9:30 PM

 Augustine’s grand idea (and all of Dosia’s actual hard work) was coming to fruition.  The carriages (pulled by thestrals, which was absolutely essential to the evening’s success, according to her sister) were about London, in the process of picking up and dropping off the guests.  The event was in full swing by now, with only an hour and a half until the head lining act, which, of course, Augustine and other high profile guests would be introducing.   

Honestly though, Dosia was just glad it was going smoothly.  She allowed herself to have her second cocktail and abandoned her clipboard and other organizing accessories backstage (after checking on the band, of course – hardly able to contain herself) and changed into her party outfit!  She was ready to have a good time.  Despite the fact whenever she looked behind her feathers were in a nice trail.  She should have gone to Malkin’s.

Being able to finally breathe, Dosia had time to really admire what they had managed to do under Augustine’s somewhat… disjointed leadership.  Normally a bright and beautiful building, it had been dimmed and made to appear old and abandoned.  The air had a distinct chill to it.  Antique chandeliers with candles floated just overhead.  The illusion of cobwebs, as thin and delicate as gauze and lace, wafted gently off the twisted, antique arms.  The bar was fully stocked and appropriately aged (with magic) for the festivities. 

While under the instruction that everything was to appear vintage, Augustine hadn’t really specified what era she was going for, so Dosia and the event planners had made certain to pull in influences from many different time periods, that way, Augustine could never really be upset about it.  She seemed to be okay with each element as it was rolled out though, so that was positive. 

Not to mention there was also the fantastic band playing.  Dosia had written everyone and offered everything, but she’d done it  (well with the team of people for the event and a lot of name dropping…).  She got Phantom Revolution[1] to play.  They were completely on theme and for a headlining act?  Perfection! 

Currently, however, the orchestra was starting the evening with music from past and future performances, perhaps to ensure people did not forget the purpose of the evening: purchase tickets! Benefit the arts!  The booths made expressly for the purpose of selling tickets were also a prominent fixture – and conveniently, right near the bar!  So, if anyone still had their wallets out they’d be able to drop more than a few galleons without going more than a few steps! 

Now, it was just time to party!

---

Join! Donate money, mingle with artists, get drinks, have a fight with your date! Whatever strikes you, join and get ready for an evening full of fun, fantasy, and maybe even some frights! 

1.	Phantom Revolution will begin playing promptly at 11 PM

Trudy Hughes was a woman with a mission.  She sped through the venue with fierce eyes and long strides. She hardly noticed any people, paying more attention to the bones of the party. She straightened out a tablecloth and then paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. She was trying to figure out whether she should make a sign directing guests to the bathroom. In the end she decided that they could probably figure it out for themselves. She could always whip one up if it really became an issue.


As an event planner she spent a lot of time at parties, balls, weddings - she’d seen it all. Trudy had even planned a party for a pair of owls that were engaged. Why and how that had happened, Trudy had no idea. She much preferred events like this, big and thematic. She walked ‘behind the scenes,’ a small room with a desk where Trudy and her staff were keeping their things. There was a lone clipboard on the desk and Trudy picked it up. It had to be Dosia’s. She placed it on top of her own clipboard and walked back out into the party area.


Trudy made her way to the young girl, who she had spotted across the room. The girl had been helpful in the planning process, and was respectfully assertive about Augustine Fortescue’s many demands (or lack thereof -- Trudy had never heard such a vague theme as ‘vintage,’ but it did broaden their decorating possibilities.) She was like a liaison between Augustine and the planning staff.   


“Well, we did it,” Trudy said in a faux-exasperated tone. She offered Dosia her clipboard. “You forgot this in the back room,” she added helpfully. She watched and listened to the orchestra tune up for a few minutes. “So, what do ya think?” Trudy chirped. “Will we make it to the end of this party?”

Like a muggle doing the limbo on a cruise ship, Odette Fairchild bent past the particularly elaborate midnight-blue sleeve of an ancient wizard’s dress robes. He seemed to have thoroughly ignored the night’s theme, and yet fit all the same. And it weren’t as if someone with a beard that long and that white would ever be cast from such a gathering, anyway. Odette imagined he’d have to have her teeth to be kicked out— and even then, the ball was rather Being friendly, all things considered.

Flashing him a smile as she narrowly missed snagging a messy double bun on his numerous cufflinks, Odette was met with a doubletake. The man was not so sloshed yet that he didn’t notice the little fangs, teeny as they were. She’d hoped her red lipstick would distract, but it only seemed to draw them in. She always forgot when she was in a festive mood. But looks like that made her remember.

Odette closed her mouth quickly, pressing her lips together in a tight line and sucking them inward. If this resulted in the dreaded lipstick-on-fangs, she didn’t bother to check in the reflection of her serving tray— which she held out quickly, a peace offering for the man with the sleeves. (It wouldn't have shown her face anyway.)

