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

When I'm gone...

Exeat weekends, for most Hogwarts students, were typically treated as something like a break. A temporary absence from school could mean a lot of things: days home with the family or out at parties with friends, catching up on sleep or homework, doing individual passion projects, trying something new... anything but classes and the same-old-same-old of the hallowed Hogwarts halls. And whilst Aly was certainly not at Hogwarts, she somehow found herself in old stone corridors all the same.

After the debacle that had been the fall ball, a pirate-filled affair of abandoning dates and ruining designer dresses (and then the resulting journalistic and gossipy articles about such an incident), Aly had begun to feel the full force of what it could be like when the icy disappointment of an ancient pureblood family descends upon you. The letters from her grandmother, which had hardly been friendly to begin with, were beginning to feel more like professors' critiques of a particularly Troll-worthy essay; even leaked photographs of her in Hogsmeade catching a Butterbeer with friends last week, dressed in traditional Livingston pearls with her curly hair in a family-approved bun, hadn't done anything to soften the freeze. Though Aly wasn't the biggest fan of some of the rules her maternal family liked to implement, she also knew based on her mother's most recent letter that the Ravenclaw refusing to follow any more of said regulations would not turn out well for either her or Hesper. So one thing had led to another, and now she was here - in cobblestoned halls, the walls decorated with moving paintings and alcoves with various statues... but, unlike at Hogwarts, here the art wasn't just decoration. It was, other than the people, the centre of attention.

The art installation was something between a gallery launch and a thousand-year-old museum - part fancy party, part craftswork flaunting, part high fashion runway, and part auction, of course. Everyone here had far too much money to their names, as shown when they stepped into the ancient castle with their necks dripping in jewels and their bodies wrapped in the finest of fabrics... and, of course, the jingling of their coin-purses from where they sat strapped to belts or tucked in pockets. Tonight was sure to become an all-out war, with Galleons thrown rather than arrows, wealth and fame brandished instead of swords. Aly's tall, sharp heels caught at the bottom of her floor-length velvet gown as she climbed the entrance stairs; she nearly tumbled forward, and perhaps would have if not for the steady arm of her great-grandfather Keithen Priestly, who had offered to escort Aly for the evening. Likely the tales of Sir Barnabas Vidal Of The Valencia Vidals had gotten back to him, and Aly was nothing short of grateful for the rescue; still, between the stilettos placing her at a solid five-six and the itchy diamonds sewn all over the velvet mock-neck and its long sleeves, she did not necessarily seem to be in place here. If anything, the Ravenclaw felt as though she stuck out like a sore thumb or a house-elf in clothes; other than parties of small talk and chatter and fancy appetizers, she had not yet attended a true event such as this yet.

And yet she allowed herself to be excited. After all, if she were not to look forward to this, she would likely have the most miserable of times this evening.

At the top of the stairs she tightened her grip on her great-grandfather's arm, more than beholden to him for being her salvation; if Keithen had not offered his services for the night, she likely would have been assigned to yet another of the stuck-up, annoying, moderately handsome but still insufferable about it teenage boys who were in attendance. Luckily, Sir Barnabas Vidal Of The Valencia Vidals was not there, but just by casting her gaze around the cavernous, high-ceilinged, ornate and gilded vault of a room they were entering the Ravenclaw could pinpoint several persons who might have been her date this evening if her beloved great-grandfather had not intervened. That boy there, all blonde curls and Roman nose, with a pure white tuxedo that made him look rather like a ghost - or perhaps that one over there, with rich dark skin and an entirely shaved head, dressed in far too much gold to have been easy for movement. None of them, despite their attractiveness, attracted Aly. She had had enough of men of this calibre for quite a while.

