*Note: so this doesn't interfere with Sophie's fantabulous photo booth, Eleanor will be taking candids. You can volunteer a smile or run in the other direction. You may not know she's got you in her lens. Once the dance really gets going (music, hormones on overdrive), there should be plenty of interesting newspaper-worthy shots. : )

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outfit | camera one | camera two | camera three

Snap crackle pop!

It wasn't the sound of one's name-brand muggle cereal hissing in cold milk. No, it was Eleanor St. James-- one of her many cameras, to be exact-- as she weaved through the festive tent and found yet another promising shot of the youth wading into the war zone. Though a recent graduate herself, Ellie felt entirely removed from the broom accident that was a school dance. Add Valentine's Day to the picture, and, well, it was front-page worthy in potential disastrousness. Rumor had it the last Hogwarts gala had ended in a forest fire. An indoor forest fire.

Yes, Ellie St. James was feeling particularly old tonight. Superior. A scientist observing a wild species in its natural habitat.

Another rattle of unseen wheels and brass teeth. A noise like a gun shot. Purple smoke. Two deer-eyed girls in matching Pepto-Bismal pink tutus turned round to discover their rosy bums had been caught in the moment. One looked horrified, the other frowned and Ellie knew it was time to flee: frowns were the predecessors to scowls. Once their little brains caught up with their cherub faces, there was no telling.

Besides, her job as photographer was to capture everything in as natural a state as possible. She wasn't interested in the run-of-the-mill posing by the moonlit lake or under an ivy-laced white gazebo. Her artsy ex-housemate, the young and spunky Sophie Flickwick, had come up with a much better plan as far as prom-like memories went. In truth, Eleanor's tummy had twisted in a pang of regret when she saw the radical one-stop-photoshop. Now why hadn't she come up with someone like that?

"Are these--" Yep. She took only half a sip from the champagne glass she'd plucked off a floating service tray. It definitely wasn't champagne. Pumpkin juice, diluted with some sort of tropical concoction-- perhaps pineapple juice and coconut milk. a shot of passion fruit to add red-as-a-heart fervor to the already colorful array of dishes and drinks. "Non-alcoholic," she murmured, answering herself unnecessarily, and taking a gulp. At least it was cold. And sugary.

Ivory's outfit

Ivory felt very out of place in the dress her friend Amy had picked out for her. The younger by a few months Brunette had assured Ivie that she would look beautiful, and yet Ivie didn't get why she couldn't go in a female suit for the event. Amy had said there were times that it was acceptable to look like a guy with long hair that might be out of some Japanese Manga but balls were not it. And while ivory felt like she was a deer caught in the middle of the road with a car barreling down on her with it's high beams on, she had some how allowed Amy to dress her up like she was some damn Barbie doll. At least she had the blonde hair for it. She wasn't so sure about the figure though.

Dressed in a pale almost ice blue gown, with a pair of matching (le gasp!) high heeled sandal like footwear, hanging from her ears were a pair of aquamarine earrings that went with the necklace and bracelet she was sporting at her neck and wrist. Ivie looked around hoping no one from her house would spot her. If so she was going to die from embarrassment. She was so embarrassed she kept trying to to hide her female upper figure by crossing her arms over the curves of her womanhood front. Damn she wish she hadn't developed during her summer before her third year. Now she was always trying hard to hide this new addition to her petite figure. In fact she was sure she looked horrible with the new curves she had.

Spotting a tray of drinks going by, she quickly grabbed one and downed it trying to calm her nerves. Damn it she thought it wasn't alcoholic. Why couldn't they or someone have spiked the drinks? Would have helped the poor Third Year Raven's nerves about how wrong she felt in the gown. She had yet to realize there was a person running around with a camera or three.

Ellie lowered the drink, setting it beside her, and instead raised a camera in a most unceremonious private cheers. Winking into the viewfinder, she snapped several shots in a second, the haze of purple smoke going up like a dragon's dying breath. The blonde girl in icy blue might have been a sweet soul, but to Ellie she looked like socialite jailbait-- the exact sort of thing that made its rounds in the castle when she was younger. With luck, someone would soon add a shot or twelve to the bowl of punch. Then the real fun would begin.

"Do you have a name?" She asked the girl, only after she'd taken the photos. Sure, they were supposed to be candids-- but she was still a professional, and there was no harm in getting her facts straight.

She leaned into the table, lowering her camera and resuming her drink. "I'm thinking TeenWitch might want a center spread collage of this... ball." The word tasted funny on her tongue. It was a bunch of kids and boys like George trying to get lucky. (Silly George, he always did, didn't he?)

The wine had been finished long before he’d set his feet in the direction of the Valentine’s Ball. He hadn’t planned on going (Merlin forbid she brought her new… whatever he was), but after enough incentive and humiliation, he decided it might be good for him.

His outfit was disheveled, as if he’d just come from a motel room with little thought. Odd how that worked… his button up white shirt over his black vest wasn’t completely done up, the bottom two buttons and top two undone, half of the shirt tucked into his black trousers, the belt secured to keep them from slipping down. Over the shirt was his black leather jacket, a small bottle of firewhiskey tucked into the inside pocket.

