This is part of Aly's Cast the Bronze storyline. You can find other portions here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Or could I stand to maybe show a little skin?

Just over two weeks had elapsed since Aly Salinger had met her estranged maternal family for the first time and, to them, unofficially become Alyssa Livingston instead. At least, thus was the name now emblazoned deep in the vaults of Gringotts, engraved by magic on a wall of solid gold - which just about summarised the everyday doings of the Livingston family. Other than having attended Winnie's disastrous wedding and subsequent (somehow even more disastrous) reception on the fifth, the last fortnight (there she was, forever) Aly had spent deep in the throes of last-minute etiquette lessons that covered everything from how to walk and curtsy to "stage presence" (whatever that meant), ball decoration and layout preparations, gown fittings, ballroom dance rehearsals, shoe shopping, posture rectifications, speech-writing sessions, and practising smiling, as if the last one was something the ever-friendly Ravenclaw needed to do. And yet, she did - not only did she need to work on hiding the Mandrake leaf that had been hidden in her mouth at the July full moon, it turned out that her everyday grin was too "casual" and "excitable", showed too much "bottom teeth", and did not seem as "elegant" as her newly appointed, aptly monikered, and family-ordered tutor, Lady Prudence, did much enjoy telling her.

Lady Prudence always seemed to have some critique on anything, or everything, that Aly was doing wrong. She filled the void left by Becca's quick absence - truly, Aly hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to her beloved house-elf as she'd been fired, packed, and left whilst Aly was still at Gringotts - in all the wrong ways: shooing Aly from the kitchen ("A lady must not sully her hands with cookery!"), barging in on what little free time the Ravenclaw had left with new tasks ("The time has come to walk the stairs in these, your highest heels!"), forcibly rolling back Aly's shoulders with her clawed hands ("A lady mustn't slump!"), and even going so far as to edit Aly's writing ("Should you speak this speech at your debutante ball, you shall be laughed from high society before the end of the first sentence!") - the latter of which was arguably the worst of all. She’d also nearly ruined Aly’s attempt at the Animagus ritual by catching her sneaking out to the dawn outside one morning (“A lady requires precise, uninterrupted beauty sleep!”), but at least Aly had managed to sneak through the window to cast her ritual spell moments after returning to her room, so the whole Mandrake-leaf-in-mouth thing was not a total waste.

In case it was not yet clear, Aly much despised Lady Prudence.

And yet her time in the Salinger house was short-lived; on the afternoon of the nineteenth July, the lady packed her trunks whilst Aly was bathing (she very narrowly convinced her tutor that it was a task with which she needed no assistance) and dressing in the various layers and petticoats required for her custom gown. Only then did Lady Prudence come in, lacing Aly's corset so tightly she was sure a lung would burst, assisting the movement-hindered Ravenclaw into the gown itself (a slim, figure-fitting black silk garment with matching gloves and a full mermaid skirt of cream-coloured tulle that rustled gently when she walked), accessorising her with large pearl earrings that dripped like heaven from her ears, and performing one last posture correction. "We mustn't fix your hair or face yet, Alyssa," she proclaimed in her usual unnecessarily haughty voice, tying Aly's hair back with a black silk ribbon for now; "it shall only become undone on the Floo trip. Now, let us away downstairs for the travel..."

Downstairs, Hesper was waiting in a gown of emerald velvet that Aly had never seen; the two and Prudence each stepped into the fire, throwing a handful from their mantletop pot of Floo powder and proclaiming "Livingston Manor!" as their destination. When Aly tumbled from the fireplace into a gilded office practically dripping with various jewels, fancy paintings, and shimmering mirrors at the end of her admittedly shaky journey, quite glad that she hadn't yet had her hair done, she found that both of the elder women had landed quite gracefully on their feet, and Lady Prudence tutted under her breath. "It seems you still have much to learn," she scolded Aly, moving her wand over the bespoke silk to siphon off any soot that had stuck to the luxurious fabric. "Now, come; take this seat, and I shall fix your hair..."