For the beginning of the event - mostly social calls before the unveiling of the art pieces on which the gathered elite could bid - she continued to cling to Keithen, even as her mother, aunt, and grandparents dispersed for various hellos and how-are-yous. Her knees began to smart as she dipped into curtsy after curtsy, her toes and ankles pinching from the heels that had been rather unceremoniously forced unto her feet by Lady Prudence back at the Livingston mansion. Several faces she recognised from past events, mostly balls, including her own from August: Hollace Harred, the actress, for instance, or various other socialites with oddly alliterative names. Noor Nuwanthika. Theodora Townsley the Third. Ladies Lacey and Lynne Langley of Llandovery, accompanied by their pet cruppy, Lord Liellus. Aly was just marvelling at the sheer audacity of the latters' parents, as well as their own audacity for having continued the naming pattern with their poor dog, when the striking sound of a gavel hit thrice across the room, banging loudly and echoing around the pure white tile and gilded rafters.

A voice was soon to follow, deep and gravelly and yet altogether the fastest speech that the Ravenclaw had ever heard: "If everyone could please take their seats in the main ballroom, please, yes, the main ballroom, if everyone could take their seats so the auction may begin." It was so smushed together that it sounded more like ifeveryonecouldpleasetaketheirseats, but everyone around Aly seemed to comprehend nevertheless; like a tidal wave of gold and jewels, the socialites around her turned to head towards a large set of pure marble double doors on the other side of the cavern. Even the cruppy, Lord Liellus Langley of Llandovery, yipped excitedly and turned his head towards the doors, his double tails wagging at double speed. Aly gaped. This isn't the 'main ballroom'?

She relayed her question in a stunned whisper to her great-grandfather, who chuckled quietly and kindly under his breath. Anyone else laughing at her query may have been seen as an enemy, someone treating her like a youth or an inexperienced form of naïveté, but not Keithen; his chortles were always so low, so soft, like a private joke shared just between the two of them. "You would think so, wouldn't you, my dear? Folks like the Angoulêmes always seem to need more rooms, each bigger than the last. This place makes your grandfather's mansion look like a cabin in the woods." The Angoulême family, Aly recognised, were the hosts for the day - artists and sculptors, each more talented than the previous. The dossier she'd been sent to prepare for the day, eagerly reviewed the first time and then not-so-eagerly each time after on the way back to London on the Hogwarts Express the evening before, had drilled that name into her, at least. Keithen patted her hand, clutching the corner of his arm, as she tried to remember how to spell the surname properly. "Hold on tight. It's best we get a decent seat, lest my daughter think you're shirking responsibility as a public figure."

They made their way through the rippling, churning throng of persons - Aly only stepped on one foot, which was a personal record for her - to a seat somewhere near the front. Not too close to the auctioneer, so as not to seem too eager, but also not so far back that they could not see or, more importantly, be seen. Keithen helped her into her chair, despite Aly's protests that it should have been her assisting the caned man to take a seat, and they settled in together, Keithen subtly pointing the tip of his shimmering bronze cane in the direction of certain important persons. Some faces Aly recognised from the dossier, like the auctioneer - Monsieur Gravantis, the most famed and loudest of auctioneers among this particular circle of the gentry - and those seated up on the dais behind him, all blonde and delicate and lovely, like shining pearls or flowers just plucked. The Angoulêmes. There were four in total: the matriarch, Madame Seraphine Angoulême, with coils of golden hair piled atop her head like a beehive and wearing a very distinctive Livingston string of pearls about her wrinkled neck; the Madame's elder child and only son, Monsieur Aurélien Angoulême, whose slender features seemed more androgynous than masculine and whose hands were marked with the scars of an artist; the Madame's younger child and only daughter, Mademoiselle Margaux Angoulême, who despite giving up a promising painting career to raise a child was still considered one of the most prominent painters in France; and, of course, the aforementioned child himself, Monsieur Edouard Angoulême, who was only a few years elder than Aly and yet had already created quite a name for himself in the field of modern art. According to the dossier. It was all always according to the dossier, and now Aly was mostly concerned she'd mispronounce one of their very French names. She let her emerald eyes wander appreciatively over Edouard's sloping nose and high cheekbones for a moment before snapping out of her handsome-man-induced stupor; he was likely no kinder than the rest of them here, each one a shiny bird, simply fluffing their feathers in an aristocratic attempt to show off.

