests brought an understated smile to his face, however, it immediately vanished and was replaced with a mild distasteful scowl as his gaze landed on an ominous presence in the crowd: Livia, a rude Slytherin first year that he’d had the misfortune to meet personally. Her participation did not shock him; her whole aura, while unpleasant, screamed wealth, yet he would do his best to avoid her if he could. The attendance that did surprise him, however, and required a double take to fully register: Rosaline Everheart. The Gryffindor girl was located by a table, conversing with a boy he did not recognize, wearing a slinky black gown that cascaded down her lithe frame like water under a midnight sky, paired with long, white gloves. Camille thought she looked quite lovely, as always. “Oh look!” Harlan said with alarming enthusiasm, moving ahead while Camille trailed behind, still distracted by gala guests. "Hello Harvey—" Harlan greeted someone ahead of him. Camille didn’t hear anything past the name, the only connotation to it he had was a half-goblin boy at school that he despised, with a few, rare, exceptions when he could be of use. Ce n’est pas possible.1 What would Harvey possibly be doing here? The De Varenne boy asked himself, searching for the flaw in his attendance. There was of course a perfectly reasonable explanation, Camille realized, given the purpose of the charity being in support of half-breeds. Wide-eyed in alarm, and remembering Harlan’s petty threat a few hours previously, he darted his attention forward, landing on the one person he hoped to not have to see again, at least for a few weeks until Camille was shipped back to the Scottish Highlands to continue his studies. Scanning the fabulous table setting, he spotted his name, cruelly placed beside Harlan and Harvey, who apparently were on familiar terms. Considering how this night had been set up for failure within the first hour, he failed to see how it scarcely could get any worse. Camille stepped closer to the table, where he was introduced like an infantilized liability. Thoroughly unamused and suspicious, he narrowed his eyes, boring holes into the side of Harlan's curly-haired head. Either his escort was trying to act hilarious, or his memory was beginning to fail him. Camille would have preferred the latter, but knowing Harlan, he was most likely biding his time to hit him when the timing was the most unfortunate. “We’ve met. Unfortunately,” Camille sneered, gaze roaming the half-goblin’s attire that had earned the older Gryffindors compliment. “Fancy… or pretentious?” He suggested in feigned thoughtfulness, tilting his head toward both boys with the slightest trace of condescension, not caring for the answer, of course, only the satisfaction of casual cruelty, before his family returned. When he thought circumstances couldn’t get any worse, the guest list offered yet another misjudgment: someone called out for his unlikely plus-one, perhaps the only one this evening who would be genuinely pleased to see him. Whoever that could be was beyond him, clearly no one in Camille’s immediate circle. The voice was familiar enough to send a jolt through him, the memory of who it belonged to still haunted his residence months later. Camille angled his head to the new addition, caught off his guard when the unstable boy from the rehearsal room approached Harlan as if greeting an old friend. It was downright shocking, for more reasons than one, to see Archer beaming at Harlan with something he would have interpreted as infatuation, if he hadn’t known better. Compared to the unhinged version of the boy he’d witnessed, this side of him almost seemed charming, harmless even, someone who knew how to play an audience. His long hair seemed to be left to its own devices, but he looked otherwise polished in his suit, suggesting such events were not entirely unfamiliar. Harlan might be fooled, but he was not. Baffled and suddenly feeling uncomfortable by the proximity to the boy who had once threatened violence, Camille leaned back, trying to mask the unexpected turn of his thoughts by searching for something, preferably a drink, to occupy his hands and mouth. There was not a server in immediate sight. Of course there wasn't. A scene was the last thing he hoped to cause at the Hestridge event, though he wouldn’t hold it against the Slytherin to achieve that all on his own. Camille allowed the two to handle themselves, not planning to intervene, as much as Archer's sudden presence threw him off orbit. Since Camille hadn’t gone into details about their squabble with anyone, there was no way for Harlan to know about his lingering disdain for the Slytherin. The only ones who knew about the unfolding were he and the boy in question, who, as it turned out, had decided to pretend it never had happened. Archer turned to him, startling Camille when he introduced himself like strangers meeting for the first time. Though his words claimed civility, Camille caught the barely contained contempt in them. His gaze hardened behind an