Under Prudence's expert fingers, Aly's curls were brushed slickly back; for a moment Aly thought they might be straightened, but instead each ringlet was carefully twisted into being part of an elegant bun that rested softly on the back of her head. The makeup brushes, however, were another story, and after at least thirty long minutes of them positively beating her face (sometimes multiple at a time, under the care of the lady's wand), Aly was spun to face one of the mirrors nearby only not to recognise herself in the reflection within. She was about three shades tanner, her hair slightly darkened by the product that tamed her wild flyaways; the reckless pattern of freckles across her face and shoulders had been covered with various creams, which also hid her beloved butterfly tattoos (clearly Hesper's doing; she had not been fond of the designs since Aly had brought them home nearly three weeks before). Her eyebrows were straight and plucked to thin perfection, her nose long and sharp, her lips a natural blush pink - she seemed... different, somehow. More precise. Better-honed. A perfect, sharpened weapon, ready to take on the battle that was a debutante ball. Perhaps this was a war after all.

She was then escorted, by her two companions and what seemed like a whole host of unfamiliar house-elves, up various spiral staircases to an opulent bedroom full of plush pillows, elegant candelabras, and towering golden fixtures - told to stay here, in this not-so-tiny fourth-floor room with her palms sweating and her knees weak, until Lady Prudence or else someone of the family came to fetch her. As her mother and tutor made their exit, Aly reached out instinctively to either of them, but too late; the door closed behind them with a binding thunk, sealing her in much like gold into a Gringotts vault. She became less than a person, in that moment. She was treasure now - something shiny and precious, to be hoarded and flaunted and praised, but not considered.

Luckily, her mascara was waterproof.

⚪

It seemed that she waited there close to forever, tears drying by nature on her made-up face, until a slight knock at the door surprised her. Unfortunately, there wasn't time enough to truly do much other than sit up straight before the door swung quietly open to reveal none other than Aly's great-grandfather, Keithen Priestly, costumed quite elegantly in a navy velvet dress robe pinned with various medals and awards. As per usual (or, at least, what Aly assumed to be usual, since she had only met him once), he carried in his left hand a polished cane headed by a bronze handle depicting a wingspread eagle, which he used to hobble his way into the room. Despite the fact that he lived here, in this museum of a house with his daughter and son-in-law, he seemed dwarfed by the high ceilings and washed out by the gold and jewels that hung from every alcove and decorated every inch of wall - as if he, like Aly, was not supposed to be there. Still, he moved with confidence into her space and offered her a lone arm, as if she was the one who would need assistance walking. Though, perhaps in these heels, she might have.

"I'm to escort you downstairs, my dear," he said softly, though in his quavering tone, the endearment sounded more like a kindness than it did the weapon as which his daughter wielded it. "The guests have arrived and the introductions are nearly complete; they'll be waiting eagerly for your arrival."

Aly pushed herself off the bed, wobbling only slightly in her too-tall stilettos. As she had become used to doing over the past ten days, she shoved the Mandrake leaf to the top corner of her mouth between her teeth and inner lip, where it would neither move nor be visible no matter how much she talked or smiled (though eating and drinking was sure to be another matter). "Yes, sir."

But the look on her face must have said more than her steeled tone, for as she slipped her hand into his elbow as she had so prodigiously been trained to do over the last fortnight, his weight on her wrist grew heavy; he had lifted his caned hand from the ground to pat hers gently. As she turned to look into his shadowed blue gaze, partially hidden by his drooping brow, she found not the piercing look of his daughter Darcy but instead kindness hidden there within. He even smiled as he patted her hand, his gesture only bringing some small form of relief, as if she had someone who was there with her instead of for her. "It may seem to be the highest mountain, but 'tis nothing but a small hill. One step after the other, my dear. It shall come to pass."