Monsieur Gravantis led the auction with ease, that much was to be said. He raffled off names and materials and years like they were nothing - "Eased Morning of Calm, sculpture by the Madame Seraphine Angoulême, Statuario marble with gold and mother-of-pearl inlay, created in 1992 for the Lord de Talleyrand-Périgord! Do I hear fifteen thousand Galleons? I've got fifteen thousand, do I have sixteen?" followed up by "Opulent Whispers of the Gilded Veil, the final painting by Mademoiselle Margaux Angoulême before her retirement in 2002, oil on canvas with an inlay of fine silk and ruby! Do I hear ten thousand Galleons? I hear ten thousand, do I hear - yes, eleven thousand to the woman just there - yes, twelve thousand - yes, thirteen!" without so much as seeming to gasp a breath in-between. Aly, who considered herself a most excellent chatterbox, felt as if she could hardly breathe just listening to him. And yet interestingly enough, despite the raised cards and voices from across the ballroom calling out numbers and claims as if twenty-five thousand Galleons was hardly nothing but a whisper in their coin-purses, Aly saw no Livingston bid a thing. She lowered her voice, leaning to barely breathe into her great-grandfather's ear, lest she catch a stray glare from Darcy or Caelum Livingston for having dared to speak during the auction: "Great-Grandfather, may I ask - why are we here if not to bid on any of the art? Isn't that the point of such an event?"

Keithen just reached an arm over to pat her knee, comfortingly, but also like one might a child. "Don't you worry, my dear," he murmured. "You shall get your art later. For now, simply smile and look as if you're enjoying the auction. At the moment, you are here to be lovely and photographed."

It wasn't a perfect answer, but Aly took it anyway, plastering a practiced smile on her beautiful, freckled face, which had been made up to the highest degree. Eyeliner and poise. Mascara and elegance. That was she.

By the time the auction ended - the final piece selling for a whopping fifty thousand Galleons, and with not a Livingston in new ownership of a single artwork - Aly was quite exhausted and ready to go home already. Her face hurt from all the smiling; her eyes smarted from the flashes of cameras, dark spots dancing in her vision. And yet she was not done, despite it all, for Darcy Livingston appeared at her seat not three seconds after the final bang of the gavel. A vision in dark emerald green, her grandmother yanked her up quite unceremoniously from her seat and clasped an arm around her that felt more like a chain than a sideways hug. "Now that such pomp and circumstance has concluded, it is time for the real event," she crowed, dragging a mostly-unwilling Aly away from her great-grandfather. "Come with me, child; let me introduce you to the Madame."

Aly was helpless to resist the pinching fingers of her grandmother as she was essentially towed, or perhaps more shepherded, through the gathered persons. Some of them seemed to recognise her grandmother, stepping aside as if a parted sea, and others required more obvious coughs or clearing of throats from Darcy, followed by mutters about oblivious plebeians. Eventually, they made their way to the other side of the auction room, where an open doorway had been corded off by a rope that seemed to have been spun of pure gold. A butler of sorts stood guard there, a young man shifting uncomfortably in pale pink dress robes that seemed to be a size too small for him; he could not have been very much older than Aly herself, and yet was in an entirely different state. If she was uncomfortable here, this poor young man was being actively tortured.

Still, he did his job, holding up one trembling hand to the formidable Darcy. Aly instantly liked him. There were very few people who dared to stand in her way, and even fewer so explicitly. ”My pardon, Madame,” he stammered, clearly nervous even though the speech sounded rehearsed. “Madame Angoulême is currently occupied, and has asked that any would-be visitors await her here in the main room.”

Darcy was almost instantly purple with fury. “Absolutely unacceptable!” she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height, which was admittedly not much compared to the young man, though it was definitely taller than Aly even in her stilettos. “Seraphine is expecting me, and my granddaughter. I will not stand for this insolence. You must fetch her at once.”