The wizard took one of the flutes and turned away, casting her one more dubious look over his shoulder. Odette turned away, too, sighing and weaving past more partygoers, most of whom ignored her entirely.

She was, after all, dressed in red velvet, the usual measure of the theatre employees. Only tonight her uniform was a variation on the theme, more vintage bell boy with a pop of epochal girlishness, and more of Odette’s personality mixed in than was usual with her work attire: a must-have for those bringing Augustine Fortescue’s vision to life. They’d been told to have fun with it (but run the final look past Theodosia). Luckily, Odette had met the requirements. It helped that she had friends in high places. Namely, Theodosia.

“Would you like a Gigglwater?” She asked politely, nearly slamming into another face in the crowd— managing to stop just short at the right moment. She had a reputation to uphold. She’d only ever spilled three drinks in her span at the theatre. (And, alright, there’d been the bottle of whiskey at three in the morning, when a perfectly sober Odette had had that accident with the crates full of Honeydukes sweets piled right beside the wetbar. She’d instinctively pointed her flashlight like a wand, realizing too late that Accio was a laughable endeavor.)

“How are the carriages this evening?” She added conversationally, though Odette had ulterior motives. She'd pined for a glimpse of the Thestral-drawn carriages, having been kicked out of the Department of Magical Transportation and not at all invited to the party via glamorous mode of transport. The Statute of Secrecy and urban planning-- and all the little bits of adventure they caused when one threw them in a cauldron-- had always been a strange and favorite cocktail. Her career had ended too soon to get her hands dirty with much more than deskwork.

It was time for Jules’ least-enjoyed part of her job: mingling. She was not a schmoozer in any sense of the word and believed her status should be secure regardless of her social behavior. Going to these events always started Jules in a negative mood, thinking about the bureaucratic and social politics that were too prevalent in their society. She sighed as she approached the bar.


“Water with lime,” Jules ordered. She was now four months pregnant, and Jules had begun to notice her expanding waistband. And though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, her boobs were following suit. She hadn’t told too many people outside of Flynn, for no particular reason. But, starting to become top-heavy, she found herself tripping over her own swollen feet.


She scanned the room, her jaw set in a way that made her predictably unapproachable, daring anyone to speak to her. She couldn’t even use booze to get through these sordid events anymore. Jules drank the water with lime, pretending it was actually some kind of mind-numbing vodka cocktail.

The Royal Opera House was easily one of Tempest Sage's favorite venues in London. Art, in any form, was beautiful - and something that should always be celebrated and cherished. A smile was plastered to the healer's face as she took another look around the spacious room. She'd arrived only a few minutes previous, meaning her pockets were still quite full - a problem the witch planned to rectify at first opportunity. Though a bit risky, the planning committee had done everything in their power to make the event as lively and entertaining as possible; including transporting guests with Thestral-drawn carriages. As a healer, Temp had seen death more than she would ever care to admit - but that fact did nothing to diminish the fun she'd had riding through Muggle London in the back of an antique riding carriage.

Now that she'd made it, dressed in an ancient set of dress robes, Tempest planned on grabbing a drink and mingling with the crowd for a bit. Perhaps she'd take a seat and enjoy the sounds of the ghost orchestra for a while. It wasn't often that the witch had an opportunity to converse with adults - other than the staff at Hogwarts and the other members of the St. Mungo's Board of Directors. As the youngest (and newest) member of the board, she'd been sent to show face, and though Tempest wasn't a fan of being shown off like a trophy wife, she couldn't deny that she truly enjoyed a good party.

Temp was a little worried, being away from the castle and all. Students were accident prone and with examinations only a short while away, more and more children were in the Hospital Wing every day. Thankfully, the staff at Hogwarts were no amateurs when it came to magic, and getting back would be easy enough. She'd informed a house elf to fetch her immediately if any emergencies arose - which she half expected to happen at any moment. To distract herself from thoughts of returning to the castle to find piles of broken children swarming her office, she turned to head toward the bar - and was almost plowed over by a rather adorable young woman with a serving tray.

One gloved hand reached forward to accept a glass, leaving a gleaming silver sickle behind as a tip. Tempest nodded her head in thanks, and went to turn again - this time toward the booths set up to collect donations, when the young lady spoke. That, in itself, was odd - most of the serving staff at these soirees were quiet and scampered as soon as their duty was finished - but not this one. And that certainly wasn't the most odd thing about her, because clear as day, when the woman spoke, a flash of red drew the healer's attention to a fang.

