Open to all adults. Guests have arrived in the near-complete darkness, under the impression that they have been invited by Cameron Rosier to a formal cocktail hour at his home! Feel free to have come alone or with friends, everyone is welcome.

---

2000 hours, Cameron Rosier's Townhouse


A dark and stormy night.

Well no, not so much as it was a cold and wet night: one can always pretend when you're indoors. The entrance hall of dear Uncle's wondrous residence was shrouded in darkness- barely lit at all by flickering candles that floated just out of reach above the heads of those guests who came streaming through the doors, bemused. Several of them were a touch angry.

"Where the hell is Rosier? What is this?!" voices exclaimed from the gloom on the lower floor, followed by a string of awkward but polite apologies as people bumped into one another. This continued for quite a while. Hidden in the blackness at the top of the stairwell, our guest of honour was nothing but a brilliant scythe of laughing teeth.

They weren't talking about him! Oh poor Uncle, all his colleagues enemies friends werehere and he was nowhere to be found!

As the last of the guests came trickling into the hall, the main doors  slammed  shut. Candlelights, flickering, expired abruptly. A whisper cut into the dark and snaked past the witches and wizards who were already reaching for wands.

"Ladies and Gentleman~" it hissed. Little pinpricks of lumos began to brighten the space...


The noise emanated from every corner as lights in the room sprung into being, blinding the guests!

Rascal Rosier appeared above the crowd- he floated precariously by the strength of winged, golden shoes that did not at all compliment the full penguin suit of his attire. The author held his hands out for balance and grinned down at the surprised throng; he appeared spright, reeling with energy.

"Happy Birthday!" his greeting echoed through Cameron Rosier's otherwise empty home. "To me!"

One of the downsides to being a pureblood and having questionable connections, was that you had to keep up appearances.  James cared very little for the season of seven forks, and usually his brother or sister-in-law or some other representative of the Forrester family took on this duty.  He was only really coerced to show up at a New Years Ball, and even then it was more of an excuse for his relatives to shove eligible political matches available women to him.  Unfortunately for James, someone of the Rosier clan had a celebration and no one else could make it - or so they claimed.  Truth be told, James probably needed to garner a few favors with his relatives anyways; so here he was honoring his second cousins three times removed.  Or something.  Pureblood relationships had family tries that stopped forking, so it was kind of hard to keep up, and James never really cared either way.

Then it happened.  Penguin suits, bright animated lights, and a sudden plethora of action along with someone saying 'happy birthday to me'. 
 
"Happy Birthday," James commented with about as much sincerity as any other pureblood.  Then again, he had no idea what else he could say to the entire spectacle - penguin suit and all.  James hoped this party had alcohol somewhere.  It might help pass the time.  Or at least give him something to do when other people actually tried to talk to him.

He had heard the man was a quaffle short of a quidditch game, but apparently throwing surprise parties for himself was his next stint.  Internally, James wondered how soon was too rude to wander off.  Given the eccentricity of the author, the fool might actually try to join him.  That would be horrid.  James wanted company like he wanted a bludger to the face.  He actually probably would have preferred the bludger, because that meant he probably was flying at the time.

And then CeeCee was gently but firmly nudging the vaguely familiar man to the side, closing the distance with a sudden fling of her arms until they were firmly wrapped around Rascal’s neck. “Rascal!” she exclaimed, giving him a quick, magnificent squeeze. “You utter sneak. Did you pull this off yourself? Ugh, I’m so ashamed I hadn’t suspected a thing-”

She should have known, really, something was up the moment she’d spotted the word ‘cocktail’; she knew Rascal’s uncle had gone cold turkey, and while it wasn’t unheard of to give others leeway to do something you yourself wouldn’t, Rosier hadn’t struck her as the sort to invite people to rub his old vice in his face like that. So… soon. That kind of generosity typically came from years of practice, she was sure, and if she had her facts right the Undersecretary’s path in abstinence was fairly recent.

But CeeCee– caught in a rare moment of boredom, disinterested in the blank and unfinished canvas waiting for her in the studio, and the several drafts lying idle on her tablet –was simply too curious to dwell on the invitation’s wording longer than it took to say yes. For all his curmudgeonly manner towards his wonderful nephew, whom CeeCee cared for very much, Rosier was an interesting, attractive man– a species she found to be all too rare. (Her Ben’s unavailability only contributed to the problem, regrettably enough.) An opportunity such as this was golden…

And so here she was, a vision in deep, sunset reds and yellows, legs tapering off into fantastical yet stylish heels. Delight bubbling warm in her chest, the witch held his hands akimbo, to better admire his attire. “You look marvelous,” CeeCee informed him, a dazzling grin lighting up her very face, because he did. He looked positively dapper. “One would think it was our birthday, you look so nice. Rick!” she tossed over a slim shoulder, eyes still on Rascal, “Come say hello.”

