WHO: Angelus Rosier and Peony Parkinson WHAT: A glimpse into the dating life of two pretentious purebloods WHEN: November 22 (after these), 24 and 29th WHERE: Angelus’s flat, the Gala, a restaurant WARNINGS: Mentions of Greyback (freaky even by Death Eater standards…) but otherwise tame
Peony was, in the parlance of her mother, all a’flutter. From confusion to disappointment and the stumble of believing she had been rejected by a very good friend—oh, how would she fix this—to now a sort of… giddy happy confusion? After taking some time to powder her nose (and several steadying breaths), Angelus Rosier’s most favourite of eligible witches Apparated into his living room.
“Helloooo,” she trilled exaggeratedly as her heels sunk into the plush carpet. “Is anybody hooooome?”
“Nope!” Came the voice from the kitchen. Angelus’s bachelor pad was nothing if not extensive, covering the entire top floor of a building in London. The Rosiers, of course, were counted among the richest wizarding families in the British Isles.
Having let that sink in for a moment, Angelus piped up again: “Red or white?” The clinking of some glasses followed.
“Oh, to whom am I speaking, disembodied voice, if not the master of the house?” Peony settled on the sofa, smiling. “White, please.” She had half expected the master of the house to pounce on her the moment she had appeared in his living room, but for now she was happy to allow the delay.
“Perhaps his fabulous portrait?” said disembodied voice came. It was only a few moments later that Angelus Rosier appeared carrying a wine glass in each hand. He presented one to his guest with a charming smile, and then took a sip from his own. After mulling it over, he added: “Slightly better than a bacon-flavoured milkshake, I do say.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Peony raised her eyebrows teasingly, swirling her own glass and then taking a sip. “But this is good. As for the portraits, I had heard Lockhart had slightly more than you. Clearly there’s some catching up to be done.” She gave his foot a nudge.
Angelus smiled innocently. “You could find out, Peony.” Not that he’d ever subject someone as upper-class to a bacon-flavoured milkshake. Especially someone he didn’t dislike. After the tap on his foot, despite the mockery she was making of him, the Rosier male sat himself beside her on the luxurious sofa and turned so that he was facing her. “Ah yes. Lockhart. Now there’s a standard we should be keeping up with.”
“Oh. Well, Linden was rather complimentary about his taste in dress robes. The only thing he did admire about the man.” She took another sip, then placed her chardonnay (what else, really) upon the table.
“I rather think,” she added softly, a conspiratorial smile on her lips, as she scooted closer to her host, “that a portrait of you, perhaps in dress robes with some Tyrian purple accents, would set the room off quite nicely if you positioned it over there.” As Angelus turned to follow the line of her finger, she pressed her lips softly against the corner of his mouth.
“Got you,” she declared with no small degree of satisfaction.
Well. He’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker (or so he believed the muggle phrase was) for Peony’s pointing. He was surprised by the press of her lips to his mouth, but not in a bad way. He chuckled for half a moment, and then turned physically so his attention could be fully on the cheeky little minx in question. “Are you sure you weren’t a Slytherin?”
“Slytherins don't have the monopoly on cunning. Wit is simply a higher form of it,” she retorted. “Now, if you've really invited me over just to debate house qualities, I may actually be offended.”
With a clink Rosier’s wine glass was set on the table beside Peony’s. “Oh, absolutely not.”
* * *
“So,” Angelus began as he placed a hand on an ice sculpture to lean in beside Peony. “Are you enjoying playing hostess?” With a free hand he brought up his wine glass, swirled it, and took another drink. “Or listening to Umbridge rant, for that matter.” He scoffed at that thought, wrinkling his nose. While this was a purist party, claimed Selwyn relation or not didn’t deem a halfblood worthy ruining the mood.
“Perhaps you’d like to steal away for a few moments.”
Umbridge was a halfblood with only recently discovered ‘connections’ to the House of Selwyn. She probably didn’t have the stomach for all this fine wine. Peony chuckled over the rim of her blackberry soixante quinze. She of course was handling her drinks with significantly more grace.
“Duty and honour demands it,” she teased. “And where would you steal me away to?”
The ice was getting to his hand so despite the fact it ruined his pose he pulled away, but stayed close. “Of course it does,” Angelus agreed, but only because she was still teasing him. “I hear there are several broom-closets around here, or also many actual elegant rooms.”
“A broom closet? Never!” Peony was faux scandalised. She noticed that Angelus had removed his hand from the sculpture and smirked. “Good, because you were looking to become a part of that. What shall we call it? Wizard, 27, Attempts to Woo Witch?”
“I hear slumming it could be considered all the rage,” Rosier stated, waggling his eyebrows suggestively in good fun. He then looked amused. “Attempts?” He tsked. “It’s not merely an attempt.”
“I hear slumming it could showcase a… lack of care on behalf of the gentleman,” she proclaimed in a tone of mock severity. “Or so my mother warns me. And are you so sure that your attempts are succeeding? I am still here, after all.”
“That’s true enough.” There was no sense denying that assertion, and Angelus would never stoop to ‘slumming it’ either. “Well, you’re here because of your sense of duty to being a lovely hostess, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, and took another sip of her drink. “So, where were you going to steal me away to, if not some icy broom closet?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, you do have a room here.”
