April 25. 1982 7:00 PM OPEN

Bureaucrat, after bureaucrat, after bureaucrat... one after another, each with variations of the same thanks, the same gratitude which he did not feel comfortable answering for in the slightest. Rabastan had shaken more hands and kissed more cheeks tonight than he ever had before -- and he hated every bloody minute of it. It was a painful thing, to pretend to like each stuffy one of them. The man at present was the head of an entirely irrelevant department, and he’d been shaking Rabastan’s hand for what felt like upwards of fifteen minutes. Nods, thank you’s, and a goodbye, and Rabastan finally let his falsely gracious facade fall. And once presumed alone -- 

“Merlin, I fuckin’ hate that guy.”

April 25, 1982 7:10 PM Ministry Gala [ @floralxconfusion ]

Drunk, drunker, drunkest. 

Never had Nikolai had so much to drink; never had he felt so utterly bubbly, upon pink drink and flowing champagne. The monster, in all his greatness, was slumped at the back of his skull like a lackadaisical drunkard, hiccuping and carrying on about near-wordless shanties which would prove no threat tonight. The fire was quiet but the bubbles were not -- nor was the affection that overtook him the moment he laid eyes upon a vision in pink, a veritable personification of the bubbles in his glass, through the crowd in which he milled about. Nikolai was fully convinced that his heart would burst upon speaking with her, for he could very clearly remember how his heart had leapt after kissing her ( even the monster had swooned as his stone heart ached ) but it was worth the risk, to be sure. 

“Holly!” he called, nearly barreling over a group of onlookers as he hurried toward her, abandoning his drink on a passing table in favor of wrapping strong arms around her waist, lifting her, spinning her, reveling in the fact that she was light as air and sweet as candy. It was a wondrous miracle that the monster had deigned to leave her be; a testament to Holly’s kindness, surely, that even his dark companion was kind. 

“You look beautiful,” he grinned, setting her down with care and letting his fingers fall to hers, “Like a flower!” 

April 25, 1982 Ministry of Magic  5:00 PM  [ OPEN ]

The last thing she had wanted to do was put on a dress. Had Mary not found it in her heart to be benevolent and persuasive all in one, Alice might have still been curled up in bed with the book she’d borrowed from the little old lady downstairs. A Muggle novel, it was, and much more interesting than a gala that she was obligated to come to. Were it not for Mary, and were it not for her determination to see something good happen to Alastor firsthand, she would be far from here.

She lingered by the wall, where once she would have hastened to the center of the dance floor, furiously patting powder over the scar upon her cheek, scowling as it seemed not to cover quite as much as she wished it would. The scowl was certainly not a good look, in comparison with the decadent dress and meticulous hairdo, courtesy of Mary’s careful and gentle artistry. For all intents and purposes, Alice should have been floating -- but she wasn’t. She would have been, had her damn makeup been able to cover her scars. 

A bit of powder floated in an invasive cloud about her nose, and Alice sneezed, dropping her compact onto the marble floor. A sigh, a curse, and she stooped to retrieve it, grimacing at the sight of powder coating a small square of marble. “Brilliant,” she murmured, straightening; there was no time like the present, it seemed, to bite the bullet.