Just a foot away, a tall, broad-shouldered man turned around, just caught in the middle of a conversation. At his sister’s expectant look, he sighed a little, and politely excused himself. “Rascal,” Rick greeted, a smile tugging at his sharp, stubbled features. “Happy birthday, you.”

---

Balfour had been promised cocktails.

"Happy Birthday!" exclaimed his good friend's lunatic of a nephew, drifting down to great exclamation. "To me!" None of this indicated anything good, most of all the absence of a certain home owner.  Still he couldn't help smiling, staring up at glimmering confetti and the lights that had blinded them only moments ago. Some things were better than cocktails. In a plain work shirt, tie undone and vest unbuttoned, he wasn't dressed for either occasion so what did it matter...?

A pair of guests had already run to greet Rascal (everyone else was looking for an exit that likely did not exist), a lovely witch and... less amicable-looking wizard, whom the birthday boy was giving a spectacular bow.

"Cynric!" Balfour slapped a strong hand on the author's shoulder, nodding at the other two glancingly. "Cam is going to murder you for this," he laughed the warning. "But happy birthday anyway. Good of you to surprise us like this."

The younger Rosier made a flippant gesture. "It might just be my last one if Uncle has anything to say about it," he replied with childish grimace. "Do you know these Donovans? CeeCee is my favourite - sorry Rick - and she's at Alohomocha. Better than a barrel of pixies!"

Whatever in Salazar's beard that meant. Balfour leaned forward to shake hands, smiling.

"Charmed," he met their eyes. "Balfour Spectre. I don't drink coffee, you understand, lunch at the office and all that. "

With the tip of his wand emitting a low blue light Éloi, arm in arm with his fair cousin, was leaning against a wall in the pitch black foyer of Cameron Rosier's townhouse. While one was mildly fascinated by the rather enigmatic welcoming, the other was in a decidedly foul mood without the added discomfort of wondering in the dark. Éloi was fascinated by the idea that one rather unimaginative Monsieur Rosier could even fathom the idea of suspense, and respectively Arianne, was not at all impressed by the idea of having to attend one of Rosier's cocktail parties. Boring did not not even begin to encompass the tediousness of the man.

When the lights suddenly came on with the big surprise revealed, both Desrosiers visibly brightened at the prospect of being hosted by the other, way more fascinating Rosier. In a few seconds Aria found her arm deserted, as Éloi practically skipped ahead to the birthday boy. While her cousin waited for Rosier to become available, Arianne went to follow him shaking her head disapprovingly. Her displeasure was soon traded for a positively radiating smile as she noticed one face sure to turn the evening around.

"CeeCee" she smiled at the woman politely inclining her head. "Rick" her voice took a more teasing tone, as she leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek, and if it happened to meet the corner of his mouth... well, she was French. "Whatever might bring you to such company, Monsieur Donovan" she asked innocently, this side of fluttering her eyelashes. Obviously it was CeeCee, but she enjoyed teasing him so.

A few steps away Éloi had finally managed to catch Rascal alone, and took advantage of the situation immediately. He clasped one of his hands between both of his, and shook it firmly once, before leaning forward to kiss both his cheeks, only lingering for a second. Indecent? Not for Éloi Desrosiers, it wasn't. "Joyeux anniversaire, Monsieur Rosier" he offered with a radiating smile, one hand still grasping Rascal's, taking the chance to thumb subtly at his wrist. "Such a... pleasant surprise" he smiled surreptitiously. He would've liked to offer that he made a much more intriguing image without a mask, but that would be improper in such a crowd. "I'm afraid you might find our presents more to your uncle's liking, but that was a risk to be expected with the rather enigmatic proceedings, mais non?" he tilted his head and very unsubtly raked his eyes over Rascal's person.

"Éloi, stop bothering Monsieur Rosier" Aria quipped from behind him, as she patted him away with a glare. "Happy Birthday, Mister Rosier" she offered with a polite smile and a formal incline of her head. She handed him their presents and retreated back to Rick, if she had to look one more second at his outfit she was going to strip him naked and put a curtain on him. At least, that could at least pass for eccentric toga as opposed to abomination spawned from the depths of Hell.