unreadable expression, finding the motive suspicious. He supposed it made sense why Archer had chosen to act oblivious, otherwise he’d possibly have to explain how they knew each other, and Camille would not allow a flattering retelling. For now, acting civil suited him just fine, since he was not exactly eager to paint himself as the victim, and his father would not allow him to cause a scene. “Archer. What an honour indeed,” Camille said, drawing out the vowels, concealing his bitterness behind a forced smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Regarding his reputation, Camille let out a chuckle, carefully pitched to sound flattered. “So I’ve been told.” Catching the boy's glance to his side, Camille inquired, “And you two are acquainted… how?” His attitude towards Harlan for the rest of the evening would heavily depend on the answer. "...Duncan. Forgive me, but I'm not entirely familiar with what your family does?" he invited him to enlighten him, while simultaneously attempting to undermine their importance. |
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ability: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 1. It's not possible |
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action: Arriving to the table Talking to Harlan and Harvey Greets Archer |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
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| ───── | Though the public world seldom inclined Stella to ease, affairs of the large, ballroom-hosted kind seemed to afford her a genuine pleasure rather reasonable to expect of a young lady of her social standing. It was a contentment far simpler than one might imagine of one in her position, derived not from the accrual of social favour and conversation with fellow members of the elite, but solely a deep appreciation for the aestheticism of the whole spectacle. She delighted in the careful preparation of her dress, cloak, and shoes; in observing the exquisite attire of others—the shimmer of evening gowns and the elegance of a well-cut coat; in noting the music, the flowers, the light on polished surfaces, everything that was pleasing to the senses of a girl whose taste for beautiful things was earnest and unconceited. What was most congenial to her, however, was the prevailing civility of company in such gatherings: the polite attentions and considerate acts exchanged between guests, all guided by a mutual wish to be agreeable, were, to Stella's mind, signs of well-formed character, and more admirable than any display of wit unaccompanied by virtue. She did not suspect the kindness extended to her as anything other than genuine, however customary its expression. Her siblings did not seem to share the overall sentiment of appreciation, and had not for many years (with the exception of Fran, who likewise seemed to revel in the prospects of society and small talk): Stella often caught them in distant looks of reticence in the days leading up to whichever event they had engaged themselves to, and had observed even her mother's countenance inadvertantly betray the same disinclination in unguarded moments. Of course she understood there were duties to be carried out for occasions like these, some of which were rather tedious, but it puzzled her that the very conventions designed to secure enjoyment and decorum seemed to inspire more unease than excitement among those closest to her. Regardless, should one concede that such affairs could be trying, surely some must be less troublesome than others, in which case the Hestridge family's Winter Charity Gala could hardly be the worst of its kind even to the most unwilling participent. For one, it was held by their aunt and uncle—who, though members of note in high society, were better known to the Bianchis as frequent and beloved figures in their familial lives—rather than by remote acquaintances from eminent households, known only through the slender ties of the pureblood elite and not by any personal intimacy. This fact, perhaps only serving as a mitigation of inconvenience for her siblings, was regarded as an additional pleasure altogether by Stella, for it promised the company of her cousin Esme, who occupied in her affections a place scarcely distinguished from that of a sister and whose presence was not always guaranteed at other assemblies of a similar order. Less than a week had passed since she'd last seen Esme back at Hogwarts, but the first few days of the winter break were so filled with preparations for the Gala and the ski trip in Italy over the new year (both of which had been skipped the previous year), as well as the usual Christmas festivities and traditions, that the interval had felt much, much longer; the reunion on the morning of the 27th was thus treated with a touch more enthusiasm than it strictly warranted. She observed then a subtle melancholy to her cousin's usual solemnity, reflecting the same reluctance for the evening's events as her siblings, but the day was spent in a manner so wonderful that she was sure even