Bagpipes. Bagpipes.

Vladlena kept her expression carefully neutral—as she had for hours now, a feigned, polite interest in speech after speech, while her mind split her attention such that she could practice her Rare Languages mentally while still retaining a semblance of knowledge about the proceedings. But this was…trying. She understood the pride, and the choice, given that they were in Scotland--or she was fairly certain, at least--but…used to the silence of the isolated mountains in Russia, and the strictly controlled proceedings of Durmstrang, the unrestrained, exuberant bagpipes were unfamiliar and slightly cacophonic, though not nearly as exhausting as her…dance partner's…incessant yammering. But at least that required little to no response from her, and she was learning quite a bit about Salem, which she supposed would be useful, and could be used to defend herself if the Headmaster caught her engaged in this nonsensical frippery. Vladlena was viciously fighting down the thought that it wasn't so bad, really, but as always on the exceedingly rare times when she felt something other than her usual, even-keeled functioning, her expressive eyes gave her away.

She hadn't minded the bagpipes. In fact, she had even acknowledged that their sound was moderately aesthetically pleasing, and had been on her way to get a better look at the odd instruments, to determine how they worked, when some over-exuberant Hogwarts student had grabbed her and pulled her into this ridiculous exercise of a dance, stomping on her feet and twirling her around. She had thought to hex him, but figured it would be in poor taste, so she had gritted her teeth and allowed herself to be spun and pulled into the reeling circle, anticipating a quick escape as soon as the song was over.

But it kept going.

She caught onto the steps quickly. It seemed to mostly consist of skipping around in circles, holding on to your partner, with the occasional twirl and swapping of partners. And each time she tried to slip out, someone else seemed to come along, caught up in the spirit of what she suspected was celebration those speeches were over. She'd lost track of how many partners she'd had—some male, some female, most shorter than her. She'd finally given up escape, and was almost entirely tuned out, reciting spells in her head to drown out the godforsaken bagpipes, her feet athletically graceful enough to follow the mindless routine without any direction from her, occasionally asking a question about her partner's school or thoughts on magic, and politely demurring when they commented on her English.  The sun had set, and bouncing balls of light hovered over and around the impromptu dancing space, and Vladlena—though she quickly squashed the fanciful thought—felt rather like she'd been dropped in the middle of some ancient Highlander festival.

A shout rose from somewhere in the spinning masses, and the Russian girl found herself released, only to turn and find her hands colliding instinctively with someone else's.

She sighed. It had to end sometime, surely.

The trip to Egypt had been good to Baxter. For that matter, so had the entire summer. Somewhere along the way he had started to open up- just a little- and was more willing to part with the fluff electives he had forced himself to stick with throughout his third year. He had grown up a lot, too. His hair was shaved off, he had grown and filled out. It was early, but puberty had hit Baxter Fox like a two-by-four over the summer- and with the extra tan the sun of Egypt had given him- he hardly looked the gangly, bookworm of a Ravenclaw he'd been just a few months ago. In short, Baxter was beginning to look more like his father every day- something he wasn't going to complain about.

He had missed the arrival of the students the day before. Baxter had been spending the day with his mother, step-father, and baby sister. But missing the festivities wasn't going to happen. His father had agreed to take him to Hogsmeade, and had left to him to his own devices- going to catch up with some old friends he had not seen since the whole MacDuff fiasco had begun.

The day had been long, but exciting. Baxter had met so many people, and seen so many new faces. It wasn't lost on him, either, how pretty so many of the visiting students were. They all were so different from the teenagers he knew- and he wondered, idly, what it must be like for them to have uprooted from all that they knew to come participate in the tournament. Baxter was just glad it had not been Hogwarts that had to go away to somewhere else.

Live bands had been playing for about an hour now, and he'd just finished a butterbeer when the bagpipes started up. It wasn't long before he had been tossed into the fray- switching hands with partners- thoroughly enjoying himself (which didn't happen often). And, before long, he had locked hands with an older, very pretty girl. Baxter was shorter than she was by a couple of inches, but beamed broadly at her none-the-less.

"I'm Baxter!" he yelled out over the music. He'd felt it was only polite to introduce himself to the partners he didn't know. Most had laughed and called out their names in return. This sort of dance wasn't very conducive to conversation- but he didn't mind. "You dance beautifully!" he added. As beautiful as this kind of a dance could be, anyway.

Vladlena found her hands entwined with someone else’s before she had time to realize the bagpipes were not, in fact, going to stop anytime soon. Her pale eyes fluttered closed in utter dismay, and when she opened them, she found them focused on a matching pair of warm hazel.

