who: @ashton-richardson where: Prospero Slughorn’s manor when: October 31st, 1982
Evelyn’s date was fine. He was famous and rich and pretty. The pretty was the main reason she had chosen him over the other potential dates she’d considered bringing. But, there was a fatal flaw in his companionship skills. He was dull. The pictures would be great, they’d look great on the glossy magazine pages and the covers if she were to be so lucky, but when he’d expressed interest in catching up with some old friends of his, it took everything she had not to push him towards the small crowd of similarly witted attractive gentlemen.
She gave it a couple of minutes to make sure the conversation he’d begun had staying power, before slipping off to find some champagne and better company. As she slipped through the crowd, Eve passed by several friends she could’ve stopped and chatted with, but instead of stop, she snagged two champagne flutes from a server and kept going. There was a tall, slender gentleman who’d been making eyes at her all night that she’d rather talk to first. Her friends she could be piss drunk and still talk to safely. With him, she’d rather be sober.
“Here,” she passed him a flute. “I think everyone here, you included, could use one.”