Aly forced a leafless smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Oh, do call me Great-Grandfather," her escort insisted with one last squeeze of her hand before placing his canetip back on the floor. "It has been many years since I've heard that one."

Keithen led her through the veritable maze of gold-encrusted corridors and pearl-laden rooms, each only showing more of the Livingstons' wealth than the prior. Truly, though Aly had grown up wanting for nothing and had since visited plenty of wealthy pureblood estates via her friends and some enemies, she had seen nothing like her maternal family's manor, which seemed to be more like an old palace or exhibit than a home. She had been told that the manor was Unplottable and enchanted, unable to be found or visited unless one specifically had an invite, and the reason was clear: she had unwittingly, her whole life, been part of a jewel empire. Whether it was entire statues carved from diamond or glittering display cases full of the most shining necklaces she'd ever seen, there was certainly something here that was so different from the rest of the world. Something brighter, bigger, more frightening - and Aly couldn't help feeling as if she were nothing but a mouse in comparison to the grandeur that surrounded her. Still, she walked slowly in pace with her great-grandfather, green gaze wandering, just trying to take it all in and calm her fluttering heart. A similar flittering sensation on her shoulder told her that, beneath the makeup, her skin was palpating from the butterflies' own nerves. You know butterflies in your stomach? For Aly, they were on her skin instead.

She managed to not throw up on the walk, though. That was a plus.

Before they knew it, faint chatter turned into nearby lively music and conversation, and Aly and her escort came to a slow stop in front of the backside of a rich velvet curtain in a darker green that seemed to rest somewhere between her mother's gown and her own. Clear, warm violins sung a song that somehow felt both merry and somber on the other side, though everything sounded like it was below them, and Prudence's description of the debut through which Aly would go came to mind as if Aly hadn't been mentally practicing it, full of fear she'd slip up both literally and metaphorically, for the past days. You will descend with your escort down a grand staircase, beneath which anyone who is anyone shall be waiting; they shall announce you during your descent. Ten steps - not eleven, not nine, but ten - from the bottom, stop and curtsy to the matriarch and patriarch of the house, as low as you are possibly able... and so on and so forth until the violins began to fade, the curtains parting in front of them.

Aly sucked in a breath - of fear or of nerve?

Beneath the opulent grand staircase that stretched out before her, all marble and gold, truly did stand a large populace - though Aly was disappointed to realise she recognised not a single face in the waiting crowd below. Clearly the Livingstons were rather picky with their invites. If Aly had hoped for a friend to whom she could cling, those dreams were dashed now. Still, she took a trembling step forward with Keithen, then another, and then just as they went down the first step, he lurched beside her - just barely catching himself with his cane. Aly turned to him, her eyes wide, heart pounding in her chest, just to find him pale-faced and red-eared; for a moment, the worst flashed through her mind, an imagination of something happening to the only person who had been kind to her here, but he seemed to see it in her face and took his elbow from her hand to wave her off. "I'm all right, love. Stairs just aren't my strong suit," he whispered, gesturing for Aly to continue on without him. "Go on, now. You need no escort."

Aly wanted to argue that the exact opposite was true - she had been lectured for weeks now on the importance of being properly introduced to high society - but his wavering gait told her that she would need to continue on by herself. With another deep breath in her lungs, Aly pulled her skirt an inch from the white marble of the steps and took one stair down, then another, a lippy smile plastered practically upon her face.

You will descend with your escort down a grand staircase, beneath which anyone who is anyone shall be waiting.

She now understood why black was the colour of choice, looking around as she descended for eons down the stairs; the ballroom was exclusively painted in white and gold, and most of the guests bore the same colour palette. It seemed that the Livingstons enforced an extremely strict guest dress code, and one for family, too, as every face she did recognise - her mother, her aunt, and her grandmother and grandfather at the bottom of the stairs - as well as several others who were strangers to her were all dressed in the same emerald velvet, simply in differing cuts and styles. Even the serving staff, mingling with the guests carrying trays of various canapés and champagne flutes, were bedecked starkly in pure white. Aly herself would be the only one in black - fitting, almost, despite the purity she was meant to represent. After all, there was an austere pall in the air, even as the enchanted voice of some nearby announcer declared her name, her current status as a seventh-year Hogwarts student, some of her greater achievements like the straight-O O.W.L.s and the Quidditch captaincy. Truly, it felt almost like a funeral rather than a celebration.