Oh dear. He was chipper to boot. Lena was startled by the intensity of his smile into returning a small, polite one of her own. It wasn’t warm, precisely, but it was a response. Sternly, before that could produce any untoward response in her such as annoyance—or perhaps worse, a sort of fond amusement, neither of which would be productive—Vladlena sternly schooled herself to focus on the much safer ground of objectivity. Very well then, if her assessment of such things was correct, his stature placed him somewhere around thirteen or fourteen—he had the look. It meant that he was old enough to be from any of the schools, but his accent placed him almost immediately.

Preferring not to engage in a shouting match, Lena dutifully lowered her head so her cheek brushed his and she could say directly to his ears, in a more normal tone of voice, “Vladlena. Prijatno poznakomit'sa.” She was aware some people thought her native Russian language harsh, something she had never understood. In her voice, smoky and higher than one would expect from her height, she forced it to be soft, and after a brief pause where the music and fellow dancers apparently dictated a twirl, she translated. “Pleased to meet you.”

Once again, he startled her. She was not used to spontaneous compliments, particularly about inanities and even more particularly when they were clearly not true. She hardly knew the dance, and while she could commend herself with some grace, she highly doubted this absurd display of hopping and spinning and…and words failed her, but she doubted it could be considered beautiful. The boy was either a bit daft, mistaken, or perhaps prone to either  fantasy or a curious sentimentality she didn't understand. The surprise showed only in her eyes, her expression remained the same, and she did not respond, hoping he would assume either the exertion had left her breathless or that she had been unable to hear or translate.  Still, something about his eagerness made her feel an unexpected and extremely brief pang of something that felt only vaguely like guilt. It was enough for her to sigh, though, and lower her head once again to ask politely, “You are ‘ogwarts?”

Elsewhere. . .

Bagpipes. Bagpipes!

For a very short-lived while Tracy stuck by the sidelines, watching the dancing before him with a wide, marveling grin. Above them the music seemed to soar in rolling leaps, the obvious enjoyment of everyone else keeping it all in midair. It was the kind of music that had you grinning along, stomping your feet as hard as the locals’ until they’d gone numb, the kind that had you laughing with a stranger as if you were old friends.

So who was he to be the holdout? The music they normally danced to back home wasn’t anything like this.

And so, before long, an outstretched hand pulled him in until he was lost in the crowd. Before long, dance partners twirled in and out of his hold, and as he laughed and twirled others he got questions, compliments, smiles and names—and just like before (and the times before that), another pair of hands found their way to his, small and slender to the very tips of their fingers. Tracy took in the pretty face and playfully bobbed her a bow. “Hullo,” he beamed in that deep, bluesy drawl of his. Perfect teeth flash white against his skin. “Ready for another?”

Without waiting for anything but a ‘yes,’ the boy—who saw and called every woman Miss no matter how old or pretty she was or wasn’t—gave the girl another twirl.

Outfit

The music was infectious. So infectious that Cecile, who normally stayed as far away from physical exertion as possible, couldn't help but start tapping her tiny feet to the beat. It was nothing like music she was used to back home, but she found herself in love with it. She wanted to pull out her violin and join in with the bagpipes, but without it there, she settled on inching closer to the group dancing and swaying slightly to the music.

At least that was her plan of action. Somehow her minuscule movement indicated to someone that she was waiting to join in. "Uh... atten--wait, I" She started to protest as a young man grabbed her hand and whirled her into the crowd. the whirling left her head spinning and her chest burning, but somehow her feet found the beat and a euphoric smile spread across her reddened cheeks, either from happiness or perhaps lack of air. She didn't speak much to her partner, since it was so loud and she was struggling to keep her breath, but she managed a breathless "Merci..." as he finally released her to take the hand of another lass. She was about to turn away and get back to her spot before things got worse when a much larger hand grasped hers and spun her around.

“Hullo, Ready for another?”

"I... I supp--" She started to say uncertainly when he spun her again. Her head may have been filled with mush and her chest might have been on fire, but the young man had a nice smile and a firm grip. Surely if she fainted, he could (and hopefully would) carry her out of the crowd. Smiling prettily up at him, way up, she decided that perhaps she should try to make some connection. He was obviously American, judging by his accent, so he must be a Salem student. This would be interesting. She really only had any experience with other Europeans, and wondered if what they said about Americans were true. "Bonjour.... I mean, Hello... What is your... name?" She stuttered slightly, a bit rusty with her English. It came out clear enough, or so she hoped.

