outfit, far right

Sighing into her cocoa, Neely tossed the cup in the trash bin at the end of the corridor; she knew better than to bring it into the library when Mr. Morgan was around-- least of all because he reminded her of someone, and she wanted very badly to please him. Fellow blonds and all that. He did have very lush hair! And a nicely polished shoe in the door, where connections were concerned. Neely Woolfolk did not believe in brown nosing. No. It was all about connections. Flattery came in many shades, and Neely could be as sincere as she was shallow when it came to flattering ambitious wizards like Landis Morgan.

Shoving past a third year who had a foot on her, and looping her way around a cart wheeling itself from aisle to aisle to return books to their proper shelves, Neely managed to target Mr. Morgan's office with all the grace of a starlet preparing for the stage. Her invisible powder puff, the bouquets of flowers she'd received from imaginary fans-- those were all in Neely's arsenal of confidence as she paused in front of the door, threw back her shoulders, raised a balled fist, and let her wrist fall forward with three clear knocks. "Mr. Morgan?" She asked casually, vaguely throatier than usual, tilting her puppyish chin down at the closed door to peer over the tops of her sunglasses from under the brim of her wide blue hat.

The young spy was here with news, and hoped to hear some thrilling gossip in return.

The door flew obediently open at her touch to reveal the librarian - not sitting at his desk but leaning against it. He did not straighten as the door opened, although as he glanced over at her he also eased his desk drawer shut. His eyes flicked briefly over her ensemble - sunglasses and a hat, indoors? - but if he was skeptical about her wardrobe choices it didn't show on his impassive face, currently arrange in a small, bland smile. "Come in, Ms. Woolfolk."

He didn't ask why she was there - this was to be a career planning meeting, just like the other few he'd had scattered over the week. Landis did not arrange meetings for every Slytherin, but stuck to mostly seventh years, with a few younger students who'd requested it or one - even younger - that he'd approached to discuss a future prefecture. Neely had requested this. He did not mind it so much as he usually minded such things: Landis was always more accomodating to students in his House, and Neely amused him besides. She was a good girl - a bit dim in some ways, perhaps, but supposedly a terror in her social circle - and she had such a lovely bloodline.

He moved to sit behind his desk, and with a wave of his wand-bearing hand a chair came skidding over from the corner like an eager puppy, half-turned towards Neely in invitation. "How can I help you?"

Neely lifted her eyes again, having pulled the sunglasses away to adjust to the light. She eyed Mr. Morgan up and down; he was stealth and pretty as any knight in any ancient tale, the ones her godfather had always told her a girl-- except he’d peppered them with unicorns and princesses and pink castles, to keep Neely’s attention. A fellow blonde unto death, Mr. Morgan was like a beacon of hope in a school full of ruddy, muddy, immature boys and poorly dressed would-be female companions. Of the handful who fit the bill, Neely was not on speaking terms with half of them. Which made the adults of Hogwarts all the more attention-grabbing. Her big eyes shone like a pair of shiny blue galleons as they landed again on his face.

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly, removing her hat and stepping obediently toward the desk. She sank into the empty, needy chair that beckoned for her to make use of it-- a clever touch, an impressive bewitchment by Erin’s older brother, Neely’s Head of House-- and placed her hat in her lap, sunglasses in her bag, bag on the floor.

She looked over her shoulder, as if to suggest in a fit of wise silence that the had best shut the door and lock it before Neely opened her mouth and brought her tidings. This was not, simply, as she had told people in her company, a career advising. Neely had some choice gossip to share with the gallant man who had saved her little Camille from Figaro Sellaphix’s spotty wroth.

"How can I help you?"

“Well, sir,” she began. She’d gone over this in her mind’s eyes and her mirror a thousand times. Neely knew how to brownnose with the best of them, and she picked favorites among the teachers as child might among teddybears. Professors Reid, Morgan, and Ó Móráin were her favorites. It was purely coincidence that they were all blonde, all Slytherin alumni, and all beautiful Purebloods. Neely did not care about blood so much; style and attention-grabbing wit were another thing. But where Abby was a miniature Aileen, the fact that Erin and his brother looked so much alike did not deter her. They did not get along, no more than she did with Demetrius or-- she winced even to imagine it-- their eldest brother, who was less drunk and more dangerous. Erin would never grow out his hair, she knew (she had thought to ask once or thrice or twelve times at least), and he would never have the patience for the library. Sometimes boys her age were so immature.