At the madman’s praise – and his sister’s radiant smile, “Of course I am,” – Rick rolled his eyes. Even on a good day he preferred not to face them together. ‘A barrel of…’ What did that even mean? “Half of their menu isn’t even real coffee,” he shook Balfour’s hand, shooting CeeCee an unimpressed look that curled into a mean little smirk. “Just sugar rush in a cup.”

CeeCee whirled on him with a muted squawk of outrage. At that very same exact moment, her pointy elbow aimed straight and true for his sternum, which he easily blocked with a block of his arm and a laugh. “Says the one who likes his joe as black as his soul!” she smacked his arm– only to snatch her hand back quickly, scowling as she wrung her hands. “You’re so ungrateful,” she sniffed. “And we practically supply you for free, too-”

Oh please. “Ten percent off isn’t free,” Rick pointed out, because it’s true, dammit. “And I still pay for Phillip and Alex-”

Catching himself, he looked up at the ceiling and exhaled. Heavily. When he looked back at them, it was mostly at Balfour, and his smile was the dazzling one usually reserved for quick exits. “It was nice meeting you,” he said, giving Balfour a nod just as CeeCee pointedly turned away from him, to look at the red-haired man with the very nice smile solidly in the eye and declare, “We deliver.”

The Desrosiers’ arrival invited both relief and dread. Arianne– with that damn knowing gaze of hers –had the possibility for being both; despite Rick’s better efforts, she was perceptive, to the point of knowing him better than most. Éloi, in Rick’s opinion, was just plain skeevy. Pretty, but skeevy, with a flashiness that grated on his nerves—usually in the form of themed parties.

(Lately there’d been rumors of the next one being Greek-themed. Rick liked prancing about in a towel as much as the next guy, well aware he had nothing to be ashamed of– but he preferred doing so on his own terms, thanks.)

“Arianne,” he murmured quietly by her ear, flashing her too-bright grin as he took in her expression, amused at her thinly veiled distaste. “Your hackles are showing.”

In a slightly louder voice, he turned to Balfour, grin dimmed but lingering. “Mister Spectre– Balfour? Allow me to introduce to you Mademoiselle Arianne Desrosiers. Arianne, Balfour Spectre,” and he gestured lazily between them, though the maybe-taunt was more directed at her than Balfour. “That,” his tone became unfailingly polite, as he glanced in Éloi’s direction, “is her cousin, Monsieur Éloi Desrosiers,” and the French fell easily from his lips.

To Arianne, he added, “I wonder what could have brought you here, too,” matching her innocent look from earlier with an equally innocent raise of his brows.

---

Relieved that nobody had (yet) taken to throwing champagne flutes at him, Rascal was ecstatic about this tirade of greetings. He shook hands, bowed, laughed and tried not to let Balfy's warning break his illusion of ease.

Fortunately the dragon wrangler was occupied plenty by Donovans #1 and #2, which left the floor open to a certain Desrosiers' charms.

"You're still a submarine of seahorses, Éloi!" the author laughed, more tickled than confused by his friend's intimate lingering of lips and fingertips. "I'll find some use for your gifts, don't worry a parrot's head about it~" he stuck out his pointy chin proudly, winking. "There's so much to d-- oh thank you Arianne! You're as fab a seahorse as your cousin!"

Why she was almost an octopus, he'd bet a good galleon on it. Rascal didn't want to tear his eight-tentacled friend from good company and instead placed an affectionate hand on Éloi's shoulder, jerking his head in the direction of the open bar in the parlour- which some guests had finally discovered as it was set up in place of Uncle's usual furniture.

"Shall we venture further to bother Uncle's guests?" he grinned boyishly. "I think I might have spotted a Falmouth Falcon that way, he looks brilliantly grumpy and a complete treat to poach." Although James Forrester reminded him of an Angler Fish more than he  did any bird of prey.

When James overheard the introduction of Mademoiselle Derosier he knew exactly why no one else could make it.  He also at that point knew who to avoid at the party.  He speculated for a moment if he should just avoid women completely at this party, and decided against it.  It would make him look more awkward than he already was.  James did not keep up with pureblood politics, but he knew that he had met a Derosier somewhere before on the pureblood social calendar.  Whether it was this person or one of their relatives James did not remember.  Taking a quick glance at her, James made note of what she looked like in order to discretely exit before she tried to talk to him.  Under most circumstances, James would not have minded talking to a lady.  Though she was a little bit too old for his taste, she did look good for her age, and most French girls he dated did not speak English - which suited James just fine.  He did not speak French either. 