Ten steps - not eleven, not nine, but ten - from the bottom, stop and curtsy to the matriarch and patriarch of the house.

The music had returned, louder now, though it was likely just that it seemed to be so due to the lack of anyone speaking. Aly focused on the tenth step from the bottom, though making sure her chin was still held high, her shoulders rolled back; nearby, she saw Lady Prudence - also dressed in emerald, despite her lack of shared blood, likely to represent the part she had held in the planning and training of the lady of the day - almost smile with something akin to pride. She came to rest there, just several heads above everyone else, and with her eyes glued strictly to her grandparents, lowered her chin and extended her right foot behind her left. She bent until her knee nearly brushed the floor - truly a feat, in a dress as tight as this - before slowly coming back into a standing position, a rush of relief flooding through her as she realised she hadn't tripped and fallen down the steps for everyone to see.

When the patriarch extends his hand, you shall complete the last steps and come to rest in front of them, where your grandmother will adorn you with the Livingston debutante pearls.

Heartbeats thudded in her ears for seconds, minutes, hours (truly only about thirty seconds) until she saw Caelum Livingston begin to move. Sure enough, his hand extended outwards to her until it came to rest at a ninety-degree angle, as if he was beckoning her forward; forward she came, then, finishing the remainder of the steps until her stilettos clicked on the crystal floor of the ballroom itself. She placed her hand in her grandfather's, which dwarfed hers, and he stepped to her side, leaving Darcy Livingston to step forward. Despite having married into the Livingston family (and, according to Hesper, having "mellowed out" since her own childhood growing up here), Darcy struck a terrifying figure in yet another emerald gown, her blonde hair pinned into somewhat of a beehive and her brows furrowed into what seemed to be her typical frustrated look, with several strings of shimmering white pearls in her hands. They were tall, all gathered together at each end by a long golden clasp - it was one necklace, despite seeming to be several. Aly's grandmother reached forward to clasp this stack of pearls so that it choked round her slender throat, elongating her neck somewhat so that if Aly were to ever look down the largest of the pearls would dig directly into the soft part of her vocal cords. A torture, then, disguised as an accessory - and, according to Prudence, one that each Livingston debutante had worn for the past centuries.

From there, your grandfather will escort you to the dance floor, where you shall perform the family waltz as you have been trained.

Once the clasp had clicked into place, Caelum began to lead Aly away, and the crowd in front of them parted as if they were apologetic for simply having stood in their path. They came to the dance floor, where the music grew louder and into a three-count: the Waltz Pascal, named after the very first Livingston who had entered the jewel trade so many years ago. Danced at every Livingston party since, or so claimed Prudence - an assertion confirmed by how easily Caelum stepped into it, a triple-step move that swept Aly and her grandfather around the dance floor as effortlessly as if they were flying. Aly had danced with her father growing up, and she had been enchanted at the Mistletoe Spin the summer prior so that her feet moved easily in tune with the music, but this felt even more straightforward than those, so practiced was her dance partner.

Upon the final bow, you shall be applauded and considered a true debutante, and it is only then that you shall be able to enter the ball.

When the music faded, Caelum stepped away from her and bowed to ninety degrees; as she had practiced (albeit with a different partner), Aly curtsied in response, the pearls digging into her throat, and it took everything in her not to cough. The moment she moved from the almost-kneeling position into a stand, the crowd around her erupted in applause that seemed almost too polite - she flinched, but managed to stay standing and with a pleasant smile on her face. And then they were upon her, like gnomes to a helpless Horklump.