“I would like to be famous,” she admitted. “You’re ambitious. I bet if you wanted to be known by the world around, you could be!” She grinned up at him hopefully. “But I... I don’t know if you pay attention to the rumors, sir, but people are saying such... silly things.” Neely among them. She’d heard everything. It was legitimate. So she hadn't actually been there, but that didn't matter. The Slytherin was too skilled in the art of gossip not to recognize a genuine, shocking revelation. Neely knew a lovers’ quarrel when she heard one! She was careful, though, not to seem to knowledgeable. She did not forget Mr. Morgan was a talented wizard with a penchant for putting dark charms on parts of the library where he least liked people to snoop. She’d heard from a good source what happened to a Hufflepuff first year over Christmas. (It had never been confirmed, but Neely had not seen him afterward... or before, but who cared? No one paid attention to first years. It had to be true. It was Hogwarts legend! Lavatory gospel!). She stretched out a small hand, gingerly as holding glass, confidently as any Slytherin. She grabbed the man's wrist, confiding a truth only she knew. “You know, if you’re looking for someone better, Professor Reid is on the market, too. She’s lovely. No one will even remember the other one next semester.”

And if he liked Reid, well... Neely fancied herself an Aileen-in-training, which was part of why she got on so splendidly with Abby. What she'd really meant to say was that she'd be legal in two years, and required an older boyfriend with a job who could support her cocoa habit and bring her flowers and hex her enemies.

Landis regarded her neutrally as she spoke, to every appearance a patient handler to her excited pup. A shifty, deliberate glance back at the door, and he drew his wand and locked it as she wished. No one would be listening at his door, and Landis was not in the habit of humoring students otherwise, but this was counselling of a sort and Neely had requested this. If she had something private to discuss, and if locking the door made her feel more at ease, he was willing to compromise.

Interesting. She started out promising enough, talk about her future mixed with blatant pandering, but quickly veered into territory students should not speak wot of. He was a fool to think news of his and Juliette's little spat hadn't reached the children, despite that very few of them were present for it - but Neely's "confession" showed that said spat had become prime gossip fodder. Landis restrained the urge to sigh, gustily and despairing. The girl really was very good. If he hadn't known exactly who she was - if he had been more naive, less suited to the post of Slytherin Head of House - he might have mistaken her words for clumsy comfort. This had ceased to be career counselling and was now gossip mill interrogation central; knowing this, he thought himself too canny to throw her any bones. Only the knowledge that he was the authority figure here kept him from throwing her out of his office, too.

Then she reached out as quickly as any striking, tender snake and touched him, saying something about markets, Aileen Reid and... huh.

According to the innate laws that governed Landis Morgan, which rotated around dignity, professionalism, and the eternal preservation of personal space, this unwanted confiscation of appendages would have earned almost anyone else a very cold look. Instead Landis carefully withdrew his wrist from her earnest grip, the twitch of his lips ruthlessly squashed before she could guess at his amusement. The other one, indeed. The rather petty part of his mind which tended to dwell on Juliette nearly 24-7 now snickered at the description.  "Your concern is very touching, Ms. Woolfolk," he said dryly. "But the relationship between myself and Professor Reid will continue to remain entirely professional. Now tell me why you would like to be famous."

It was not, as subject changes went, terribly subtle. It wasn't meant to be. It was meant to remind Neely that however juicy the topic might be there were some subjects best left unexplored, especially given her current victim was older, wiser, and had a stare like a diamond gimlet for starters. If his question distracted her distracted her, sent her into a swoon of self-centered socialite glee at the reasons why she, Neely Woolfolk, deserved to be famous (starting with, he was sure, obviously because why wouldn't she be!), then at least they'd be back on track.

"Your concern is very touching, Ms. Woolfolk. But the relationship between myself and Professor Reid will continue to remain entirely professional. Now tell me why you would like to be famous."