Relaxing somewhat now that he knew whom to avoid, he noticed the man of the hour approach him.  Relaxing a little because about the worst thing the author could do was talk to him about...well anything really, he still would not have to watch out for the landmines when dealing with the typical pureblooded idiocy bullshit social conventions.  Worst case, have a couple of conversations, knock back a couple of drinks, and exit stage left.  Knowing that he was making it sound worse than it was, James readied himself for whatever may come.

"I don't know what you're talking about" she said as seriously as she could muster, tucking an escaped strand of hair back in her high chignon. "A lady doesn't have hackles" she smiled surreptitiously, arching an eyebrow. "Just claws." At this she turned and gave him a little private smile, tilting her head sideways to watch him through half lidded eyes. Her expression became polite again, a serene smile on her face as Rick called a Mister Spectre's attention. What a strange name...

She extended a perfectly manicured hand and offered a most dazzling toothy smile at the rather attractive man. "Enchanté, Monsieur Spectre. Please, call me Arianne" she turned to Rick to smile a sly, almost impish sort of smile. Others had needed years to get to call her by her given name... "Pardon my cousin, he seems to be—deep in conversation with Mister Rosier" she said, nose twitching in displeasure at his obvious lack of attention to anything but the birthday boy.

At Rosier's comparison with marine life, Arianne stood still, expression decidedly confused, before politely offering a smile and an acknowledgement of the -she supposed- compliment with a nod of her head. Entertaining tho he may be on occasion, Aria sometimes wondered if Rascal should be left unsupervised in the world at large. She was sure he could actually cause severe damage for all of his seemingly harmless brand of... eccentricity.

She eyed Rick silently for a few moments with an impassive face, before slipping a bitter tight smile on her lips. "Well, we all have demanding relatives." She leaned closer to him, a soft frown on her face. "Don't be smug Rick, it isn't becoming" Aria quipped with half-measured irritation. "At least not now" she added in a whispered voice, a smirk tugging at her lips.

A few steps away the younger Desrosiers was laughing heartily at Rascal's compliment. Such a strange, delightful man. "Why, thank you, kind Monsieur" he offered, still smiling radiantly. At the feel of the man's hand on his shoulder, his smile took a less flashy appearance, settling for fond. "If I may say so, I'm sure Hermes pales in comparison" he said musingly, eyes fluttering to his footwear with a smile.

"Why, certainly! We cannot possibly disappoint sullen athletes" Éloi added in a mock serious voice at the author's invitation. Between Rascal and himself, he was sure this Falmouth Falcons player would be in for a... surprise. "Lead the way, chéri" he gestured widely with one arm forward.

It was simple to see why the Donovans' feminine half made Cynric's favourites list- the smile that Rick exuded instilled an immediate sense of nervousness and distrust in him.

"A pleasure meeting you as well," Balfour responded automatically as his eyes crinkled with a friendly smile at the other comment. They deliver. Perhaps he should let Mrs Lanningham know. The idea quickly passed and he found himself at sea in another set of introductions, hand extended politely.

His eyebrows drew together in concentration - trying to catch the foreign names while laughing mutedly at the playful exchanges. Cam would faint if he knew about this guest list.

"Arianne, charmed~" Balfour bowed his head glancingly. "A friend of Cyn-- Rascal's is almost certainly a friend of mine." The gods would forgive a white lie. He held his hands behind his back, looking between the french woman and rugged wizard, with the appearance of enjoying himself.

... until Miss Desrosiers mentioned Rick's name again. It struck a (warning) bell in his head.

"Wait - I do apologize for interrupting - but Rick Donovan?" Not Ricky, obviously. "Artificer? You must know my god daughter, she's mentioned you in letters. Alex? I, ah, admit that I pictured someone much older."

Balfour also pictured someone with a less predatory jowl.

Rick maybe, maybe froze, if only because anyone who said his name like that– in conjunction with his age (or lack thereof) and younger, distinctly female  family of theirs –rarely said it like it was a good thing, or in a way that meant anything good—for him. He’d heard that tone way too many times as it was, to even think it might be (-which, okay, was hardly ever anyone’s fault but his own, seeing how little he did to prevent it), and apparently this time was no exception.

Granted, Balfour’s polite expression had yet to venture into more familiar territory (e.g. righteous outrage). But dismay? That was easy enough to pick up on, if you were, aha, experienced like Rick. Ha ha ha.

Dammit.

And so his smile slipped, like an old lady on a patch of ice. With rather laudable effort, Rick pasted on another one, albeit one visibly affixed with strain. Valiantly he ignored self-preservation’s suggestion to step away from Arianne, if only because admitting there even was something to dissuade was the first step in self-incrimination (Basic Criminal 101), and there definitely wasn’t; if he was going to try to make himself seem harmless, it would be because of someone who was much older, particularly older than Alex. And, y’know, attractive—which Alex most definitely wasn’t.

