28 May, 1893 — Hogwarts Coming Out Ball — Great Hall

Peggy didn't think she particularly cared about how many times she was asked to dance tonight — or she wouldn't have, at least, had she been the only woman in the Great Hall. Dancing was fine, and she was good at it, so she certainly didn't mind filling up her dance card, but she wasn't necessarily dying to go through a quadrille with the Ministry gentleman with the lopsided mouth. She did care deeply about being seen to have a successful night, though, and she was quite aware that in order for the night to be a success she had to be seen on the dance floor more often than she was seen loitering at its edges. And — this was not necessarily something others would notice and care about, but it was none the less at the top of her mind — she had to have more dances than Sarah Moon. Which shouldn't be hard. Who would be dying to get a dance with Miss Moon?

Her first dance had gone to her father, and her second to a cousin, which was amenable as it gave her a ready stage to show off to all of the other gentlemen here how well she danced. Now she was keen to have her first real dance — though she hadn't yet been introduced to anyone who might ask. Would some gentleman approach her of his own accord? Should she go find her mother and angle for an introduction? Doing so would mean missing this dance while she went through a conversation with her mother and the gentleman and whomever else happened to be in earshot. What were other girls doing? Did anyone else already have a partner for the next song? Peggy ran her fingers over the edge of her dance card and glanced around the dance floor, trying to assess the situation.

Someone had acquired a dance partner, at least, but it soon became evident they were not to be envied — someone stepped on the hem of the young lady's dress (whether she herself was the culprit or whether it had been her partner's fault was unclear from Peg's vantage point) and even from halfway across the dance floor, the sound of ripping fabric was clear. Peggy grimaced on instinct, then raised her hand to her mouth to cover the expression as best she could. "She can't mean to dance like that," Peggy said a moment later, utterly aghast that the woman in question had not immediately left the dance floor. "One more misstep and she'll lose half the skirt."

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Part of her was surprised her mother had even permitted her attendance tonight. The fact she'd been the past two years was probably her saving grace when she'd argued she could come even if she didn't walk the stairs with the rest of the girls. A bitter spike of rage had shot through her as she watched her classmates. She should've been up there, not down here mentally preparing to be shipped off and locked up for another year at 'Finishing School'. At least she'd wiggled out of going to France of all places.

But tonight? Tonight was the first night of her last three months of freedom and while she might not be out, she had every intention of taking advantage of it. Which started with donning a dress of dark burgundy velvet. She looked horrible in pastels, so if she wasn't a debutante then there was absolutely no reason to dress like one when it would be so very unflattering.

"She probably thinks she can avoid drawing attention to herself," Rachel drawled, turning her eyes away from the spectacle and onto her friend. "And the gentleman is either oblivious or well..." hoping for a show. Though she did leave the second part more implied than said, at least in the general public and the nagging suspicion her mother was somehow lurking and listening to every word she said. She at least was mildly interested to see what exactly was going to happen from the safety of her distant observation point. She certainly wasn't going to step in to help.

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   Vera Morgan

Peggy shook her head in consternation at Rachel's comments. Rachel was probably right about what the young woman was thinking; in her position (although of course Peggy would never have been in her position) she would have been just as keen to avoid drawing any more attention to herself. It had been a loud enough noise that anyone who was going to notice already had, though. She wasn't saving any of her dignity by clinging to the dance, and she stood to lose a good deal more of it if the skirt tore again. It occurred to Peggy that it wouldn't be hard to mend it with magic... even without leaving the dance floor, she could have used a quick charm to shrink the now-dangling bit of fabric so that it created less of a trip hazard, and therefore less of a risk of further wardrobe disaster. Peggy could even do it from here, come to think of it — but a part of her was morbidly curious to see how this played out without interference. She and Louisa Quibbleberry, the dancer in question, had never been the closest of friends.

"Do you know the name of the gentleman?" she asked Rachel, tone low and vaguely conspiratorial. "I might avoid putting it on my dance card, if he's really so oblivious." She did not know that fresh debutantes usually had a good deal of choice whose name did or didn't go on their dance card, but nevermind.

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Unlike Clark, Rachel had never had any positive feelings about Lousia Quibbleberry at least not after their fourth year. The girl was narcissistic and dangled her social life above the rest of the girl like it was something to be envious of. Like Rachel was supposed to be jealous that Mrs. Quibbleberry wanted to pawn her daughter off as soon as possible like something was wrong with the girl. (Obviously, there was.) Not that Rachel would admit that a part of her was jealous of Louisa's access to the social scene when it felt like her own mother was doing everything in her power to delay Rachel's own access (though at least she'd managed to talk down Vera and Annie's French school). Not that that meant she wanted to be Quibbleberry. And honestly, probably explained part of her spite in this situation.

