2330 hours, Le Masquerade
Knockturn Alley


"And a tall glass of sparkling water for dear uncle, won't you?" Rascal Rosier stretched his lanky legs, leaning back on the bar stool against the marble counter as he faced the dizzying and brilliant festivities on the floor. It was cabaret night and Éloi's dancers were far from disappointing- they were a sweeping force of flashing legs, of glittering garb, of enticing eyes.

Even so. You think that Uncle Cam would be enjoying himself.

A rather tipsy witch in flimsy heels and a plunging neckline was leaning over at the bar next to them. "Haven't see you around here before..." she was nursing a drink, staring with green eyes from behind a black mask. "Not joining in on the dancing?"

The author glanced away from his sullen relative, avoiding the parade of cleavage and smiling boyishly at her. They weren't here to... pick up doves, so to speak. Uncle wasn't exactly a- what's the word - wingman?

"Clearly weren't looking hard enough before," Rascal commented with a wink. "And I think you would be a much better sight on the dance floor than two old codgers like ourselves." That was a first. Using flattery to get rid of a pigeon. She smiled brilliantly at the pair, turning on her heels to move away. His eyes followed the figure politely.

As far as sweethearts went, he swung whichever direction the wind blew- either way, there was something to be said about a fine movement of the hips.

"Are you looking to find a witch friend tonight, Uncle?" Rascal looked back at the older wizard, grinning. "Or still stuck on that gossip hag they call a writer?"

He really didn't want to go out tonight, especially not with Rascal...especially not to this horrid place. What was the point of wearing a bloody mask? It looked ridiculous and it bothered him - he couldn't even see properly! Since he stopped drinking, Rosier had no desire to go out to places like Le Masquerade. He usually did enjoy cabaret, but not with a glass of sparkling water and not with his irritating nephew. But alas, he was forced to get out of the house tonight - it was the only way to make Rascal shut up. Just when Cameron thought he was getting used to living with his nephew, Rascal did something insane again. Maybe he should escape to Morocco again...

He listened to the 'banterous' exchange between Rascal and a random girl, sort of wishing he were deaf. Ignoring them, he sipped his sparkling water while imagining it was in fact gin and tonic. "You're quite the charmer, Cyn," he said while watching the girl leave, just as Rascal did. "I wonder where you got it from..." Cameron sometimes called him by his real name - Cynric, mainly because the made-up name 'Rascal' sounded a bit ridiculous - just like everything about his nephew. He was on his third cigarette already, but there was not much to do here other than smoke and do his best not to lose his mind.

"Do I hear the pot calling the kettle black?" It was a bit unfair for him to criticize Dolly's novels when all he wrote was pure drivel. Truth be told, Cameron did not read neither Dolly's nor Rascal's books, but he had a general idea about them - also he read the Prophet religiously which oftentimes reviewed their 'works'. "You can have all the witch-friends you like, Rascal," there he gestured with his hand around them. "I'm quite content with the -what did you call her -gossip hag?" He sounded so modest - as if his current lover wasn't the most gorgeous witch in Britain, as if he was just a plain, average man without four failed marriages behind him.

In what bizarre reality would Dolly St.James be associated with something as domestic as a kettle?

Rascal cocked an eyebrow at his uncle, grinning boyishly at the older man's comment. All the witch-friends he liked. Perhaps, but it wasn't a witch who'd been bobbing about his lively mind recently. He crossed his legs leisurely, noting the eggshell glasses that had slid into place along the counter behind them.

Cam's sparkling water danced with bubbles. His apple juice was still.

"Content, uncle, is another word for bored~" Rascal commented flippantly. "But I wouldn't compromise even your boredom for all the slippery sharkskins in the world." He had nothing personal against the other man's taste in partners, except that it was brilliant to joke about.

The author brought the drink to his lips- beneath the dark mask, his eyes were swimming intelligently with mischief. Éloi was tolerant of tomfoolery but one couldn't exactly explode anything at Le Masque tonight and expect to remain in good graces. Although... something had to be done about dear uncle.