Still, the young man held firm. “I apologise, Madame. Madame Angoulême was rather specific in her instruction. If you would like, I can take a message so that you do not have to wait-”

Suddenly, mid-sentence, he stiffened. As if he had been hexed, his eyes widened, body, freezing, and suddenly he was not shifting quite so uncomfortably anymore - because he was not moving at all. Aly watched, an expression of horror slowly dawning unto her face, as the young man keeled over, as stiff as a board, to thunk unceremoniously onto the marble floor beneath them. He had landed directly on his face, and though she heard terrified grunts emanating from where his face had hit, a small pool of blood beginning to trickle from where around his nose would have been, there were no words, nor any movement, to be heard or seen from him.

Aly whirled, her breath catching in her chest, to her grandmother. “Did you see that? Should we fetch someone? A Healer, perhaps-” But her words died in her throat before her sentence could come to a conclusion. Darcy was tucking her wand, a long and thin polished branch that seemed to be made from pure pearl, back into her sleeve. Aly had not even heard her murmur the incantation, so quiet had she been while petrifying the poor young man in front of them.

Darcy pursed her lips at the shocked expression on her granddaughter’s face. “Oh, come now, Alyssa. As much as I dislike dirtying my own hands, sometimes it must be done for the ease of simplifying the situation.” As if to show that she was quite done with dirtying her hands, she brushed them off against each other in a sort of quiet clap, then reached forward and unclasped the rope that was blocking their path, handing the empty end to Aly. “Now, I believe we have business to conduct. Do close this once you have passed through - we wouldn’t want anyone following us in here now that the intended guardian has befallen an unseen misfortune.”

Absolutely dumbfounded, Aly didn’t even begin to go against her grandmother. She took the rope quietly, stepped over the young man’s body, and followed her grandmother into the room, clasping the rope behind her with one last desperate glance towards the person on the floor. In another life, or perhaps as another soul, she might have helped him. Now, however, she was a Livingston. She was to follow the rules set forth for her, and in this moment, those rules did not include helping someone, no matter how much they needed it.

She would still hate herself for this, though. This she knew already.

The room past the blocked doorway was significantly smaller than the open, airy marble ballroom in which they had just been. The Madame was indeed here, standing by a roaring fireplace on the other side of the room, speaking in hush, whispers with her daughter. Upon their entrance, though, Darcy cleared her throat quite loudly, and both of the blonde women on the other side turned to look at them. Mademoiselle Margaux quietly made her way past both Aly and Darcy without even so much as a word or glance in their direction, whilst Madame Seraphine’s ancient and wrinkled face broke out into a toothy, beaming smile. “Mon amie - my dearest friend Darcy,” she called out in a hoarse, sing-song voice, swanning her way over to them and enveloping Darcy in a hug. Aly had never exactly seen Darcy hug someone like this, melting into it in such a way - not even her own daughters, Aly’s mother and aunt. “It is only now that you show your face to me? Mon Dieu My God - I have long been awaiting your return to my estate. It has been too long.”

“Indeed, it has,” Darcy agreed, an uncommonly fond look upon her face. “But just look who I have brought you this time, Seraphine. You have not worked in bronze in so long. I think you should enjoy a bit of a challenge.”

The old woman’s piercing brown gaze shifted to Aly, and the Ravenclaw squirmed, slightly uncomfortable under such an examination. She had been poked, prodded, stared at, and photographed by more people in the last six months than ever before in her life, and yet, no amount of that could ever have prepared her for the Madame. There was just something about the way she looked at her. As if she was not a person at all, nor even an heiress, but rather, artwork, to be studied.

Madame Seraphine reached out to Aly’s face, taking her freckled cheeks in her cold, wrinkly hands. Aly froze, even more uncomfortable now, as the woman’s hands roamed all over her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her lips, and even her ears, from which large pearls currently dangled. After a moment, the old woman hummed in satisfaction. “I had read the papers, Darcy, and heard of one of the most lovely debutantes to come of the Livingston family in many years. The photographs did not do her justice. It will indeed be a challenge to capture one so beautiful, but naturally, a challenge to which I am willing to rise.”