“I do,” she added, as if the realisation had just come to her. “Were you going to invite me to my own room?”
Angelus took a sip of wine. “Of course not. That’d be presumptuous of me.”
“It would indeed.” Peony extended her hand towards his, taking it. “You do still feel very icy from that sculpture. Would you like to dance?”
“With you? Of course.”
* * *
The mask of gracious dinner guest was something that Peony had slid into place often enough. She could have the same conversations with different people over and over and make it feel personal, make it feel unique and like she cared. Some of the time, she genuinely did. She had an armoire full of inoffensive topics she could pull out as needed, verbal hooks and catches she could use to draw talk out of an otherwise reticent partner until they forgot that they had been shy in the first place.
It was a mask that she wore well. A mask that she could fool anyone with. Except her current companion.
At least Angelus Rosier wouldn’t be one to pick apart or shatter Peony’s mask even if he was evident she was shy or nervous about this particular outing. Ever the gracious host -- when he wanted to be -- he gave her a reassuring smile. “You look splendid this evening.”
“Do I not look splendid every other evening?” A smile that was a shade more genuine this time. She had returned home for a long sleeved antique rose silk chiffon dress before arriving at the restaurant, and while it made her look the part, it didn’t exactly make her feel it.
“Fishing for compliments?” Angelus teased as he sliced daintily, manners coming out, into a piece of Chilean sea bass on his plate. Pardon the pun, Peony. “You really needn’t — you do always look splendid and I profess that I believe you always know that.”
She gave a brief chuckle at that; he did always have the knack of jollying her out of her bad moods. This one, however, he couldn’t quite dislodge. “I’m sorry,” she added, nudging her ravioli around her plate. “For being such a poor dinner guest. I’m just a tad distracted today.”
Angelus stopped short of bringing his slice of seafood to his mouth at Peony’s apology. “What’s on your mind?” It wasn’t the most graceful way of asking, but it was earnest. And, quite frankly, it could have been any number of things.
That it could have well been any number of things made the situation only more ludicrous. A noted converter of wizarding children would now be residing in her place of work, and it could have still been’ any number of things.’ “Fenrir Greyback has been appointed as the new and acting head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” she managed. “Who knows, the two of us may have a chance to be acquainted in one of those elevators at the Ministry someday.”
Then she started to laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it was so not, infinitely not, amusing in the slightest.
“Ah. Yes, that’s rather…” Angelus trailed off trying to find a diplomatic word, but then concluded with: “stupid.” Because it was, and he believed no one could earnestly suggest otherwise. “I don’t know what the hell they’re thinking. Well, they aren’t.” He drummed his fingers on the rich tablecloth in thought, but there was really nothing to say about it. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I can do about that one.”
“It's all right. Not your call at all.” She took a steadying breath and reached for her glass of water, forcing her nerves to still. “Well. I foresee a hike in silver jewellery being worn to work in the near future.” Maybe she should simply quit—it was beyond tempting—but that would read too much as a condemnation of the current administration, even if there was nothing commendable at all about appointing Greyback.
“So we’re going shopping for silver earrings that can double as arrowheads?” Angelus quipped, unsure what to do otherwise. He wasn’t a Death Eater, and it was times like this that being a Rosier didn’t actually count for enough on it’s own. Greyback might have been out of his control, but that didn’t mean no one could muzzle him, stupid idea or not. “How’s things in the DMAC otherwise?”
“And a crossbow to go with them. They sound rather like the sort of item that Borgin & Burkes would have. I ought to request that they put some aside for me, in case everyone has the same idea.” Angelus snickered. She replaced her water on the table. What would happen if the beast went after one of them? They would have to put him down, in that case. Hopefully.
“Work is going… well enough,” she conceded. “So long as there are idiots among us, I will always have a job.”
“We can swing by Borgin & Burke after supper if you’d like,” Angelus mentioned, but that wasn’t that important part here. “So long as Lestrange is treating you well and you’re not subject to any further idiocy.” He shot her a brief look of concern, but on the other hand he doubted Rabastan Lestrange would treat a Parkinson poorly. Still. Allow him some concern.
“Mister Lestrange is treating me well, yes.” It was in fact the first time Peony had felt some level of reassurance about working so close by a Death Eater. Not that Rabastan himself had given her any cause for concern, but Peony was taking extra care with her words and actions, so wary of causing offense. She took a mouthful of her meal, some of her appetite returning.
Finally, Angelus brought that delectable slice of sea bass to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Good. I’d hate for Lestrange to be giving you grief, but frankly I think he’s fine.” For a Death Eater, that was. Not that Angelus hated Death Eaters, but he could understand the concern surrounding them and what they did, of course. Especially for Peony.
Better Lestrange than his sister-in-law, with her capricious moods and legendary temper, most definitely. “He is not so bad,” she agreed neutrally. “So, what shall we get you from Borgin & Burkes?”
“Cursed cufflinks?” Rosier shrugged and picked up his wine glass by the stem. “A cursed letter opener?”
“What about silver cufflinks?” she suggested. “For whenever you may have business at the Ministry.”
Angelus looked amused once more. “Ah, so when Greyback savages my arm he’ll at least poison himself in doing so?”
Peony looked contemplative. “Perhaps something a little less subtle than cuff links...”