ofeliaestelle:
natural habitat | antonin & ofelia
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Ofelia was still not used to attending lavish parties. She was good at parties, of course. She was great at parties, she had a gift for light hearted and sunny, always complementary and ready for a good time. But the parties she knew, they were not like the parties she attended now. The parties she was used to called for free flowing and most importantly cheap alcohol and a little, tight skirt and música a todo volumen, the kind that you felt in your bones. Those were the parties where a Viteri Romilly belonged, but now Ofelia was a Jugson, and she belonged to a different sphere altogether.
Tonight, she was wearing a gown that April had helped her pick out. It was the closest they got to genuinely bonding, when April was making sure Ofelia would dress appropriately and not bring shame to the family. Ofelia had wanted something in white, but April insisted on color, so they’d compromised on a blush pink sheath that sparked and caught the light whenever Ofelia moved. She had been a little nervous that it would be too flashy, but her dress was neither the most nor the least subtle gown in attendance.
So far, Ofelia had spent the evening close to Quentin’s side. She smiled when he glowered and laughed when he stayed silent. It was one of her favorite things to do, these days, because she felt like she was contributing. It was almost like having a job again, to be responsible for softening Quentin, for being his more approachable side. Ofelia liked to think of herself as Quentin’s public heart, and it was a role she took quite seriously.
Now, however, she found herself alone, drifting aimlessly amidst crowds that were still not entirely friendly as Quentin excused himself to “talk business.” At a normal party, Ofelia would have had no problem socializing by herself, but even with her exquise etiquette courtesy of Beauxbatons every conversation at an event like this felt like an accident waiting to happen. In lieu of all that, Ofelia was hanging back, enjoying the expensive champagne.
When Antonin Dolohov approached, Ofelia broke into her genuinely sunny smile. She did not know the man well, but she knew he was one of Quentin’s associates in the Death Eaters, and one of the friendlier ones, in fact. “Bonsoir, Antonin.” She was relieved he’d used her name first, giving her the option to call him something other than Mr. Dolohov. “The party is tres impressionnant. Are you enjoying your time this night?”
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“Oh, it’s wonderful, as ever,” Antonin cooed, waving a light hand in the air as if to gesture this old thing? in the fondest way imaginable. Antonin loved these parties, of course he did; he was only human, red-pure-blooded and not yet tied down by marriage, so yes. Maybe a party with more alcohol, less clothing, more Sebastian Nott-types rather than Distant Lestrange Types would have been a more exciting use of his evening. But plenty of his other fellow Death Eaters were in attendance, some more highly regarded than he and some, he was delighted to note, already considered to be inferior to him. That was enough to keep his spirits up even as he finished his third conversation with an ancient DesRosier he’d last seen when he was twelve.
“They can get awfully stuffy, these things, but it’s always so exciting when we have someone new to ooh and ahh over.” He continued, pouring on the charm as hard as he always did. Some people saw through it, sure, felt the way it slid off him like his whole body was a living, breathing mask. It wasn’t fake, but it was far too easily tapped. An endlessly renewable resource, was how he saw it. “You must be so used to more exciting parties, though. Didn’t you attend Beauxbatons, if I’m remembering correctly?”
He knew he was remembering correctly; that was stored away in his mind as a fact about the woman. He always made a point to remember a few key details about anyone who might prove useful to him, and the presumably rich daughter of a presumably powerful foreign wizarding family was always a highly sought after connection for the young diplomat.
“I have a few cousins in Russia who refused to be sent to Durmstrang - too dark and dank, you know - who ended up at Beauxbatons. Strings had to be pulled, of course, but don’t they always? The stories they tell me about the after-curfew parties there are delightful.” He sipped his champagne, smiling warmly behind the rim at the woman before him. “Have you been cornered by any of the matriarchs yet? We do love our gossip around here.”