His Gryffindor scarf was wrapped around his neck, keeping it warm against the chill between the walk from the motel to the location of the Ball. Once he passed a professor, the firewhiskey slipped out, a quick gulp following. Then it was back to stay warm against his side.

Running his fingers through his disheveled hair, George tried to shake his vision straight. And he almost ran into a chair. Spinning to the left, stumbling slightly, he used the table to help keep him up. That was when he saw the familiar face. Raising an eyebrow as his brain thought quicker than he expected, he moved up and put an arm around the younger Ravenclaw’s shoulders (no matter she was about the same height without heels). Flashing Eleanor a thumbs up, he posed with a dumb grin on his face for a few seconds, finally letting it slide down into a disbelieving frown.

“Come on, St. James! You’re s’posed to… take pictures and stuff, right?” He moved his unsuspecting arm rest into a dance position, twirling her (somewhat clumsily) before letting her go. Pulling away from Ivory, George rubbed his mouth, raising an eyebrow and squinting slightly, walking unsteadily towards Ellie. “You always come… around.” Flashing her a grin, he put his arms out. “Missin’ me, mate?”

"Out of my way, Carter," Ellie growled back, returning the surname-basis-only greeting with an equally sweet shove in the shoulder. "You just ruined my shot!" Frowning, the young photographer pulled the viewfinder away from her winking eye and stared down at the heap of buttons and wizardry. Her breath was huffy, but much more sober than George's.

In no mood to juggle a drunk ex and an innocent bystander, Eleanor flashed the girl an apologetic smile. "We'll talk about Teen Witch later," she promised, as if it were the highlight of her subject's night. She sunk her claws into George's arm and dragged him several steps to the silken wall of the tent.

"What are you on?" She demanded, hissing at him like any St. James snake might. "I'm not here for you, I certainly didn't miss you, and I'm not going to let you get yourself expelled for public intoxication so you can chase me around London. Sober up!" By now the camera was swinging from its thick band around the crook of her elbow, and her hands were dug catlike into the neck of George's shirt. She smoothed it out, finally, her fingers growing a little softer as they dropped away from his shoulders and chest. "Looks like it's been some year for you, mate," she noted, throwing the word back at him and inclining an eyebrow despite herself.

“I just made… Yeah, I made your shot.” Patting the girl’s shoulder, he gave her a smile. “I mean, you helped make it too, you know, but…” Well, anyway. He had other people to bother, someone else to set his irritable sights on. And she had been the cause of some strife over his Hogwarts life, why not give her a hard time?

His laugh came out at the mention of Teen Witch. “I could be on the cover of that some… day.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Ellie. “Want my autograph now?” He let himself be led, stumbling slightly over misplaced chairs—how dare they put an obstacle course in the middle of a festive tent!

Her bark was worse than her bite, George recalled. But boy could she bark. Grinning and trying not to, he put a hand over his mouth and tapped at his uncompromising smirk. Expelled?! He was legal. He didn’t have his back boned uncle to keep him out of most of his trouble, of course, and it would be a second strike. His smile fell down very slightly at that, and he rolled his eyes. She always sucked the fun out of stuff. And, if he recalled, the stuff out of fun…

“Looks like it’s been some year for you, mate.”

His smirk took a turn for the worse, becoming a scowl, glancing from her to the area behind her in suspicion. “Who told you about… How would you know that?” Crossing his arms over his chest, he puffed it out a little, attempting to stand still. George had to move his feet out a little wider than his shoulders to keep him steady.

Ellie rolled her eyes and let George carry on like a balloon, his head growing bigger with every syllable. Perhaps, if she were lucky, it would pop. Wouldn't that be grand? Behind her back, two of her fingers were crossed, one of the other, like a braid of chewy candy. She was sour with George Carter, teenage heart-breaker, but she didn't really want his head to explode. That was just cruel. Besides, who would be around to see her successful career and watch his get left in the dust?

"Keep dreaming. Ian has a much better chance. A little birdie told me he's already booked for Quidditch Illustrated. In the buff." Alright, that part was a tiny white lie. But if it were up to Eleanor...

Autographs. Ellie nearly cackled. Or wrinkled her nose. Her big blue eyes went sharp, but they might as well have kept on rolling. "No, but maybe there'll be a day when they let you put a quill to Irving's--"

A teacher passed, giving her a curious look. Eleanor quickly raised the lens to one eye, and grinned like a school girl. The teacher, thinking better of it, whirled as fast as an emergency Apparator, and disappeared in the direction whence he  came. "Such a blushing bride," Ellie murmured, turning back to George.

He'd given her the upper hand without meaning to. "How did I know what? That you're drunk as a house-elf or that you've had a busy year?" The former was too stupidly obvious to bother explaining. But even so... Her audience was special. "You smell like a liquor store. And who gets smashed before the first dance of the night? You're a lot of things, George, but you aren't a lightweight." She gave his stomach a soft shove, the familiar, lean, irony muscle hitting her fist like a ghost, only warm and not icy. "Let's get you some butterbeer," she added, taking charge despite her initial decision to let him get caught. "Caffeine will help. And cold water."