Neely pouted not unnoticeably as her debonair advisor took it upon himself to cut short her gentle gesture. His face was blasé as a portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself, all handsome and slender and youthful where Slytherin had been dark and aged. They both possessed wise visages, but Slytherin was the sort who scared Neely into admiration, whereas Landis Morgan... for all his intimidating countenance and its widespread infamy, was dreamy. Landis Morgan had the long hair of a storybook hero and the cat-like grace of some young, villainous lover who charmed the wives of weary husbands. In this case, the old hag he’d charmed was the potions professor, who was not so old and hag-like, nor married, but one had to improvise.

But Professor Reid she might have began. She knew, though, that he was beyond arguing. His eyes told her as much, and Neely merely batted her lashes down at her lap in meek defeat. It was the look she sometimes gave her father when he told her no-- the look she used to bide her time before she asked again.

Maybe she would just do it anyway: owl Abby and set up a secret run-in for which neither one could blame little, adorable Cornelia Woolfolk, nor Abigail Reid.

She brightened up considerably at the idea of telling Mr. Morgan why she should be famous. Because, it wasn’t a matter of wanting it so much as knowing that she was destined for fame. He could help her get there. He shared a name with Darian Morgan, and he looked like someone who would know lots of famous people and be on many a VIP lists-- a sort of loner, but the sort of who looked really good standing around elite nightclubs and chic parties. Golly, why hadn’t he been born in Erin’s place? It would solve so many of Neely’s problems: her desire to eat truffles while she studied in the library, and her desire for charming, available Slytherin boys with pretty hair who couldn’t get fired for telling Neely how pretty she was.

Nearly bouncing in her chairs, shoulder pixie-ish with excitement, head bobbing, she began to explain her intricate life plan: “I want to be famous because everyone who is important is famous. You can’t be important if you aren’t famous-- it’s like trying to be important when you aren’t popular. Like Figaro Sellaphix thinks he’s soooo wonderful, but no one even likes him, and I think Sophie punched him in the face because he’s that bad of a boyfriend.” She made a breathy little scandalized noise before continuing, one which might have served to keep her lungs functioning through the endless words. “Anyway, I’m really popular already, and everyone knows that’s the first sign of becoming famous. When people like you and know your name, and when you’re popular like I am, the first step is done-- it’s like I practically have a huge resumé,” she explained. As she spoke, her eyes darted, brightened, narrowed in suspicion. Her brows and hands and smiles and frowns and confused moments were equally changing. “I would also like to be famous because then I could be in magazines.” To Neely, it seemed as if she’d been asked to spearhead a debate, so each point arose as if it had been thoughtfully preplanned. And it had. It just all came out in a rush, as if she’d forgotten how she’d composed it in her Potions notebook (as good a place as any, with so many pretty, blank pages itching to be filled). “I want to style editorials and runways and write letters from the editor-- not just to-- and sit front row with celebrities who are famous but not as famous as me but sort of as famous as me because a famous person needs famous friends and it would be pathetic if there was only one famous person in the front row of a blue-chip fashion show. I want to be in the tabloids, always well-dressed and flawless, and I want paparazzi to stalk me until I have to take out a restraining order, but I still want them to stalk me after that. I want to host the best parties and I want little girls to cry for my autograph like they would for a pony who can fly.” Not that Neely would know. Ahem. “I want to eat salads with ladies in big sunglasses and drink wine and coffee spiked with alcohol, and I want to have a cute husband who does everything I tell him to and thinks I’m a goddess.”

She sat up straighter now, her face sobering, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as if to ask Any more questions, sir? “Oh, and I want everyone to love me,” she supplied, a neat little conclusion that was sure to drive the point home.

Landis listened impassively. A stone statue might have had more expression. "I see," he said when she was done, with his hands still folded all neatly in his lap because, honestly, there was no need for paperwork to shuffle through when her request was something like this. Landis did not have an advising folder marked fame. "Well, Ms. Woolfolk, I think you already know your chances of achieving your ... " word choice? Landis faltered only briefly, then segued smoothly on - "career are quite high. I will not make assumptions about the Woolfolk fortune, but past generations have had little issue with financial concerns limiting their options. However, you ought not to assume that school popularity will gain you any influence outside of Hogwarts. After graduation, you must make your own reputation." He pinned her with a look. "A good one, I hope."