A slow smile crawled across her face at the tone Peggy's voice took and her earlier anger was replaced with a thrill of giddiness. This is what she'd miss next year being locked up by some stern face matriarch. "He's someone connected to the Bellchants. I think I heard someone call him Benard. Maybe Benedict? Something like that. His sister was that squib girl who married the shipping American." How was she going to even come close to finding someone to temporarily fill Peggy's place? No, the whole place would be goody-two-shoes. "Apparently he's a bit of a tool."

  

Peggy's mouth dropped into a slight O at Rachel's description. There was certainly plenty to be shocked by in what she relayed (squibs in the family! Americans! and terribly personalities to boot!), but the truth was that Peggy would likely have pretended to be scandalized even if Rachel had said nothing more interesting than one time he failed to have a witty comment prepared during a conversation. Bigger reactions were simply more fun (and so was feeling superior to Miss Quibbleberry and her maybe-suitor, though Peg didn't admit that part to herself).

"How do you think she knows him?" Peggy mused — truth be told, she had a slight chip on her shoulder about no gentlemen having swooped in to ask her for the next dance yet, and she was eager to explain Miss Quibbleberry's success in that area away. He could have been a Quibbleberry cousin, for all she knew, and everyone knew that didn't count. How dreadfully embarrassing it would be to tear one's skirt for the sake of a dance that didn't even really count. "I know her mother's been introducing her to an awful lot of people — or at least that's what she says — but surely she's not being introduced to just everyone?" Peggy said. The intonation on the last word carried a clear undertone: surely a mother who cared about making a good match for her daughter, rather than just a match, would not have chosen to introduce her to oblivious Bernard-Benjamin Bellchant, whose family contained both Americans and squibs.

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Her fan came up to cover her laugh with a sharp snap before leisurely starting to fan the slightly stagnant air towards her face. While the velvet gown certainly looked phenomenal, it really wasn't that breathable. "He's far too old to have gone to school with us. Maybe their fathers were friendly? Or maybe she doesn't. I mean, Mrs. Quibbleberry is getting older. Maybe her eyesight is as poor as his decorum and she simply mistook him for someone else?" There were certainly more far-fetched ideas than either even if both were equally fun to talk about in private conversation.

"But you never know. Her family does seem desperate with having her go to so many social events years before she comes out. Maybe they really aren't that picky about who she marries. Surely you read what Witch Weekly had to say about her this morning. Quick matches never mean anything good." Not that Witch Weekly had said anything all that flattering about Rachel but at least their comments about her had been neutral even if she was sore over them. "It almost makes it look like the Quibbleberrys are trying to hide or cover for something. As if Lousia says out too long then something will come up. So maybe they don't care that his family has less than stellar connections."

  

"Such a shame," Peggy said, though her tone implied she wasn't terribly offended on behalf of Louise Quibbleberry. "It's not as though marriage is a race." She followed this with a raise of her eyebrow and a significant look towards Rachel, conveying what she wouldn't put into words: except, of course, when it is. She wouldn't actual say anything about reasons Miss Quibbleberry's parents might prefer her to be married quickly rather than married well, because doing so would be gossiping (in a way that she had convinced herself this was not), but privately she agreed with Rachel that there was likely something the matter with anyone whose parents had been pushing them into events since fifteen. Personally, Peggy hadn't been in much of a rush — and if it weren't for many of her peers debuting this season, she might very happily have followed Rachel off to finishing school, or investigated something like the Flint Institute for Advanced Magic. She knew she would be married and married well one day, but she was not at all inclined for that day to fall in the calendar year 1893.

"I'd rather be exceptionally well-matched on my twenty-eighth birthday than poorly matched on my eighteenth," she declared, though obviously she felt she was in danger of neither. She didn't know when she planned to marry, but she did consider herself quite the catch (and Witch Weekly had not seemed to disagree) so she doubted it would be very difficult to acquire a husband when she wanted one. "Oh — there it goes," she added, as someone trod on the dangling hem of Miss Quibbleberry's skirt and tore it another three inches. It was still clinging on, just barely, but surely she would have to excuse herself from the dance floor now? The bloke who had stepped on it (not her partner, at least in this case) had nearly tripped — at this point she was a safety hazard!

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Well clearly that girl's family thought it was. If it hadn't been that she'd been totted around since their fifth year like a prized show pony Rachel might have even thought they might be covering something of a... distinctly feminine nature that would rear its ugly head in roughly nine months with how pushy they were about the whole thing. Though Rachel had enough sense to her that she'd only have voiced that thought in the private company of a home not in the Hogwarts Great Hall. No one seemed to be paying them any mind but she had no desire to tempt fate.