If there was music, Élodie was dancing. And if Élodie was dancing, the entire world could end, she wouldn’t care much. Actually, on the present situation, she was only caring to not exceed much with her excitement, since she was in Scotland to compete, not to give a free show to the competitors. Besides, Mme. Bisclavret’s words were still fresh on her mind - Beauxbatons’s image and reputation was on her hands too.

Still she couldn’t avoid letting the music guide her, even music so different from what she was used to. Since the bagpipes started to play, Lola started to move and wouldn’t stop so soon. Unafraid of dancing with herself and secure enough to dance at least a little with everyone that gently invited or simply started to spin her; she was all laughs and smiles in the middle of the crowd. Lola was aware that all that magnetism, all that energy and, specially, all her ability dancing could easily be the target of other girl’s envy, but about this she would never care. She was just being herself and having as fun as possible after all, no evil intended.

For a moment she glanced at her sister and saw her with a handsome guy, and as she seemed quite well with him. Lola sincerely smiled, happy for her luck, before being suddenly spun again for someone she didn’t care to look twice - unlike Cici, she didn’t intend to talk much, just dance. But the boy stepped on her feet enough for the whole night right on the first minute, so she stood with him just the acceptable time to not be rude. After that, she grabbed the first male hand free next to her - not asking, not even thinking if the guy was willing to dance or not. In her eyes was written a message of help, so she could be free of the boy who almost ripped her precious feet off.

When she turned back around matching him smile for smile, Tracy’s only got brighter. Ever since he was a kid he had been friendly and outgoing, irrepressible with high spirits whenever he met someone knew, and when he got older things hadn’t changed a bit. The Tetra-Wizard Tournament, famous for its international competition, had been marked up as a god-sent opportunity in his eyes—not for the tournament itself, which promised excitement in ways that others didn’t, but for the chance to meet others from all over the world.

Suffice to say Tracy loved people. He wasn’t just a people person at heart, but all the way to his very bones. That his newest partner seemed to be just as receptive to his acquaintance as the others—well, of course he was pleased to make hers.

Taking in the flushed cheeks and the bright, glassy hazel eyes, he unconsciously slowed down, became gentler in his steering though his exuberance hadn’t dampened a bit. “I’m Tracy!” he said cheerfully, lightly twirling her this time, and so he wouldn’t have to shout to make himself heard the boy ducked close to her ear as close as good manners allowed. “Tracy Jones, from Salem, here for the gold ‘n glory but mostly for the people. And you, miss? What school are you from?”

Corey had been a reluctant follower of the Fontaine sisters to observe the dance, with no real intentions of joining in. Even as much as Corey liked to allow everyone, even himself, to believe that he was unrefined and uncoordinated when it came to the arts (including dancing), he did have a natural, often effortless way of moving that seemed to suggest otherwise. In addition, the years of being the elder Fontaine's pas de deux partner (even when it would often earn him ribbing from other male classmates) should have given the lad more confidence to take the lead.

But this dancing was nothing like ballet and so he hung back, even after both Cecile and Elodie were pulled up by foreign partners. The protective Corey watched them head off and making sure they were going to be okay. His eyes eventually wandered away from either one of their figures and took in the other dancers. Their hosts, the Hogwart's students, seemed to have their hands full with the visiting delegations. The Durmstrang students looked so stiff and precise...quite formal. His fellow Beauxbatons also seemed formal as well, but in a more elegant and refined sort of way. And, well, the Salem folk gave Corey the impression that they could probably have fun no matter what they were doing.

Corey stood up, stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to walk around the outside of the dance area, still observing. He caught sight of Cici and then he found Lola again. The former looked fine, but the latter was clearly screaming "Help!" with her body language.

With a shake of his head, Corey headed in her direction with an extra spring in his step. Lola remained in his peripheral as Corey took in the rhythm of the movements the other dancers were making. It wasn't a seemless transition on his part, but he managed to slip into the group at just the right time so that he could take over as her partner.

Giving her hand a squeeze, he called out in their native tongue, "C'est pas du tout comme le ballet, non?" (This is not at all like ballet, no?)

“I’m Tracy! Tracy Jones, from Salem, here for the gold ‘n glory but mostly for the people. And you, miss? What school are you from?”

Despite his attempts to spin her more gently, which she noted and greatly appreciated, Cécile still wasn't finding the frantic whirling any easier. Her breathing was becoming increasingly more ragged and she found it difficult to keep her feet in rhythm. "My name is Cécile... Cécile Fontaine..." She managed, trying to keep from wheezing. She didn't want him to see her weaknesses, especially considering that, because he was a SWIM student, he was the 'competition'.