"We ought to kidnap a skirt," he piped up with a dangerous look at Cam. "Your hag needn't worry uncle, it won't be too scandalous. Besides-" Rascal tapped the sides of his ceramic disguise. "- that's what these are for..."

Monday night wasn't the best night to drink, Johann admitted, especially not so late, but he knew tonight he'd have trouble sleeping, and he was trying so hard not to take potion with meeting Arcturus the night before. But there was too much chattering in his head in the quiet of the flat he shared with Colin. At least here he could play a part, indulge in noise - music, voices, distractions. Being absent on an night wasn't entirely unusual for him, and there was only so much mindless late night television he could be fascinated by until he decided Muggles were all rather dim for letting television rot their imaginations.

Desrosiers never let his guests be bored, a quality that had kept Johann's attention and membership the past few months. He escaped here quietly on a night to exist and be swept along. So he paused just inside the room, where the lights just reached to illuminate the turned faces of the guests to the performers, and stopped to admire the show a moment.

His blue eyes picked out figures sat up at the bar, body shapes were sometimes familiar if not disguised along with masks. Even so, when he did recognise someone from the Ministry, he respected the anonymity, and hoped they would respect his. His accent, despite his very good English, often gave away who he was to those who met him in life. Being a man of memory, books and languages, not wandwork, he hadn't elected to change his voice, for fear of sounding like a first year boy from Hogwarts by accident. Not the voice of a six foot odd wizard in a good suit, with black curls that fell to his shirt collar.

The performer was giving a bow, applause rippled in corners, and then it was on with the show. Johann's gaze dropped and he made his way across the room to the bar, a man was turning to survey the room, and Johann felt a flicker of recognition as he observed the way the other man moved.

"Your hag ... be too scandalous." Drawing to the bar just at earshot, enough distance to be respectful, he paused to be attended, eyes behind his own simple black mask inspecting the man's figure at closer range, trying to decide. Just when he thought he could be sure, the patrons of the club could disguise themselves, and the the game began again. It was always wrong to assume, but his gut feeling was generally good to follow, Johann found.

"Good evening." He greeted the other two wizards politely, and then uttered his request to the figure the other side of the bar, placing his palms on the bar top and leaning forward, rolling up onto the balls of his feet to utter it clearly against the music. Dropping back onto his heels he turned and looked quizzically at the younger man.

"Don't think hags perform good cabaret." Go on, speak Johann willed the other man, wanting to remember the voice of the long nosed man who had run his fingertip along Johann's scythe, locked eyes mischievously with him. "Or is yours an exception?" He asked the older man, realising as he leaned round that neither of the drinks with the other two seemed to be that innocuous, in fact, the second seemed to be drinking water. Curious. Johann wouldn't necessarily be joining them in staying dry - he had hopes of some sleep, even if he had to be a bit merry to become sleepy.

"Then your mother must have been very content when she had you," he said quickly, slightly annoyed but not actually in bad spirits. It was too early for insulting each other's mothers, but there was no other way to talk to this numskull. Even if content meant bored, he would rather be bored than anything Rascal suggests. But he wasn't bored - his life was quite eventful and whoever called Dolly boring should check into St. Mungo's immediately. Oh yes...too late for that - Rascal was indeed a former patient. Cameron tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

He did not like how loosely Rascal used the word 'kidnap' also together with that freaky stare which graced his face sometimes. It was also strange to listen to his nephew talk about women - he made it sound as if they were toys. And as if a simple mask would protect his identity! And would it protect him from feeling guilty and wanting to curse himself into oblivion? No. He was perfectly content here with his sparkling water, with his own troubles and merely enjoying the view. Now if only a miracle would happen and a giant rock would fall from the sky, smashing Rascal in the process.