Now, Balfour, on the other hand…

“Really?” Rick asked, dropping the admittedly awful smile (that… probably made him look like a serial killer, shut up, CeeCee) for a more bemused one, accompanied by a faint lift of his brows. “Well, if it helps any, people usually think I’m older than I look,” he said, slanting Arianne an ingenuous glance. When he met Balfour’s gaze again, it was after a rather slow, measuring look that sauntered upwards from the man’s feet, cool, assessing, and too direct to be misinterpreted.

But because he actually liked having Alex as his apprentice more than he didn’t (and CeeCee’s helpful cough was about as subtle as a brick), it soon faded, and he straightened. “I got into the profession pretty early,” Rick told him, shrugging. “And your niece can be a real brat sometimes, so it evens out.”

The wings on Rascal's sandals fluttered bashfully at Éloi's compliments, while the author himself merely wriggled his toes in childish delight.

"Excellent! We'll have to be most careful not to scare the fish," he explained as he took his guest's arm amiably. "A shark like yourself in tepid company could do damage- ah, but wait." Abruptly, he paused and swivelled them around on their heels.

Dear Cam was going to simply murder him for this soiree but he shan't be abashed for being a lame host!

"Ricky my love," Rascal addressed the grumpier Donovan (though his eyes fell briefly on CeeCee, grinning) with mock reprimand. "Do take care of Mister Spectre, he's going to be the only thing between murderous Uncle and myself later this evening. Good boy."

And before the hound could react to this odd - uncomfortably perceptive - phrasing, he disappeared into a crowd with winsome Éloi. They would make a beeline for poor Forrester at the bar, whose moodiness was stark against an increasingly drunk, joyful throng of guests.

"With enough champagne flowing," Rascal remarked both flippantly and bitterly. "Even this bunch can have a good time!"

It was an odd experience to have someone in a penguin outfit make a beeline for you.  Inwardly, James wondered if this is what keepers felt like when he rushed at them.  Knowing there was no avoiding this conversation, James quickly grabbed and downed something alcoholic.  He had the distinct feeling he would need to keep up with it. 

"If it isn't the man of the hour!" James lied as best he could, pretending to be jovial.  Still, he had enough pureblood politics etiquette lessons that it did not seem like an outright lie, though it would probably be obvious to most. 

"I'd offer to buy you a drink - but you have an open bar.  If I knew it was your party, I would have brought a gift, but this is probably the best I can do on short notice," James stated,handing a pair of tickets to the next Falmouth game.

"Hope its not too poor in taste, but you did surprise us," James commented, wondering what people thought of people who offered quidditch tickets in lieu of something that the person might actually use.  Or anything really.  Still, James thought it better than nothing.

Éloi was just about to protest. He was no shark... Well, maybe. But before he could even open his mouth, Rascal's attention was drawn to the Donovans and the young Desrosiers chuckled lightly at his jibe towards Rick. But, again before there was even time to react, he was forced to follow Rosier who quickly set a course straight for the bar. "Well, if there's anything to put the world into a pink light, surely, it must be champagne" he said grinning brightly, birght smile only dampening a little at the sight of James Forrester.

Quidditch players tho he may like, Éloi didn't really like Forrester all that much. Such a sourpuss. He stood by Rascal watching the dialogue between the two with relative disinterest, only letting a subtle huff out at Forrester's gift, which was uninspired to say the least and merely served as means of self advertising. Regardless... "Mister James Forrester!" he said extending his hand with faux excitement and a dazzling grin. "Éloi Desrosiers. Such a pleasure to meet a player for the impressive Falmouth Falcons. How has this season been treating you?"

Arianne's smirk was quickly wiped of her face as the sip of champagne she had just ingested seemed to take a wrong turn somewhere, causing her to choke and burst into a violent bout of coughs. And all because of one Balfour Spectre and a Ricky addressed to Donovan.  And it only got better. At Rick's innocent glance, Arianne raised a disbelieving eyebrow only to be followed by another, more subtle choke, seeing Rick fail completely at interacting with a relative of his apprentice.

"Ricky, dear, you're the only one she acts like a brat with, so I'm afraid your credibility isn't quite up to par" she said smiling as sweetly as she could muster. That and her horrible taste in men, or well, boys still, Arianne thought... Tho she could see the appeal, she thought again as she gave Rick a curious little look.