It was getting more difficult then she would have liked to admit, though. She put on a smile, however, and did her best to appear normal "... I'm from Beaux... Beauxbaton. Here for the people... and the money as well." She added, but didn't clarify, partially because she didn't think it was anyones business why she and Élodie had really entered the competition and the other part felt her stomach churning violently and knew she should keep her mouth shut.

It didn't last long though. Her chest had begin to burn and she could feel the bile rising in her throat. Abruptly pulling away, she covered her mouth with her hand, muttering behind it as politely as she could "Excusez-moi... S'il vous plait..." before turning and rushing away. She had to fight her way through the crowd, getting jostled and elbowed the entire way, until she could barely make sense of where she was even headed. By the time she made it out of the crowd, her breathing had become gasping and her stomach lurched. Realizing she was going to be sick, she frantically looked for a place to hide. Her eyes lit upon a small alley not too far away and she took off for it, her dainty hand clapped over her mouth in an attempt to keep the cupcakes from earlier from revisiting. 

She was feet from safety when a shadow suddenly loomed over her and her vision was blocked by someone's chest. Without thinking, she pulled her hand away to ask them, politely, to move but instead of words, they were greeted by a mouthful of what had been a rather tasty red velvet cupcake, but was now rather disgusting red mush. She stared at the mess in horror, her pale cheeks turning a violent red. "Oh... Oh... Je.. Je suis désolé" She managed, trying not to look up at whoever she had so unceremoniously vomited on lest her humiliation doubled.

Fyetka was positive that bagpipes were the worst instruments that man had ever invented. No wonder ancient warriors had been scared out of their wits when faced with the horrifying sound. His ears were being grated on. And he could've sworn he was going to have a headache the next night.

He had danced most of the evening with girls from all over the world. It was eye opening. Too bad he was already betrothed. Not that it much bothered him. Pretty girls were never a vice. And having a future set worked for him just as well. He could have as much fun as he wanted and still have everything work out for him in the end.

Oh Merlin. BAGPIPES. Yes, he was going to have a splitting headache in the morning. The Russian swore under his breath, excused himself from his dance partner, and went outside. He breathed in the warm summer air. Compared to the dance floor, it was cool and refreshing.

Suddenly, he saw the girl from Beauxbatons rush out from the crowded room. Cecile. That was her name. For the second time that day, she ran into him. He huffed, the air leaving his chest. "Is something wrong?" He began to say when his heavily accented english was broken off by...

Regurgitated red velvet cupcake.

Probably the very same he had seen her eat earlier. Positively disgusting!

He began to curse loudly in all three of his languages. Pulling out his wand, he waved it to clean his rich red robes. He was about to bitch at the little French girl, his vice was vanity afterall, but then he saw her. She looked small and still very sick. He sighed deeply.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her over to a bench. He accioed a cup of water from a nearby booth and handed it to her. "Are you feeling better, Miss?" He tried not to sound too pissed off.

^{((French dialogues are between <>))}

"C'est pas du tout comme le ballet, non?"

Lola laughed, delighted. She had her stroke of luck too, recognizing her old friend and way better dancer than anyone on that room as the owner of the hand she grabbed. “Non, mon amie!” She said loud because of the bagpipes, pulling him to get on the rhythm along with her. <“But I bet you can give a show here too!”> Lola added blinking at him, following the music as it was as usual to her as the classical ones.

If she was feeling home before just because she was dancing, do that with Corey made her lose herself a bit more. All those years having him as partner granted a certain physical intimacy - completely related to the dance, naturally. For as much as he was a quite handsome fellow, he still was just a fellow. And so protective that Lola would describe him as the brother she and Cici never had.

And that was the better part on having that liberty in dance with him. Not only did Élodie knows that he was capable of make some awesome movements without ever stepping on her feet; she also trusted that there was nothing to worry about the placement of his hands. Corey was probably the last guy in the world that would deserve a slap from her.

<“Are you having fun here in Scotland, or we should make our own party?”> She asked to him a little suddenly when the music slowed down, obviously kidding, however her own speech reminded her of something she was about to ask to Corey, but the first days celebrations ended up distracting her. <“We should, actually, make a party, you know that?”> Lola looked around, just to guarantee that Cécile wasn’t around. Even with the loud music, what she was about to say should remain in secret to her sister. <“It was Cici’s birthday and I couldn’t manage to give her a decent party in France, but here we’re free to do whatever we want! It was her seventeen, she deserved something special! Would you help me on that?”> It wasn’t the first time Lola gave that look to him. That was her special little cute expression that usually kept her away from hearing a negative answer.

“Cécile?” Cheeks dimpling, Tracy grinned. “That’s a pretty name, miss.” And as feminine and delicate-sounding as it was, definitely seemed to suit her. That she was Beauxbatons—that she was French—practically had his smile stretching from ear to ear.