the most dampened of spirits could not resist being somewhat restored. Yet whatever relief snowball fights and homemade cannoli could bring seemed unsatisfyingly short-lived for Esme, casting off slowly with quiet inevitability as the hour of the Gala drew nearer. She was conscious of an impulse to ask after it, but found herself restrained by the same hesitation that had stayed her hand months before—I think Slytherin's a good fit for you—the subtle stir of emotion beneath Esme's expression she'd let pass—what was it, she wondered now, that had stopped her then as it stopped her still? It was a question that had long lain dormant, already troubling in its way, but conveniently neglected admist the incessant occupations of the school term. Now, however, seated across Esme in her bedroom mere minutes before the commencement of the grand event, it returned with an unwelcome clarity. Stella found her thoughts straying from the anticipated pleasures of the evening to matters far less diverting; the silence between them, though perfectly in keeping with the habits of their friendship, assumed a different character in that moment for her. (Esme, for her part, appeared entirely unconscious of this private agitation, though her own attentions had also long drifted from the game of chess they'd been playing, evidently absorbed in reflections of her own.) The recollection of that conversation continued to loop back into her thoughts with increasing unease, as did her failure, then as now, to pursue what she had sensed. She was sensible enough to acknowledge that the matter might be trifling in both cases, that she might be attributing undue weight to a look or tone never intended to bear it; yet the awareness persisted, and with it a renewed consciousness of a distance between them. Perhaps most discomposing of all was the slow recognition that this flaw was by no means new, nor confined to Esme alone; she had long perceived, on every such occasion, the same anxieties in her cousin, her siblings, her mother—yet had never pressed for understanding. This conclusion was not easily borne, for it implied a negligence and selfishness she had not thought herself capable of... "Knight to F4." Her cousin's voice cut through her train of thought, bringing her attention back to the chessboard between them. Stella watched the decimation of her bishop with a soft sigh. "And that's mate in two." It came as no surprise to Stella that the game had been in Esme's favour; she had always been the more accomplished player of the two. She opened her mouth to comment on it, intending some commendation for the blonde's skill, but found the words precluded; Esme was already standing up, posture taut, expression carrying a faraway look that indicated the board had long ceased to occupy her thoughts. "We should probably go." Stella noted the faint strain beneath the measured tone, and for a moment considered pressing her to share its cause, but the inclination, to her infinite shame, faltered once again. Instead, she simply nodded and gave Esme the most reassuring smile she could command, following her movements downstairs to enter the ballroom arm in arm. As though nothing were amiss. Once amidst the resplendent decorations of the ballroom, she found it difficult to stay wholly immersed in her sombre reflections. Her Aunt Nora and Uncle Thomas certainly did not suffer from a want of taste; every tablecloth was neatly pressed, every flower arranged with unerring elegance. Stella could see the first guests entering through the doors, a bustle of flowing gowns and immaculate suits, and the gentle murmur of polite conversation and subdued laughter of those behind them in the entrance hall lent a lively promise to the night's proceedings. Above it all, the sparkling light of crystal chandeliers and soft glow of candles cast a most flattering radiance over the scene. It was too enchanting a spectacle to permit a mind entirely given over to self-reproach, and Stella was more than willing to allow her restless ruminations to subside into nothing. There would be time enough, she reasoned, for the examination of doubts that yielded no immediate improvement; in contrast, the present moment offered satisfactions both innocent and abundant. It would simply be in bad taste to brood when pleasure so evidently invited her attention. Her siblings were already seated at their designated table, and their earlier reluctances seemed to have softened into good humour—likely by Fran, Stella observed as she approached. As per usual, her eldest sister was the very picture of grace and charisma, even in familiar company, and Stella had no doubt that few would leave the Gala without having been the better improved for encountering her. She turned to Esme as they sat, hopeful that perhaps Fran could raise her spirits too, but the blonde seemed preoccupied with the place card next to her own. Well, there was little to blame her for in that instance—the sight of an empty chair next to Esme's also brought a small frown to Stella's face, for