Landis wouldn't pretend to know anything about socialites or how to go about becoming one (other than money and clean blood), but it was probably too much to ask that she not turn out like, say, Dolly St. James. Dolly's exploits had earned her many a black mark in Landis' mind, but girls these days were mad for her. They admired her, they idolized her, they speculated in breathy whispers that hitched and spiked and got on Landis' last nerves from their huddles at the library tables and then asked him if he had any autographed copies in circulation. He supposed they couldn't help admiring wittiness when so many of them were themselves half-wits, but the thought still made him a little ill - or maybe that was Neely's bouncing. The glare off her impeccably glossed lips was certainly giving him a headache.

"Likewise," he said, with the sigh of one who knew he was fighting a losing battle. "Eternal love and adoration aren't so easily won." He paused, regarded her blankly. "However, even as a socialite it's good to have hobbies. I think you would do very well in fashion. Have you considered an internship, or talking to someone in the industry?"

They both knew what was coming. This'd probably been another reason Neely had chosen him for an adviser. Landis tried to think of a diplomatic way to tell her that he had very little sway over his infamous cousin, and that it would take more than a student's request for him to put himself voluntarily in Darian's debt just for a fashion interview.

His unreadable expression might have been approval, as far Neely was concerned. Her new high from having so brilliantly conveyed her ambitions made her sure that she and Mr. Morgan were on the same page. And then, he told her chances were quite high, and Neely practically floated out of her chair, her head grew so buzzy and happy and big.

“Oh, no, sir, our financial situation is not an issue.” Except for the pair of bounty hunters brothers who thought Neely deserved to be disinherited. Ugh, they were boars. Neely was Daddy’s angel, and there was no way short of eviscerating her invisible wings and halo that they would manage that feat. “I’ve already been making my own reputation outside of Hogwarts,” she confided, raising her chin a bit. Now would not be the time to childishly bite her lip and gauge how much Mr. Morgan had heard. He didn’t need to validate her name; she needed to validate it for him! An education in Neely Woolfolk.

She was glad, still, in that fifteen-year-old girl way, that Mr. Morgan seemed to find her popular. Or acknowledge (or repeat) her own assertion.

"A good one, I hope."

She nodded feverishly, straightening up again, her face sobering. “I’m so professional, people think I’m a legal witch when I go to--” Whoops. She sat a little taller, a little more primly, closing her lips together and staring at him with sober maturity. “I would never make a bad name for Slytherin, sir.” That was for the lesser plebs of the world, mainly those who didn’t wear green and silver, or didn’t even know how to salvage Hufflepuff’s statement color of yellow in coordinating their uniforms. (Which was most of Hufflepuff.)

"Eternal love and adoration aren't so easily won."

Didn’t Neely know it? It was a cruel world, full of the ugliest effing skirts and bracelets she had ever seen. Nine-to-five chic was about as drab as a London rain shower. Neely was not bound for an office. And so she would persist, all blood, sweat, and tears (ew, no, not really) to win that not-so-easily dispensed love from hoards of fans.

"However, even as a socialite it's good to have hobbies. I think you would do very well in fashion. Have you considered an internship, or talking to someone in the industry?"

Smiling Neely-ishly, all bright as a Christmas bauble, she answered, “That’s great advice, Mr. Morgan! I knew you would know what to do. Everything says you’re very smart, you know.” She paused for affect. “I do have internship experience. I interned with a supermodel and I have fashion management skills.” If ordering her elves to rearrange her closet after micromanaging the entire plan counted. And it did, Neely was sure. Her closet was not for amateurs. but I would love more. “But I would love more experience. You know fashion is really about diversifying yourself and making--” Friends with perks and privileges and V.I.P. passes. “Professional connections. Oh, and talent." And then, a trade secret: “Fashion people have their own language,” she explained. “I speak it.” Fluently.

“Your cousin, Mr. Morgan-- the other Mr. Morgan-- is very talented. He's an inspiration to me," she confessed modestly. "It's really a higher art, what he does, isn't it? You’re so lucky, sir. Have you ever thought about modeling? Natural blondes are very in demand.” She spoke knowingly, her brows dancing upward.