Outfit

Victoire was having a meltdown. Her eternally trusted, endlessly helpful, immeasurably brilliant harem of beauticians had forgotten to bring her favourite gown for the opening TetraWizard games. What an error. Despite the countless outfits Victoire possessed during her year-stint at Hogwarts, there just wasn't a particular garment that fit the bill. A magically-enhanced wardrobe that appeared from the middle of her chamber, colossal in size and charmed to slowly spin didn't have that one key look inside, that one outfit that dropped jaws.

So, what was the fashion conscious headmistress of Beauxbatons supposed to do? Buy another. Of course. Most British designers were... lacking, at best, compared to the finesse display on the continent. It was all twee, and tartans, and traditional witch hats. Victoire didn't care for such a dowdy aesthetic, and there was only one fellow who could fit the bill. Darian Morgan. The Libertine label was a little adventurous (and sometimes downright scandalous) but Victoire was sure the young chap could produce quite the ticket. After all, publicity for his designs was a given, and the fashion-conscious blonde placed her utmost faith in Morgan. The two had met a handful of times, but instantly, he was in Victoire's good books.

A renegade, to say the least, and fabulously attractive (Victoire had, in her past, surrounded herself with well-dressed, good-looking men at all times until the board of governors deemed it inappropriate. Such spoilsports) Morgan was every inch the ideal designer. So, cancelling her schedule for the day and leaving nervous, nail-biting teenagers to Monsieur Gries, Victoire headed to Diagon Alley with two very sheepish beauticians in tow.

Entering the showroom, Victoire immediately looked around, handbag strategically hung around the crook of her elbow. Remembering to adopt her fluent tongue of English, she approach Darian, instinctively going for the kiss upon each cheek. "Darling, you absolute lifesaver," she gushed, her attendants doing well to stay back a metre or two. "I've had such a catastrophe, I need something chic and I need it now."

Darian really enjoyed this Tournament business, which'd given him a whole new crowd to court. Business had boomed in the wake of interested international parties, some of whom had placed mail orders with him in the past but had never before had access to the entirety of his shop. In anticipation of an advanced demographic he'd expanded his women's selection in late July, and it'd proven a most lucrative choice.

Now who swanned into his shop, all nude ruffles and avant-garde dress, but the Headmistress of their newest French ally? Darian took a moment to admire the elegantly belted waist, tightly sculpted pencil skirt, and darker frame of fabric showcasing Ms. Bisclavret's milky chest - in a purely professional way, of course. Two little pink-clad attendants tripped after her, their sheathed, identical, wide-eyed appeal the perfect counterpart to the pale flame of their mistress. As a man who'd chosen his own assistant with exactly the same calculating aesthetic in mind, Darian was impressed. It was so nice to see a woman who really knew what she was doing.

"Victoire!" he said in apparent surprised delight as she appeared, like a particularly French vision, in the doorway of his showroom. He approached her smoothly and at once, the very picture of an attentive gentleman in the gallant way he offered each cheek while a concerned hand hovered at her elbow. He was dressed all in dark jewel tones today, blues and purples and grays suffusing richly with the natural fiery lustre of his own red curls; the two of them were quite the contrast but, he was certain, still a very fine one. "Why, that's terrible news! Although - " His lips curved into a smile: cheeky, presumptuous. "I can't say I'm really sorry if it took a catastrophe to get you into my shop. Please, allow me to swoop in and save the day."

"Oh, it's such a joy to hear of a man who understands such woes," Victoire laughed coquettishly, her extreme histrionics often in jest and a smile-bringer to even the most sombre of faces. "You know full well I'd have popped in during my visit to merry old England!" She wiggled a finger in his direction, her nose wrinkling up as if talking to an adorable five year old. Darian was quite the vision, and Victoire could only urge other English wizards to follow his example. Very few of those islanders paid real attention to style. So many colleagues at Hogwarts wore nothing more than bog-standard drab robes, garments even her grandfather (Merlin bless his soul) wouldn't have considered. Juliette Vaillancourt, however, was a bold exception to this rule, but, she was a Beauxbatons girl at heart. Beauxbatons bred beauty.

Placing a delicate and familiar hand on Darian's shoulder, she was noticeably larger than the designer. It was the case with most men Victoire came into contact with. "Darling, this place you've got here is divine, simply divine. I trust you're making more than enough money to keep afloat? I had my secretary look at rent prices of the alleyway, and I was shocked, just shocked." Placing a hand over her mouth momentarily to highlight such unnecessary 'shock', she continued. "So expensive, I was thinking of purchasing a London base, you know, for holidays and the like, but I just couldn't justify it. You, however, I'm sure you're making a marvellous business here."