A flash of surprise passed Tempest's face, quickly covered, but certainly noticeable. The warm smile on the witch's face broadened as realization followed, "The carriages were just the right touch. A simply marvelous way to begin an event as well put together as this," She said. "Though I'm quite curious as to who approved of them - I can't believe the Ministry didn't have quite the conniption over it."

The witch paused to take a sip of her drink, then wiped one finger across her teeth. As a witch who also enjoyed bright red lipstick, a cursory teeth check was sometimes warranted. "Also, you've a spot of lipstick on one of your fangs darling," she finished conversationally.

Gosh, Tempest sure did love vampires.

Odette nodded appreciatively, her smudged smile drawing attention to itself like a niffler in a jewelry shop. “Thank you, m’am.”

She didn’t usually walk away from the Opera House with heavier pockets. The patrons who did tip were nearly always the most pleasant or least pleasant sort: magnanimous, true big-hearted benefactors, or self-important curmudgeons who thought they were.

For a brief moment, as the woman appeared to catch up on to the vampire’s vampireness, Odette feared the latter. She should have been used to the surprise on people’s faces by now. Mostly, she was. And yet… sometimes, it was like popcorn in a fireplace, the first few kernels jumping out at her, inspiring a brief fear toward one’s beloved snack. She drew into herself, the bell boy uniform wrinkling diligently, her eyes wide and mirroring Tempest’s reaction.

But where Tempest recovered elegantly, Odette was the sort who melted in relief, whose alleviation sprawled. The tray drooped several inches like a sigh, or a poorly managed elevator, the cups teetering, threatening to douse pretty gowns and crisp robes. She smiled back, propagating the lipstick mishap, and straightened up as best she could.

“Oh! I would have loved to give one a go… not that Augustine Fortescue would have invited me… or that my boss would have let me have off to attend as a guest and not a server. Or that I can leave the house before sunset.” The last part was especially obvious. Odette had arrived via fireplace from the grate in the shabby lobby of her flat. It had been approved by the Ministry, and was closely monitored by the sour-faced landlord. A spin around London in a thestral-drawn carriage would have been a blissful treat, one that neither a vampire nor a night usher could afford.

It was funny, now that she had so much time on her hands, just how much time she didn’t have.

“I wondered that, too,” she carried, having hoisted the tray up again. She held it out a bit, suddenly remembering that the witch was an attendee. “I think I saw one of the secretaries walking about grumbling, so I’m not sure anyone did ask them. But that just can’t be. I used to work in Transportation, and I can’t imagine…”

Odette drew in a quick breath of horror, making to reach up before remembering that her hands were full. She shifted the weight of the tray, clumsily, and swiped a be-gloved finger across the right tooth, and then the left. “Ah, did I get it? Red lipstick is so pow— I love it— but so impossible.”

Too late she remembered the glove. She dropped her arm, glanced covertly at her hand (fingertips now smeared with red), and frowned a small, brief frown. Oh well. She looked back up at Tempest. “Er, are you a patron of the arts?” She asked, hoping such a smartly dressed witch wouldn’t be put off by her numerous style disasters. “It’s probably a daft question— I’m sure you are! But there are so many good causes tonight, you never know who’s here for what. If you haven’t walked the hall of mirrors, I highly recommend it. They’ve set it up brilliantly.” A spooky little detail for partygoers. "And the canapes are killer! Only one will literally bite you, though, promise." Realizing the blunder immediately, she closed her mouth and sucked in her bottom lip, looking awkward for a moment.

11PM

The candelabras dimmed, and with it, the conversation dwindled to a whisper. A blueish spotlight emanated from the rafters above the stage, painted a dusty circle on the floorboards, and migrated toward a set of doors that had, until now, been perfectly un-noteworthy. An antique creak— perhaps amplified by magic— heralded the ghostly host into the cold glow.

Tine had cut a demure figure that night: she’d made her painstaking entrance down a set of grand steps and had greeted her guests with air kisses and tight-lipped smiles as the crowd escaped the theatre’s main hall and streamed into the party; she’d spent time murmuring cheeky pleasantries behind a delicate fan to men who’d silently bid upon exorbitantly priced private boxes; she’d introduced stalwart patrons to the new disciples of London’s wizarding art set; she’d even been patient with the cluster of old ladies gossiping over their endless sherries— not drunk enough to brave the hall of mirrors, which had been decked with festive frights.

But now, have escaped the herringbone tiles of a narrow hall used for stage hands, her grin was opulent. An instinctive wave of her wand magnified her voice for her audience— for even at a party, Tine was compelled put on a show.