Aly has been called many things before, everything from lovely to gorgeous, but the simple manner in which the woman stated her beauty, as if it were nothing but the simplest of incantations or arithmancy facts, somehow made her blush.

Seraphine abandoned her tactile scrutiny of Aly‘s face, turning to Darcy with one curious eyebrow raised. “Now, did you say bronze? I had heard she had been Slytherin sent, like the rest of you.”

Darcy shook her head, the disappointment as plain on her face as it had been the very first day Aly had met her. “Alas, she takes after her father. I suppose nobody is perfect. Though, as I’m sure you could have guessed, my father is quite fond of her.”

The Madame chuckled. “Ah, let him have his fun, Darcy. One of these days, however I expect that you shall send one of your newer family members to Beauxbatons. I should quite love to sculpt a Livingston out of pure marble.” The crone reached up to pinch one of Aly’s cheeks. “Perhaps in a few years, when you are married and with child, no? Beauxbatons is a most lovely school.” She turns to Darcy once more, a not-so-subtle wink thrown in the grandmother’s direction. “My Edouard is yet to marry. Perhaps some introductions ought to be made this evening.”

Darcy was the one to laugh this time, strolling towards the fire. “Perhaps indeed. Ah, but first. A manner I’d like to bring to your attention - one of your manservants who does not seem to know his place.” As Seraphine followed her, Darcy turned slightly over her shoulder to wave Aly off. “You may go now, Alyssa. I shall send someone to fetch you later for your measurements. In the meantime, to make sure that you are photographed somewhat near young Monsieur Edouard…”

The escape could not have come at a better time. Aly skin was still crawling from the old woman’s icy fingers, and her heart thumped in her chest out of worry for the young man outside. As soon as she had whirled and exited, though, she found that there was no body anymore atop the marble just outside the door; instead, a different young man dressed in pink stood watch, with not even a smear of blood on the tile to mark that there had ever been someone else there.

⚪

Later that night, after the evening and finally concluded, Aly retired to her guest room in the Livingston mansion, having scrubbed herself to blush in the tub, and yet still with the feeling of Madame Seraphine’s fingers on her face. It had not helped that later in the evening, she had been drawn into the old crone’s private art studio for measurements and photographs galore. While she had sat there, as still as one of the many marble and metal statues staring down upon her from around the walls and the rafters of the studio, the purpose for the family’s attendance at the auction had been explained to her by a very patient Keithen. It seemed that on or shortly after their seventeenth birthday, each natural-born member of the family had a bust of their head and shoulders commissioned to reside in a certain hallway here in the mansion. Though Aly had quite figured this out on her own, the material of the statue for each person was based upon their Hogwarts house or school that they had attended. Because of this, hers would be bronze, the first in a long line of silver. Darcy had spent much of the measurement session muttering angrily in the corner about how Aly’s statue would appear tarnished compared to the others, but when the Madame suggested simply making Aly’s in silver to match the others, Darcy had pitched quite a fit about tradition - ironic, considering she herself did not have a statue as she had not been born in a Livingston.

The young teenager should have been proud that her family was continuously accepting her despite some of the more recent blunders she had made. Grateful. Excited for these opportunities. And yet, as she settled into the plush pillows of silk and brocade upon her guest bed, all she could think about was how much she wished she was back at school. Using this free weekend, such a rarity in these times, to spend moments with her friends, laughing and happy, or really doing anything except watching a poor young man be hexed right in front of her simply for doing his job. Granted, she herself had killed a house-elf over the summer, but that was different. That had been self-defence. Cruelty for the sake of it was not in Aly’s nature, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered: If I stay, is that who I will be expected to become?

If I go, though, what will they think of me when I’m gone?

Cast the bronze for the bust of my head to be displayed in the library...

Paris, France | November 8^th, 2025 | gown, jewelry in banner | #C47DDB