Victoire threw her handbag to the two escorts, not even bothering to look in their direction as they both caught the feathered creation in four nervous, trembling hands. "I wish you'd swoop in more often," Victoire sighed, a grin still painted on her porcelain face. "It's terribly stuffy with all this TetraWizard tournament talk. Don't get me wrong, darling, it's fabulous fun but the amount of extra work this year is frightful, truly frightful." She clicked her fingers and immediately, the shorter beautician stepped forward, handing Victoire a lit cigarette in a black ivory holder. Unnecessarily large in length, she took a drag and exhaled, a thin stream of purple smoke erupting from her lips that gradually turned crimson before disappearing completely.

Eyeing a nearby rail, Victoire took a few steps forward, cigarette holder in one hand as the other smoothed over a plethora of luxurious fabrics and garments. "I might purchase a few things while I'm here darling, you can't get this sort of style back in Paris you know..." Mumbling to herself and distracted by the fashion on offer (it wasn't difficult for Victoire to become unfocused around clothing), she turned to Darian, tilting her head in thought. "If it helps I'm adoring ostrich feathers at the moment, and flamingo feathers. They're just so 1920s Salem, wouldn't you agree?"

Darian was a little surprised she'd mentioned the price of the shop - bit tacky in these circles, wasn't it? Ah, but she was French after all, and the French spoke their minds. Most of his British customers would sooner bite off their own tongues than ask him how much he paid rent. After a moment to mentally switch gears (which he covered with a smile), he shook his head lightly. Rather than stepping down in the face of her over-the-top personality, he stepped up to match her; always blazing bright, Darian's gestures and expression became even more animated, more quick, more extravagant. He leaned in towards her, a hand curling over his heart in gratitiude as he notched the smile up from "pleasantly delighted" to "high-wattage beam."

"Why, thank you," he said, and then with feeling: "Oh darling, I would, but as much as the board likes alumni they generally don't like them, you know, just wandering up onto the grounds. Otherwise nothing would have stopped me from trotting my well-clad tail up to assist."

"Feathers," he murmured thoughtfully, diving for the thick black book propped on a nearby display stand. "Let's see."  He smoothed careful fingers over a page, flipped it, flipped back, muttered something derogatory. There was no question of needing to put on a show for Victoire - she was quite wrapped up in cooing over his racks - so he lounged artfully against a mannequin (which crooked an arm accomodatingly) and took the time to be certain. Taffeta and starling, raven, the inevitable peacock and some russet lark - aha. "Thank you, Byron," Darian said, and gave the mannequin's seersucker arm a fond caress before straightening in proud, proprietary triumph.
 
He appeared at Victoire's elbow proffering a page from the black notebook that looked like a madman's scrapbook. One beringed finger tapped the main photograph, pinned against a backdrop of original sketches and material notes. In it a dark-skinned model stared up at Victoire, looking ethereal and uninterested in an exquisite evening dress. Feathers cupped the swell of her nearly nonexistent breasts and swept out behind her in an impressive train, a belt and integrated silk bodice retaining the feminine form instead of letting the dress dissolve her into one great fluffy mass. Sleeker fawn feathers enforced a smooth transition, and glass beads glittered when the model turned and caught the light. "From my fall line three years ago, ostrich and silk. More Italian fantasy, though, I know. And I've no flamingo at all, I'm very sorry to report. Oh, but this - " Another flip and he paused on a different page for her inspection, this dress dark and sleek instead of light. Very dramatic, these feathers, glistening greeny-blue - but this was clearly just a stop on the way to the real attraction, and he turned the next few pages with gusto. His intended had no feathers at all but draped on the model like a flapper's wet dream, shoulders bared while shear gold fabric fell down to be gathered into a tight skirt band just above the knees. Embroidered heavily with beadwork and darker gold detailing, it combined angularity with the stylized bottom-heavy aesthetic of typical art nouveau. At the bottom of the page was another photograph, a whole cadre of girls with their eyelids pearl-smooth, clustered together in a mix of draping fabric and scandalously short skirts.
 
"Perfect, isn't it," Darian said, pressing closer to her and sounding as excited as a child on his first trip to Honeyduke's. His voice lowered, and he pinned her with a gaze equal parts fierce and imploring. "You'd look breathtaking in the pale chiffon." For an instant, his movements stilled. He looked up at her, dark blue eyes all knowing sly, and tipped her a wink. "Some women," he purred, "are meant to be worshiped."

"Of course, if you do not like any of my previous works I can always start anew." Not that designing a dress for a lovely woman was any great chore. The only matter of any importance was that of price.   