Such miracle did not happen, though a distraction in form of another masked gentleman was almost as welcome. There was something familiar about the wizard's mannerisms, but so far Rosier could not tell if he knows him or not. But this wasn't of vital importance right now - now he was happy he distracted Rascal's ramblings. "Yes, I believe mine is an exception," he smirked at the masked wizard, thinking how Dolly would fit in perfectly to just about any cabaret. But then again, she was a girl of many talents.

He took a sip of his sparkling water (hoping that it indeed resembled gin and tonic) and offered a tiny smile to the newcomer. "Wonderful evening," he said without much enthusiasm, but clearly doing anything just so he won't have to continue conversing with his nephew.

Whenever uncle brought out any mention of mothers, he knew that they were treading a certain line of annoyance. Which was a fun place to be, in Rascal's opinion.

He was on the very brink of saying something terribly clever about mahogany bunnies and various of their relatives when the interruption wedged itself into the conversation. The tall and lean figure that had thrown a shadow across them was engaging now- the author angled his body towards this stranger as he ran a gaze across the man. Familiar.

"Yes, I believe mine is an exception," Cam was typically civil (and content) in his response. "Wonderful evening."

Anymore 'wonderful' and the older relative might dare resort to actual sarcasm. Rascal shook his head dramatically at uncle and then lowered his head theatrically at their new acquaintance.

"Don't listen to uncle, simply isn't his usual barrel of intoxicated monkeys tonight-" he sighed with disappointment but a grin was creeping at his lips. "I was only just suggesting we accost a dancer but you might do as well." Rascal winked, more than conscious of Cam's disdain for any attempts at flirting.

Served him right for bringing up his mother!

Éloi had spent his Sunday shopping in Paris to prepare for the upcoming À la thème. There weren't that many shops in England catering to his special needs, and as much as he would've enjoyed the scandalized look on the vendors faces upon hearing his request, looking for dresses, high-heels and hosiery in Paris had a charm in its own right. But, of course, the second he was finished putting together his exquisite transvestite outfit... well, Paris, was Paris. You did not go to Paris without staying for a night to bathe in its beauty and debauchery. No, not really.

Which is why Éloi staggered back to Le Masque in the middle of the day at noon, only to practically collapse in the little bedroom he had devised for himself on the second floor. Which is, also why Éloi had woken up at ten in the night with a godawful headache, a sole sock and his jacket missing, smelling of cigarettes, alcohol and a strong floral perfume -that was not his by any chance- and what appeared to be a pair of bright pink lace knickers stuffed in the pocket of his trousers. "Mon Dieu" was all he managed to grunt as soon as he had gathered his wits. "Must've been terribly drunk... Pink. Quelle horreur" he continued with a frown, trying to remember the face, or faces that had kept him in Paris for the night.

But, before long he was fresh and clean, dressed in a simple black suit with a slim cut, his damp hair pulled back in a messy chignon at the top of his head and ready to venture downstairs, see what his lovely club was all about tonight. Which wasn't much, mind you, Monday nights were such a bore. And, alas, he was mostly right. After taking a small tour, smiling charmingly, kissing cheeks and shaking hands with his patrons, he set straight for the bar. He was of the opinion that one ought to fight fire with fire, ergo his hangover right now would be best seen to with a Peach and Lime Daiquiri.

However, seeing them from the corner of his eyes as he was entering the bar, the small group of gentlemen perched at the bar had piqued his interest. His bartenders had politely saluted him and had his drink ready in a jiffy and Éloi smiled back charmingly, inhaling the sweet fresh scent of the drink. But going around the long bar, and to the front where the chairs were, suddenly seemed like such a long trip. So he dragged an empty case of beer, and hoisted himself up the bar, pushing his legs to hang over the edge. Of course, Éloi had no concept of personal boundaries, so he saw nothing wrong with positioning himself in front and right between the two gentlemen. He crossed his legs and took a sip of his Daiquiri, making a rather too pleased noise... more like a moan, really.