When it finally dawned on him just how terrible his tiny dance partner had been feeling up until now, he had tried to slow down a bit more, he really, honestly had. The sluggishness, that green tinge to her face, those too bright eyes—they had all been dead giveaways, signs that he was no stranger to considering how many teammates, classmates, and fellow students he had sent to the nurse’s office himself; his mama and nanna di’nt raise no fool. But this time, this time he’d been too caught up in the music, and before he could do anything remotely helpful—

“Miss- Cécile-”

—the girl had already run away. And so for just a moment, the petite Beauxbatons girl left Tracy standing there, equal parts worried for her and frustrated with himself. “Hell,” the swear quietly escaped, before he’d given himself one last kick to the rear and ran after her, quietly and hastily shooting off apologies to those he bumped into (like a certain Durmstrang girl and her much shorter partner) as he went.

   

An American student bumped past Étienne, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere, though Étienne didn't register what the hurry was; he hadn't caught sight of Cécile for a while now, and had in fact assumed she hadn't been able to dance more than a few songs. These ceilidh dances, they seemed to involved such a lot of spinning. Étienne had joined in the first dance to be polite, but found in very short order that these were not the kind of dances he was used to.

They had already danced something called the Gay Gordons, and with all the twirling and changing direction, Étienne had been having trouble keeping up. The Dashing White Sergent, a group dance, he had got the hang of a bit quicker, though every so often now he heard threats of something called Strip the Willow. Étienne had stripped willow-wood before, to use in wand-making practice, but he suspected the dance would be something rather more painful.

He'd lost track of what dance they were on now; he couldn't hear the ceilidh band leader over the top of the bagpipes, and wasn't sure if he was still shouting out instructions anymore. He followed along as best he could, but Étienne was no natural at dancing to begin with, and his movements were rather rigid. At one point he only just avoided treading on his current partner's foot. 'My apologies,' he called over the noise to his partner, his English accented, but only barely. 'This form of dance is, ah, new to me.' The undignified feeling that came with it was pretty unfamiliar as well. Étienne wondered to himself how soon he could excuse himself from the dance floor without seeming rude.

Baxter inhaled when she leaned in close, pressing her cheek against his. The only part of it he understood was "Pleased to meet you" and he was fairly certain that Vladlena must be her name because it didn't sound like a real word otherwise. Even so, a pretty girl had leaned in close to him while dancing- which was something very new for the upcoming fourth year, who had only just recently decided that females were indeed not gross but might actually be quite pretty and worth paying some attention to.

Then she asked if he was from Hogwarts. Baxter nodded. "I am," he said, trying to lean in close to talk in her ear as she had done with him. "A Ravenclaw." He decided not to tell her his age, instead enjoying the dance.

Baxter glanced around at the other couples, noticing that there were a lot of students participating now. In his distraction, the command was called out to change partners. Baxter instinctively let go of Vladlena's hands and was spun a few times by strangers, finding himself standing outside of the group of dancing couples. He frowned slightly, then shrugged, and decided to figure out a different form of entertainment for the evening.

((You don't have to have your partner's change couples. But giving the chance for a random switch here if you want to take advantage of it. Posting Baxter out because I'm having trouble keeping up.))

Corey was still bashful when it came to dancing, even though he had been Élodie's partner almost since the day they had met. He still remembered when she had fixed her doe Fontaine eyes on him and pleaded that he help her. When he said yes, he never dreamed that he would partner with her for very long and he certainly never dreamed that would be very good at it. The truth was, even as he was well suited for playing like quidditch, he was also well suited for something artistic like ballet. It still baffled him even to this day.

Corey's hold of Élodie was sure but gentle; firm but relaxed. It was an effortless embrace created from years of partnership and it was capable of allowing Corey to stop being self-conscious when on the floor and just dance. It was this reverie that he found himself in when Élodie spoke, or shouted rather, a series of questions. When they slowed a bit, he bowed his head close to listen to what she had to say. He nodded eagerly when Cici's birthday had been brought up. Corey had felt bad for missing the real date when he was away, even if he had sent a gift. "Oui, Lo." He chuckled and nodded when she flashed him the doe eyes again. He responded in their native tounge, "I think that's a very good idea and Cici would enjoy it very much."

Corey raised his head finally and his eyes searched the other dancers for the familiar figure of the younger Fontaine. Not seeing her right away naturally raised his concern, but Corey pushed the thoughts back when he considered she may have just gone to the bathroom. Returning to the eager Élodie, he inquired, "When?"