it was a marked deviation from how the cousins typically sat together at events. How odd, perhaps there was another relative coming tonight? But then surely her parents would have told her. Perplexed, she nudged Carlotta, who was seated on her other side. "Who's that for?" Her sister shrugged. "We were hoping you could tell us." Stella turned back to Esme and leaned a little nearer, trying to decipher the name on the extra place card. "Who's the mystery guest?" she enquired, with a playfulness which scarcely survived the instant required for her to notice, a beat too late, the look of pertubation on the younger girl's face. It was evident that the expression had not been intended for public perception; Esme at once appeared conscious of herself, as though snapped from her inward contemplations, and hastened to compose her features with a smile evidently summoned for the benefit of her cousins. "Sorry," she said, in such a way that made it clear she hadn't heard the question at all, "you were saying?" Stella repeated the inquiry with her usual composure, maintaining an unaffected gaiety as if the momentary lapse in attention had never happened. "Our guest?" she prompted with a smile, waving at the unoccupied chair on Esme's left. "I was just wondering who's joining us tonight." She leaned forward once again—habitual courtesy could moderate her curiosity, but never extinguish it!—and tilted her head to read the inscription on the place card, eyes falling upon the name Cecilia Merrick in sloping cursive letters. The effect of this discovery was immediate, though not expressed. Stella recollected, with a precision sharpened by sympathy, the various opinions Esme had imparted—never at inapproriately great lengths, but always with a consistency that left little room for doubt—of a young lady distinguished less by any want of clevernesss than by an excess of self-regard, and whose manner of asserting it was marked by a singular disregard for the comfort of others. That Miss Merrick was impudent, unpleasant, and deficient in all those smaller considerations by which social harmony is preserved, Stella had been given to understand; and though she had never encountered the girl firsthand, and thus could not speak to the justice of such a characterisation, she could not recall any former instance in which her favourite cousin's discernment had proved unfounded. Whether Cecilia Merrick was truthfully as disagreeable as she had been represented, or merely unfortunate in the impression she produced upon those of a more thoughtful disposition, was a question Stella did not attempt to resolve. Even if she had been inclined to scepticism, the present circumstances must have convinced her: it was sufficient, and indeed decisive, that her expected presence should be so disquieting to Esme. It was a disappointment of a particular kind, for Stella could not help but feel that the very qualities she herself prized most in such assemblies—good character, mutual forbearance, and the steady exercise of decorum—were precisely those which, by her cousin's account, Cecilia was least disposed to practise. And yet her strong sense of dismay was proportioned less to the anticipated unpleasantness of the acquaintance than to the concern that Esme's enjoyment of the evening was already, in some measure, forfeited—and to a circumstance so ungracious, too! Stella was not unaccustomed with the art of courtesy extended where it was least merited; civility came to her as an instinctive expression of her regard for other people, and she was prepared, as always, to practise it with patience towards folly, awkwardness, even ill humour—but whatever allowances could be made for eccentricity or ignorance, there could be none for an influence so plainly unwelcome. Esme, she knew, though fluent in the language of etiquette, could not readily dismiss a source of vexation from her private consciousness once perceived. It was a prospect most regrettable to Stella, that the success of the Gala, at least as far as her cousin's happiness was concerned, should be threatened by something as simple as a thoughtlessly placed guest, and she resolved, without any distinct plan, that she must endeavour to counteract its ill effects. Stella voiced none of her personal reflections, however, preferring rather to bestow upon Esme a look of such understanding as she hoped might express both her sympathy and discretion. "Hm," she murmured, and with that soft acknowledgement, she learned backwards in her chair and made a concentrated effort to restore her countenance to its usual calm, though the unrest around her features would have betrayed her to anyone with a shred of attentiveness. Thankfully for Stella and her inability for pretence, it was only Carlotta who had regarded the conversation of the place card with anything approaching curiosity; her older sister's inquisitive nature, though lively, was tempered by a natural deficiency in the subtler arts of observation. "Well, then? Who's sitting with us?" she asked, the query