"Messieurs, hope I'm not interrupting" he said smiling sheepishly, before adding in a lower voice "too much." He knew one of them was Monsieur Rascal Rosier, one couldn't help but have his memory burned at the top of their minds, once they had the pleasure of acquainting themselves with him. He also recognized Monsieur Storm, right next to them and if he had to take a guess, the other gentleman was Dolly's little pup, Cameron Rosier. Because any man that fell to the glorious charms of Mademoiselle St. James, would soon become just that. An excited little dog, wrapped around the delicate fingers of Dolly. And Éloi chuckled into his glass. "My dancers, Messieurs are not to be accosted" he said faking seriousness, before he raised his wrist to his eyes. "At least, not for a few more minutes" he continued with a devilish grin. "Almost twelve and they're all yours. Although I do have to say, Cinderella's charms usually... falter after midnight" he said whimsically. Sure, the dancers were absolutely marvelous while actually dancing, Éloi had handpicked them after all, but they tended to be rather ordinary, rude, or simply uninteresting once the show was done. "Quelle dommage" he said sipping on his drink while absentmindedly looking at the stage.

The one with the hag didn't seem so interested to talk, but Johann's ears pricked at the voice, hang on…

Then the one he was willing to speak did.

"Don't listen to uncle, simply isn't his usual barrel of intoxicated monkeys tonight- I was only just suggesting we accost a dancer but you might do as well." There was a wink.

Johann's eyebrow arched and he maintained eye contact.
"You haven't seen my dancing though." He told the smaller man, who was almost certainly Rumple from the other night. Uncle, an uncle…

"Messieurs, hope I'm not interrupting too much." The proprietor of the establishment graced them with his presence, and the gaze between the two wizards was broken.

"Good evening." Johann greeted politely, nodding and smiling with closed lips at the Frenchman.

"My dancers, Messieurs are not to be accosted, at least, not for a few more minutes. Almost twelve and they're all yours. Although I do have to say, Cinderella's charms usually... falter after midnight"

Communally, attention had been drawn back to the stage. Funny costumes, cabaret, Johann thought.

"You best wait and snag yourself and your uncle one." Johann told the shorter man smoothly before taking a thirsty drink from his cocktail, and then looking back to see if no-longer-Rumple had moved.

"That is, if he's not happy with his own hag and not being intoxicated 'like a barrel of monkeys'." Johann quoted the earlier comment, and his eyes slid to Eloi with a shrug of the shoulders as to the turn of phrase. 

“Surely his evening could be salvaged?” a voice cut in, sly with laughter.

Drawing away from the arm of another, CeeCee approached, wreathed in smiles and looking brilliant in short, swishing, lipstick red. Though not a frequent patron of Le Masq, it wasn’t for a lack of fondness for the place, and so the times she did visit were always looked forward to, thusly dressed up for with a nod to the high standards it upheld. Coming here – while never, honestly, her first choice – was always something she enjoyed; in Diagon there really wasn’t another place where she could meet kinds of people so varied.

Such as this group. All men, which practically lent itself a… penguin-like uniformity –but so clearly a bunch more motley than assumed. Her fellow author and the notorious club owner, she knew, lent variety to any group merely by being there.

Absentmindedly, she wondered where her date was.

Hands locked behind her, CeeCee came to stand beside Éloi in smooth, easy strides, almost jaunty in step. Beside his extravagance, the witch was, to her amusement, nearly plain in comparison; there was only so much five-inch heels could do. “Monsieur Éloi,” she playfully bobbed a quick, graceful curtsy, before facing the rest of the group with a grin. Mask be damned, it reached all the way up to her eyes. Carelessly she tossed back an errant lock of hair and gave the ever-recognizable Rascal (that chin, okay) a wink. “Gentlemen,” she greeted, hands planted on hips as she glanced around expectantly. “Having fun? -With the exception of one, perhaps.”

Gaze settling on Cam, her smile was just this side of teasing.