"Oh, really?" Victoire sighed, her shoulders drooping in genuine (if not dramatic) disappointment. Hogwarts was so stuffy, at times. Any headteacher in their right mind would employ all people of advertisement at any given opportunity; Beauxbatons students were regularly subjected to talks from politicians, signings with celebrities, that sort of thing. A push in the right direction, a 'look at what you could become' attitude, Victoire thought it a wonderful concept. "That's a terrible shame, darling. We really ought to do dinner one time in the carriage, sometimes I think our travelling transportation is far grander than the palace itself." Another statement of exaggeration.

Eyeing his black book with anticipation, her excitement quickly waned. Three years ago? Victoire wouldn't be seen dead in anything from an old collection. It had to be show-stopping, that was essential. And current. If not unique. Victoire soon learnt of the importance of image; countless photographs were plastered on every newspaper page at several points in her career, and there had been low-points. 'Too sultry for a headteacher?' read one article - 'Busty at Beauxbatons' another. There was a fine line between personal inclinations and professionalism - and Victoire had to blend both in order to appear just perfect for parent and political alike. "Um, perhaps," she murmured diplomatically, although her disinterest was difficult to disguise. "The Italians are a little too Renaissance-chic for my liking though; all bare breasts and seraphim pouts, wouldn't you agree?"

His next suggestion really was perfect - if she was ten years younger. Victoire was heading four forty, and any short skirts or devilish décolletage were a big no-no. She'd toyed with such flirtatious glamour over the years, but the day she was labelled 'mutton as lamb' was the day Victoire committed social suicide. Nobody liked a tarty older woman. "It's gorgeous, darling, really is, but you know I can't pull off that sort of thing at my age. I can see a few of my more mature girls at Beauxbatons looking quite fabulous in it though." She sighed once more. Youth was such a coveted era, Victoire wished she hadn't spent it behind some lousy desk at the French Ministry.

Darian's compliments fell on welcoming ears, however, and she giggled like a schoolgirl. He really was one of those men who were flirtatious enough without bordering on offence; the young gentleman was handsome and stylish (of course) but extremely metrosexual. He lacked the predatory vibe of more dominant men his senior, but retained an impish attraction that many envied. Most were too intimidated by Victoire to make a comment on anything remotely personal, but Darian was different, and she adored him for it. Patting the designer's cheek lightly, she exhaled dreamily. "I bet you say that to all of the ladies that come through here, you little charmer, you!"

A meandering mind soon find a footing once again on the fashionable. Taking a few steps into the centre of the showroom, Victoire gave a spin, flicking her hands theatrically as an idea evolved in her mind. "Pale chiffon, yes, but floor-length? 1920s, art nouvelle, with shoulders of ostrich feathers and maybe a little cleavage, but not too much!" Victoire smoothed out the material on her own dress, envisaging such a fabulous garment. "I really need to look stupendous, Darian, I wouldn't have come to you otherwise."

Her assistants exchanged a knowing glance that was unknown to their mistress. 'Here she goes again...'

"Well, once the Tournament officially begins I imagine they'll start allowing all sorts of outside guests, and you know I'll want to watch the challenges. I'll see you there, m'lady, don't fret. And I'll take you up on that offer of dinner, when I do."

"It's gorgeous, darling, really is, but you know I can't pull off that sort of thing at my age."

"Oh, I think you could," he laughed, but it was only a little more flattery, not an intention to press the issue. Age was nothing - well, it was a little daunting - he himself had turned 28 less than a fortnight ago, and he mourned it as Peter Pan might. But wizards and witches had extraordinary genes, deceptive appearances, and a little longer, in Victoire's case, to wear short skirts and daring heels.

She patted his cheek with a giggle and a waft of French perfume; he smiled up at her, enjoying the light flirtation that came with his career and a willing customer. "Only you, Victoire," he said, and winked.

"Pale chiffon, yes, but floor-length? 1920s, art nouvelle, with shoulders of ostrich feathers and maybe a little cleavage, but not too much! I really need to look stupendous, Darian, I wouldn't have come to you otherwise."

He switched gears again, this time already tracking in his mind the fall of the fabric, the shape of the bust, straight into bespoke mode. Darian moved in circles where the more cleavage, the better, and he had to admit Victoire's move away from daring to schoolmarm chic was little disappointing. But he could be classy. He could be hellishly classy. He summoned with a snap of his fingers an everlasting quill and a roll of parchment, taking notes in one of the blank pages of the book.

"Would you care to sit? I'll do some sketches, then we can decide on a final design and take a quick fitting before you leave. I already have the materials, so I could have your dress ready for you in a matter of days. Of course, if that is not fast enough, I could always expedite." He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time, eyes lowered in cool calculation. If he worked all night... Misa would fuss, but she was off for the day and wouldn't discover what he'd done until tomorrow.  "Say, tomorrow evening. Coffee or tea?"