All eyes shall be upon you, and your manners must be on full display. You must walk, speak, eat, and breathe as if you are the very picture of pureblooded perfection.

For the next several hours, Aly met more people of "higher status" than she had ever even heard of; luckily, upon most of the guest list she had been trained so that she at least knew of certain accomplishments when she heard a specific name. Lord Alistair Henley, for instance, was a masterly gastronomist who owned a string of restaurants in at least a dozen wizarding establishments worldwide; Hollace Harred, an actress of the highest caliber who had starred in over one hundred stage plays at the richest theatres. Sir Rudyard Aborough was the Naming Seer who had consulted on every Livingston birth for the past seven decades, and Aldric and Eloise Valerian were the current purveyors of the centuries-old Valerian Consortium, the Livingston family's one and only choice for potioneering needs as well as well-known fashion symbols. (Used with permission from Blaize.) There were also a host of "young, eligible" men give or take her age (or five to eight years older) to whom Aly was introduced, each with a more insufferable name than the last, like Chauncey, or Ardalion, or Reginald... and then there were other members of her family to meet, plenty of distanced great-aunts and great-uncles and cousins, as well as her mother's eldest brother Anatoly, his wife Wisteria, their son Jakin, and his two children, Pascal and Fenne - five-year-old twins who, despite their youth, seemed more practiced at all this than Aly herself could ever be.

Never shake a hand - extend it to be kissed for men, and for women, a delicate mutual kiss to the cheek.

She greeted each one with as much ease as she had stress, placing a kiss on Eloise Valerian's cheek before offering her hand to the herbologist's husband, for instance. The only exception was Sir Aborough, of whom she had been warned as being exceptionally kooky; he shook her by the shoulders before proclaiming, quite mystically, that she would bear seven children in time. Aly tried to take each one in stride, discussing Lord Henley's culinary arts or accepting his hand for a dance in the same manner as she laughed off Sir Aborough's strange prediction, all the while keeping that practiced, elegant smile upon her face and taking small sips of her champagne or tiny bites of canapes as if she were too delicate or tiny to ingest the full amount. Partially it was the most elegant way to eat, according to Lady Prudence, but it also aided in keeping the hidden Mandrake leaf hidden without swallowing it accidentally. In truth, she was starving and bored and scared, and her ribs bloody hurt just as much as her throat, but she kept repeating to herself: Just a bit more. Just a bit more.

At some point throughout the night, you will be pulled aside for an official photograph, as is standard. But you must always keep your smile - there shall be reporters in abundance attending.

The photograph was a brief respite, a breath of fresh air in which she was taken to another room and adorned with more jewels than she could carry before being pictured from every which angle, but soon enough she returned to the ballroom for more dancing, more chatter, more of everything. She did not miss the occasional flash of a photograph being taken nearby - Prudence had been right, there were reporters aplenty about. But finally, just when it seemed that the night would ever end, the crowd began to dwindle, many crowding around Aly to say their good-byes before heading up towards the Floo fireplaces and back to their respective homes. Aly herself was one of the last, naturally, and when she eventually returned at around three a.m. to the much humbler Salinger family home - stomach growling, feet smarting, ribs crushed, and cheeks hurting from all the smiles - she somehow found herself more pleased than relieved, in spite of it all. How had she possibly found that to be even the slightest bit enjoyable?

If you succeed, you will carry on the next generation of the Livingston name. Social connections shall flock to you as you strengthen our standing within society. But if you fail, dishonour shall rain upon not only you but your mother as well, for marrying outside of society, and your father's family as well as the proper side. You would not dare tarnish your maternal side's pristine name and centuries of reputability.

In the end, Aly thought she might have succeeded. But she would not be sure until all those reporters from earlier made their judgments in whatever rags for which they wrote - and, of course, what her family reported, in the end.

Tear all my clothes and patch 'em up with safety pins?

Somewhere Unplottable in England | July 19^th, 2025 | outfit in banner | #C47DDB