*Barty's formal wear, though of a striped and questionably pale-blue variety, is still more acceptable than usual for him - an uneasy truce arranged by Bernadette several hours before the party. Much like his clothes, he'd been trapped into attending. Motherly glances suckering him into a night filled with lifeless and be-suited fifty-somethings, fluttering endlessly around the hotel's rented ballroom like particularly dishonest butterflies. Since he was a child, Barty had found amusement in differentiating the multitude of species present and their various, ridiculous pollination rituals - not that everyone present is a butterfly at all. Fudge, schmoozing his way through the throng, is definitely more of a slug, or perhaps a caterpillar born without the necessary facilities to construct a cocoon. He's slimy, to put it simply
( ... )
*Of all the social powerhouses Crouch so secretly despises - of all the insects, in Barty's view - there are perhaps few so keen on being seen in precisely the right time, place, and manner as the Malfoys. The arrive just shy of actually late, just enough to give the impression of not caring about other people's time, but they look, in a word, flawless. What's more, they know it. Lucius strolls in, lazily regal, with Narcissa close on his arm, and surveys the other guests rather as though they, and not Crouch, are the ones responsible for all the splendor. And why not? If any of these peons had the slightest idea how much he and his wife have strategically donated, they'd be bowing.
The exact figures are kept just this side of private, though, to avoid looking tacky. Still, enough is known that they're gratifyingly noticed when they arrive, and Lucius is satisfied. It's one of the biggest social events they've been able to attend since Draco was born, and oh, how he's missed the attention.*
*Naricssa's gaze moves impassively over the crowd, the corners of her mouth lifting past their society smile when she spies her young cousin's friend and his... attire.
Knowing with absolute certainty that she looks stunning, she squeezes Lucius' hand gently as they make their way through the lesser people.*
Just a tad. I do think we managed a more than passably acceptable entrance, given how little practice we've had lately.
Darling, it's not nice if I gloat. I might get wrinkles.
*Her smile is just as devoted, though anyone watching would think it merely a pleasant expression. Narcissa smiles at Lucius with love in her eyes, not on her lips.*
The Minister ought to be first, and if you could keep me well away from the Skeeter woman, I'll be forever grateful - I've seen her darting about the place already.
Is she here? Sometimes I think they'll let just anyone in at these parties.
*On the one hand, Lucius rather likes the idea of being in the paper; he's never one to turn down his name being in print. But if Narcissa would prefer to avoid the press, then avoid it they will. An elf walks by with a tray of drinks above its head, pulling his attention.*
One must make exceptions for the press, it seems, no matter how loose the association.
*But there are other reporters, who are likely to use a much less scathing tone when speaking of their betters, since they know that pettiness and jealousy is a sure way to not be invited to future events.*
*He lets go of Narcissa's arm to take two flutes from the tray, handing one to her. The sudden change in weight makes the elf bearing the tray overbalance and totter, sending glasses crashing to the floor. Lucius, unmindful that it was his fault in the first place, curls his lip and whips his robes back out of the way quickly. It's only a keen awareness of the public eye that keeps him from kicking the little wretch for nearly spilling alcohol all over him. As it is, his rebuke is harsh, if kept low.*
*Cool grey eyes take in the unfortunate creature, though her expression changes but little. Neatly stepping to one side in case Lucius wished to step back, she sips at the bubbly beverage.*
*His wife's calm bringing his temper back in check, Lucius gets hold of himself and retakes his place at her side, though his disgust is still perfectly clear.*
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The exact figures are kept just this side of private, though, to avoid looking tacky. Still, enough is known that they're gratifyingly noticed when they arrive, and Lucius is satisfied. It's one of the biggest social events they've been able to attend since Draco was born, and oh, how he's missed the attention.*
Long overdue, darling, don't you think?
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Knowing with absolute certainty that she looks stunning, she squeezes Lucius' hand gently as they make their way through the lesser people.*
Just a tad. I do think we managed a more than passably acceptable entrance, given how little practice we've had lately.
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*His smile's nothing short of doting, and he raises her fingers to his lips for a quick, affectionate kiss before lowering his voice.*
Who first? Is there anyone in particular you've been wanting to, ah...visit, with?
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*Her smile is just as devoted, though anyone watching would think it merely a pleasant expression. Narcissa smiles at Lucius with love in her eyes, not on her lips.*
The Minister ought to be first, and if you could keep me well away from the Skeeter woman, I'll be forever grateful - I've seen her darting about the place already.
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*On the one hand, Lucius rather likes the idea of being in the paper; he's never one to turn down his name being in print. But if Narcissa would prefer to avoid the press, then avoid it they will. An elf walks by with a tray of drinks above its head, pulling his attention.*
Crouch it is, then. Would you care for a drink?
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*But there are other reporters, who are likely to use a much less scathing tone when speaking of their betters, since they know that pettiness and jealousy is a sure way to not be invited to future events.*
...champagne, I think. It's a momentous occasion.
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*He lets go of Narcissa's arm to take two flutes from the tray, handing one to her. The sudden change in weight makes the elf bearing the tray overbalance and totter, sending glasses crashing to the floor. Lucius, unmindful that it was his fault in the first place, curls his lip and whips his robes back out of the way quickly. It's only a keen awareness of the public eye that keeps him from kicking the little wretch for nearly spilling alcohol all over him. As it is, his rebuke is harsh, if kept low.*
Mind yourself, you useless little lump!
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Poorly trained.
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If Dobby did that....
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*The inference, of course, is that they've trained him better. One of the many advantages to being a Malfoy is superiority in... oh, everything.*
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*Trying to let it go for her sake, he takes a sip of champagne - that's decent, at least - and glances around the room.*
So, the Minister - do you see him anywhere?
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I saw him when we first arrived... ah. I believe he's just on the other side of that Quidditch player who's name I can never recall - do you see?
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