framed with a candour that would have bordered impertinence in any less intimate company. Stella's glance flicked towards Fran, who had already cast a look of gentle disapproval across the table, but before any remonstrance could be articulated out loud, Elio was stirring in his seat with a look of amusement directed at Esme. "Indeed," he said, mirth tingeing the edges of his voice, "I should like to know who claims the place between us." Stella smiled at the levity of the jest, inwardly pleased at the familiar ease it betrayed in a brother so reserved, and for a moment nearly forgot that the entire table was waiting for her to answer. "Cecilia Merrick, the place card says," she said hurriedly. "A housemate of Esme's, I believe?" Stella scanned her siblings' faces for any hint of recognition, and found nothing but polite curiosity. Well, that was unsurprising; she had not expected them to be acquainted with a mere first-year of whom Esme had only occasionally spoken of to Stella. They would meet her soon enough, she reflected with some trepidation. The notion that her beloved siblings might be obliged to endure Cecilia's company, should Esme's account prove even moderately accurate, was scarcely a comforting one. She knew that they were all perfectly capable of managing themselves in the presence of someone disagreeable (particularly one so much younger), that they were, each in their own way, older and wiser than she, but it troubled her, as it did with Esme, that the small misgivings they already held about the Gala might be aggravated by an intruding presence... and just as they were starting to enjoy themselves, too... She was drawn from her thoughts by Giulia's bright announcement that she had spied a friend entering the ballroom, and excused herself a moment later to say hello, neglecting to push her chair in as she left, much to Lotta's amusement. Fran had likewise noticed a familiar face in the arrivals. "Ah—there's Henry," she remarked, rising gracefully to her feet. "I must offer him my regards." Stella's gaze followed her sisters' departures from the table to steady influx of guests, and recalled with no small amount of felicity that among them would be a select number of her friends; she was aware that Juliette and Evpraksiya's families, as well as that of Livia's, that endearing little first year, had signified their intention to attend. Even the awareness of Cecilia Merrick's imminent company could not restrain the lively anticipation that drew her toward the front of the ballroom and all its promises of society. Unable to resist, she inclined her head towards Esme and made a quiet proposal, "I'd quite like to say hello to, and meet, a few of the guests, if you wouldn't mind accompanying me," It seemed to Stella that, by attending first to those friends and acquaintances whose manners brought genuine pleasure, Esme might somewhat defer the unavoidable encounter with her least favourite housemate. It was only a temporary expedient, certainly, but it was one that allowed for her cousin's undisturbed enjoyment of the early evening at the very least, before any unwelcome presence could make itself felt. | ───── |
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| ───── | TAG..@ESME HESTRIDGE @CECILIA MERRICK......NOTES..CLICK FOR STELLA'S OUTFITSTA 5 EVA 9 STR 0 WIS 7 ARC 4 ACC 10.../ / /...SEER & WANDMAKER .ACTION..:..TALKING TO ESME ; THINKING A LOT, LIKE SERIOUSLY A LOT | ───── |
a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens, a saint, an angel;
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
@Harlan Montgomery | @Camille De Verenne | @Archer Duncan
A familiar voice caught Harvey's ear as he turned to see none other than Harlan Montgomery making his approach to the table. He stood up from his seat to greet his friend. Not that it made much of a difference in height when young Harvey went from seated to standing, but his good friend and mentor deserved a proper greeting. Harlan's presence always brought a genuine smile to his face and the compliment to his attire kept it plastered there for the moment. "Oh, this old thing?" Harvey joked as he shifted his shoulders from side to side to pose the very much not old coat he was given for the occasion. "Hello, Harlan. You look smashing too, I must say." Small in stature he was, but the hand he stretched out to offer his friend a handshake could dwarf some grown men's.
The rare warm smile that crossed Harvey's lips would sharpen into a wicked grin as Camille made his approach. "Yes, I do believe we have met before. Those first years do need some looking after." He couldn't help but to goad the Frenchman into a battle of snide remarks. Merlin knows he had done everything so far to make their arrangement a living hell, but digging into that right now wouldn't gain Harvey much. "Come now, Camille. Don't be jealous." He clapped back in a sickeningly sweet tone. "You'll find your sense of fashion one of these days." The shit talking would have to wait just a moment as another boy approached the table.