---

Cameron's grimace resembled the ugliest Parisian gargoyle as Rascal addressed the lanky newcomer. He decided not to comment this time - he was slowly learning that replying to his nephew with witty comments and insults only made the situation worse. Needless to say, he was a slow learner. But this mask situation was quite unfortunate as Rosier was certain he knew the man who approached them. He focused on what he was saying this time, trying to recognize the voice. Well, his attempted focusing was short-lived once again as a new distraction presented itself.

What sort of an establishment encouraged their employees to shamelessly toss themselves across the bar, nearly knocking down all the drinks in the process (not that it would be a terrible waste, though)? Before the young man spoke, Rosier just assumed he was a terribly tall and ungraceful woman, so when he actually heard his voice, his eyebrows flew up in surprise. This evening was getting ridiculous! Tempted to tell the flamboyant Frenchman that he indeed was interrupting, Rosier just remained silent again. Maybe this was a good thing - the more the merrier, no? Maybe Rascal won't notice if his uncle just sneaks out and runs home.

"Don't worry," he said to the blond man, feigning seriousness, just like he did (though without the dramatic note). "No one is going to accost anything...Except maybe these two - they seem quite keen on accosting each other." He looked in the direction of his mentally challenged nephew and the tall man who again suggested snagging some dancers. Rosier was sick of their inane banter!

Realizing he finds the company of a strange French person more engaging than the company of his nephew suddenly made Rosier feel quite depressed. He was looking for the quickest way out of this unfortunate situation. Ordering more sparkling water never seemed so tempting...But then (surprise, surprise) another distraction. But this one was definitely more welcome. Was it that painfully obvious that he wasn't having fun? Well, probably yes, since Rosier never had fun. "Very generous of you to come to my rescue," he said to the girl, still acting very serious - as if he needed to establish that he was the most mentally stable person in this group.

Rascal was a puppy dog.

His ears had pricked up at the first stranger's continued comments, alerted by the meeting of a gaze he would have recognized even in shadow- perhaps the shadow of a black hood? He straightened his lanky spine keenly and slid that bright gaze over to the interruption; although how anyone would consider Éloi an interruption was beyond him.

More of a well-timed distraction.

"You make a marvelous point Monsieur," the author addressed their Host. "I have good company now! Why accost your Cinderellas?" His eyes flickered to the first masked man, settling on his dark curls with a curious glimmer. The fellow recognized him.

He would have to return the favour some day. Rascal glanced over at uncle, grinning boyishly at his quip before finding himself smiling instead at the witch who approached them. With a wink. She was a cheeky cat, strolling into a pack of a daft dogs! Some dafter than others.

"Yes, do rescue dear uncle. He's several chimpanzees short of a soiree tonight." Rascal sallied with an exaggerated pretend-sigh. He angled his head, looking over a boney shoulder at Éloi's disguised face; obviously as careless with boundaries. "Joining my monkish lifestyle, you understand. Not everyone must follow suit. Have you any special poisons tonight for our, ah-" he paused to glance at the man with dark hair. "- our grandpater here?"

“I’m the very spirit of generosity,” CeeCee agreed, gaze – appreciatively – flickering up and down the Undersecretary’s form, but she made no move to draw any closer. Rather, she popped down onto the stool beside Rascal, flashing quite a bit of leg in the process. “But I’m afraid I haven’t got any chimps on me…”

Breezily, she gestured at– well– all of her, looking up with a mischievous lift to her lips.

“I’d like a drink too,” she told the bartender cheerfully, abruptly twisting in her seat. Her dress – already dangerously short – scandalously rode high. “Gimme a, hmm, a Wailing Banshee[1]? And maybe an Acrimonious Billywig[2] for the sir, if you can,” she added, noting the glass of sparkling water in Rosier’s hand. “And for the rest…”

She glanced at the others, mouth still curved in a smile.

1.	Wizarding equivalent to a Screaming Orgasm! Topped with a (clean) down feather of a hooded crow and has more of a kick; aptly named for the slight, almost inaudible wail that arises after giving the result a light tap on the glass.
2.	The non-alcoholic version of a drink no one really knows what it’s made of, except maybe tabasco sauce and possibly lemon. Known for its sharp, yet pleasantly zingy aftertaste.