“Thank you all,” she began with a drawl, glowing— phantasmal, not warm— in their engrossment. “—for joining us tonight to celebrate London’s vibrant wizarding art community. I couldn’t think of a more entertaining way to showcase the industry’s future than by indulging in the haunts of the past. We hope you’ve enjoyed the artful apparitions— where else might you waltz with ghosts and members of The Weird Sisters?” Grins aplenty caused Augustine’s to widen. “I think the drummer is sleeping on the sofa tonight. I saw him scare the daylights out of his wife in the hall of mirrors.” A wave of laughter invigorated the witch, whose hand flourished toward the musician in question. "I hope he’ll buy a ravishingly expensive canvas to hang opposite his new bed.”

Tine seemed, for a moment, affected by their cheer— gave pause for an invisible tremor of soundless giggles that appeared to catch in her pretty throat. “Tonight, though, we have a sprier lot... to balance the mood. Please give an eerie welcome to Phantom Revolution.” The spotlight swung to the stage.

M rating: bloody, bloody death

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Greeting their party planner, Dosia was just as pleased as Trudy that the whole thing was starting without too many hitches.  She still knew they’d be in over their heads with the horseless carriages, but that’d be a problem for another day – and another sister’s sunny smile and oily slick excuses to get them out of.  Dosia was not quite… as... convincing as her older sister.

But what she lacked in charm, she made up for in shrewdness and organization.  “Cheers to us,” she snorted and lifted her champagne glass toward Trudy, “and we have a small hope and a prayer to survive the rest of the party.”  Dosia, of course, did not really intend to remember a lot of the party. 

Dosia took a rather unladylike swig her champagne and sighed.  “Back into the fray,” she excused herself with a tight smile and rolled her shoulders before looking at the crowd to deduce the best path through.  She was short, obviously, it didn’t take an auror to figure that out, so getting through a crowd was annoying. 

But, Dosia found her way and spent the next bit of the evening making sure all of the guests were happy and greeting the people she did not care about to support her sister (and get paid).  She’d greeted a plethora of people before she had to go back and remind Phantom Revolution to get ready for their performance. 

After a lengthy conversation with the drummer (and maybe getting his address tucked into her clutch for a late night owl), Dosia practically flounced out of the dressing room, ready to take on the crowd and enjoy an evening.  She’d already had four champagnes and that meant she could absolutely jump up and down in the front row, screaming.  No one had dignity after four champagnes. 

While her sister took the stage, her mind only half processed the introduction.  All she knew was when the spotlight swung, the event was no longer the sort of fancy affair it’d been.  Guests cheered and the ringing riff of a swing on a skeletal guitar just drew all of the attention on the stage.  Dosia cupped her free hand around her mouth and screamed, beckoning the second echoing guitar scream. 

”Let me hear you Scr--,” he wasn’t even able to finish his sentence.  As if frozen in time, his eyes grew wide and when he opened his mouth again, a stream of blood gushed forth and landed at his feet with a sickening plop.  Though it appeared he was trying to speak, only choked gurgling could be heard as the initial stream ebbed but did not cease flowing all together. 

Dosia’s inebriated mind could not process what was happening.  This was especially true as he fell to his knees and clutched at his face.  Dosia thought for a moment that he was crying – but those were not crystalline tears running down his face.  Dosia dropped her champagne glass with a shatter before cupping her hands over her mouth to stifle the squeal: it was blood!  More people were shouting now, and even more screamed for healers as he collapsed on top of his guitar with a sickening screech of feedback before violently convulsing.

It took a while but finally, Jules was starting to enjoy herself. She had run into an old girlfriend who had recently been dumped, and they were wrapped up in a pleasantly nostalgic conversation about the 'old days.' Jules was even beginning to forget that her drink had no alcohol in it.

However when the people onstage began to make noise, they also made it difficult to hear or be heard, the conversation fizzled out and her and her ex slowly drifted away from each other. Evidently the band was going to play, and so Jules began to wander over to the stage so she could get a good view of the show.

Good sight of the stage came just in time for Jules to witness the drummer's gruesome introduction. Jules' eyes went wide with shock for an instant before she pushed her way through the crowd and onto the stage without a second thought. She hadn't gotten a good look at any of their faces, but no one made any attempt to stop her.

She turned the man on his side so he would not choke, then quickly began scanning him for bites or injuries - some explanation for why he had spontaneously begun spurting blood. While she examined him she held fingers over his neck to check his pulse - it was positively racing, and the man was still jerking violently. Screams and shouts were coming from the audience now, which Jules mentally rolled her eyes at while continuing to hold the man in place and reaching for her wand.

In almost the same instant that Jules readied her wand, the man suddenly stopped convulsing. Actually, he had ceased doing anything at all. Knowing this was a very bad sign, she felt for his pulse but found none. Well, this was turning into a disaster of a night.

Jules slowly let go of the drummer, turned towards the audience, and cleared her throat. She had pronounced plenty of people dead before, but never with an audience. They were already clearly horrified, and Jules justified their behavior by standing up and saying, "....He's dead...."