Harvey quirked a brow and scanned the newcomer for recognition. It clicked, he had seen Archer around the common room plenty of times and knew him from the Slytherin dueling roster, but they had never formally met. Harvey stayed quiet a moment as he greeted Harlan. Any friend of Montgomery's was surely someone worth knowing. When the moment was right he would interject. "Hello there. I'm Harvey Barrows." A courteous nod was offered with the introduction, but another grin crept its way back to his face as Archer seemed to hold some venom for Camille as well. Goodness did he have a way of collecting enemies.
Harvey was curious when Camille asked his question about Archer's family business. It was always good to make a note of these things, another entry for the journal. "Will anyone's family be presenting something for the auction?" He piped up with a query of his own as he scanned their eyes for a reaction.
Second Generation Character of Howard White
The 5th Annual Winter Charity Gala
𝓦ith Leo being stuck in the boring conversation his parents were in, he practically drowned out everything else going on in the room. How many hours were they going to be here for again? When was dinner going to get started? His mind wandered as he stared blankly at the table and place setting in front of him.
Noise drowned out at some point that he practically jumped out of his chair when he felt a tap on his shoulder and heard someone whisper his name. Had Cece come over for payback? The thought crossed his mind before he turned to look at who it was. To his surprise in the seat beside him was none other than Rosaline. The annoyance he was feeling quickly turned to a pleasant feeling as his mouth turned up into a smile at the girl. He lost his nerve to speak for a moment as he looked at the girl. This would be the second time he had been in her presence where she was dressed up beautifully. Her cheeks were a rosy pink color and she wore a sleek black dress that exposed her shoulders, it was a totally different dressed up look to what she had wore the day the two of them had attended the fall ball.
“Rosa-“ He managed to say and then continued once he gathered his thoughts. “Yes, I am actually surprised to see you. I don’t recall ever seeing you before at one of these events.” Leo said and realized they hadn’t talked much about her family nor had he really been very forthcoming with details on his own family. He hoped he hadn’t come across as rude with what he said but having attended many events he was sure they had never met before this past summer at camp. As she explained who she was here with he gave a small nod before speaking. “Oh, that’s cool. I’m glad you were able to come.” He was beyond ecstatic on the inside as he would have a friendly face to spend time with now and not be entirely bored for the entire evening. “Yes, I came with my parents. I tend to be dragged along to these events a lot.” He chuckled softly, glancing to the side and noted his parents were still conversing with others.
As he turned his attention back on the girl, a man came over to Rosa. He seemed to be familiar but Leo couldn’t quite remember his name. His father turned his head to check on Leo and noted the man that stood by Rosaline, getting up to shake his hand, his mother following suit in greeting him. The man turned out to be Rosaline’s uncle, Sidney Wrenford. “It’s always great to see you Sidney.” His father said and patted Leo’s back. “You remember my son, Leo, I’m sure although it’s probably been a little while.” Leo quickly stood, straightening his posture and put on his perfect practiced smile and gave a small bow to the man as he spoke. “Hello sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He introduced Rosaline to his parents. “ Your niece? Is that so? A pleasure Ms.Everhart.” His father said in response. “It’s lovely to meet you dear.” His mother said with a soft smile.
Wrenford? Wrenford? The last name sounded familiar. After countless events and learning the names of the most powerful and influential families, the fact it was even familiar meant they held some importance in wizarding society. Rosaline was definitely not pure blood, he knew that, but now he would be curious to learn more. Leo’s eyes averted to Rosaline as the adults moved to the side to continue talking. Should he ask? Maybe she didn’t want to talk about her family much like he didn’t bring his up much. Putting a real smile back on for the girl, he reached out to take her hand and leaned in towards her more. Whispering to her, “Do you want to go explore?” He smiled at her as he asked her, hoping she would want to escape too from the awkward conversations for a little while until it was time to eat.
ooc notes: gala outfit below
Reducio
stats: sta. 5 - eva. 5 - str. 5 - wis. 5 - arc. 5 - acc. 5 —————— ability: metamorphmagus
Leo Noxley — pc ency
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Nadira Bakari — inpc staff ency
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Sakura Hirano — inpc ency
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| STA. 5 EVA. 5 STR. 5 WIS. 5 ARC. 5 ACC. 5 |
Metamorphmagus Year 1 |
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