"… Except maybe these two - they seem quite keen on accosting each other."

Johann's mouth quirked at the corner. Accost this shorter man he would, this was a second chance to understand the man who'd caught his attention.

The witch gliding between them, ordering drinks and chattering to the 'uncle' who Johann was beginning to suspect he knew, only it gave away the game if he tried to work it out.

"…Joining my monkish lifestyle, you understand. Not everyone must follow suit. Have you any special poisons tonight for our, ah- our grandpater here?"

“I’d like a drink too, gimme a, hmm, a Wailing Banshee? And maybe an Acrimonious Billywig for the sir, if you can, and for the rest…”

"Dementor's kiss." Johann ordered, although it was a week night, something potent to get the evening sorted, so know that sleep would not be far off once he left the place.

"Only one I'm bound to get." He shrugged and muttered quietly, features curling into a smile as he looked to their proprietor and then round to Rascal who was now accompanied by the witch (though the witch was rather more engaged with the other man).
"My appreciation for the escape you provide, Sir." He inclined his head in respectful thanks to Desrosiers.

"Had much luck spinning yarns lately?" He asked, and added, "I'm not old enough to be your grandfather. Though with luck I'll be in bed if I drink enough." Johann's voice gave a sigh in relation to the last, his gaze turning to the bar, fingertips drumming on the top, not out of impatience but distraction.

"Never did find out your 'type' that night, even if you unconvered one of mine."

Éloi smiled brightly at the new arrival, who could be none else than Mademoiselle CeeCee. And he thought for a moment, that the gods had been truly generous with the Donovan family in the looks department. While her brother was an absolutely gorgeous hunk, CC was of the delicate beauty - with the most adorable nose and big green eyes - but mesmerizing nonetheless. "My, my, chérie. You are a vision in red" he said in response to her salute, before he was soon distracted by the broody Monsieur Cameron, and the most delicious flirting of Messieurs Rosier and Storm.

"Fine choices of beverage, mes amis" he said to the group before turning to look behind. "Blaise, whatever the gentlemen and the most ravishing lady wish, tonight—on the house, oui?" he said politely as he turned to wink at the group. "After all I do have to thank you for rescuing me from my complete and utter boredom. One should think there should be a horror motion picture made about Mondays by now" he sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. He smiled slyly in Johann and Rascal's direction, before turning his attention to Monsieur Tall, Dark and Broody.

"Cher Monsieur, as your host, I demand to know if there is anything I could do to make you feel more comfortable in my establishment? There is nothing that saddens me more than a dissatisfied masqueradian" he said, all charming smiles before turning to wink at CeeCee. Between the two of them, they could certainly provide entertainment.

Rascal's identity as well as that of the tall, dark-haired drink, were all at once unknown and confirmed. It was Grandpater Death but who knew what was underneath either mask?

"Though with luck I'll be in bed if I drink enough." The wizard was saying and with a twitch of his lips, Rascal thought: I bet you will. An immedicable problem of liquor (or consumed octopus lungs) was easy manners, easy sleep.

The author leaned back in his barstool as he listened, not unmindful of Éloi's sly looks or the witch's effects on poor Cam, though he was better engaged by this other stranger.

"Luck has nothing to do with spinning yarns," he pushed back his mask as one would a pair of spectacles. "It's about knowing your audience- ah!  You won't get anything else out of me I'm afraid!" A bony finger went up to the thin, boyish lips. "Trade secrets and all that."

He much preferred the other end of their conversation.

"One of your types, you say?" Rascal latched on to the phrase with a grin. "Why I imagine that you have as many as a fox has shoes, which is a great deal. Now me, I don't have a type~" an exaggerated look of modesty crossed the disguised face. "Burden of an artist! Isn't that correct, dear uncle?" at last, he glanced at his relative on the bar stool to his right- and then the witch on the other.

How did that happen? Sandwiched!