"Though they clearly disagree. And, honestly, I think my mother would too," Ellie snorted, dark eyes shifting away from the dance floor spectacle to look for her mother. "Especially after Annie's 'success' I think my mother might die of disappointment if I don't match well and soon." The thought alone was enough to return her mood to its early state of sour sulking. She'd never had a sore spot for her sister's quick match until that morning. A young lady distinguished by little save for her exceptional height... [and her siblings] Witch Weekly had said before all but implying Rachel wouldn't manage as successful of a season as her sister the next year. She should have saved the article for after the ball but she'd have no reason they'd have said anything but something positive about her let alone expect they attack her height and somehow turn her successful siblings into an attack against her.

But she was promptly distracted by a further ripping noise and it was her turn to gasp. Goodness, even Rachel was starting to form some sort of pity for the girl now. But not for the situation but for the clear lack of common sense Lousia had. "How has this girl handled three years of events and somehow still manage to be this clueless? You think somewhere along the line she'd have at least... you know."

  

Peggy had been anticipating that her friend would swoop in with immediate reassurances that she would never make it to twenty-eight before marrying, and tried not to be outwardly put out when such reassurances were not forthcoming. Rachel must have thought it went without saying, she supposed (but it still would have been nice to have been said!). How much of a success is it really if half of the couple don't survive the honeymoon? she might have said, or your mother must not be in a particular hurry or she'd hardly be delaying your debut for finishing school, but she recognized that both options were bordering on too blunt for this interaction. And anyway, there was such a bigger target dancing not ten feet away from them.

"She was never the best with charms," Peg said, voice full of sympathy she did not actually feel. "Poor dear. She mightn't even know how to fix it, even if she did stop dancing long enough to get a proper look. You know — I'll help her," Peggy continued, closing her fan and reaching for the subtle pocket sewed into the top of her own skirt, which hid her wand away. (There had been quite the debate on whether debut gowns ought to have pockets for wands or not, but ultimately her mother had been satisfied upon seeing that the seam really was almost impossible to spot upon casual observation, and that the wand being placed inside didn't disrupt the way the skirt hung or spun). She cast a charm which, to her credit, did solve the problem of the now-dragging bit of fabric. The way in which the problem was solved, however, was much flashier than Miss Quibbleberry would doubtless have preferred: it flourished up into the air and then rolled in on itself, drawing a great deal of attention, and then knit itself together at the base of the remaining skirt... which was now short enough to allow the backs of Louise's ankles to be glimpsed when she turned on the dance floor. The spell had, understandably, also caught the dancing pair off-guard: Louise stumbled slightly, Mr. Bellchant trod on her toe, and then the pair of them both collided with the couple nearest them on the dance floor. Overall, it was entirely the wrong impression to be making on one's third dance.

Peggy shot Rachel a wide-eyed look, as if to say can you believe how entirely graceless some people can be? — indeed, as though Peggy had nothing to do with the matter at all. She'd already slipped her wand back into its hiding place and no one nearby was looking at her when Louise was such a spectacle, so as far as the majority of the guests were concerned, that might have been the truth.

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"No?" she questioned, eyebrows furrowed in confusion for moment. Her brand of dislike for this Miss Quibbleberry had been more in line with occasional passive aggressive comments and barbs but certainly no dedicating enough time and energy into noting things like Louisa's classes or grades. But then Peggy was pulling her wand out and Rach figured she'd just with out the moment and what Peggy was planning would become obvious in second.

And it did. Louisa Quibbleberry's dress! It took all Ellie could manage to twist her roaring laughter into a muffled, polite cough into her fan less she either be taken as rude or equally as bad: draw attention to what Peggy had just done. Her body shook in tiny convulsions until she clinched her hands into fist, the sting of her nails digging into her palms a sharp focus.

Lousia had to be absolutely mortified. Her ankles were on display. Dishonor on her. Dishonor on her cow family. "Surely she'll leave now. Oh my, the poor girl! Such dreadful luck. Mr. Bellchant really ought to step up and end the dance now to spare her any more embarrassment, don't you think?"

  

Rachel's reaction was nearly as gratifying as the deep flush that had overtaken Louise Quibbleberry when she realized precisely how short her skirt now was. Peggy drew her fan to her mouth to hide her smirk. She had been in a waspish mood a moment ago, between talk of how soon various parties were expected to marry and the lack of forthcoming gentlemen asking for her next dance, but this stunt had put her in much higher spirits.

"I think," she said with an exaggerated flush of her fan. "That Mr. Bellchant's decisions are of no import to me, and I hope to keep them so. Come on, let's get a glass of champagne — I'm parched." Which was to say, she wasn't keen on being the first person Louise landed eyes on when she looked around the edge of the dance floor for a culprit behind the spell that had just hit her. Peggy had a reasonable defense if she were found out, but she'd rather avoid the ordeal of explaining herself.

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Peggy's voice started to drift away but Rachel's eyes were still tied to the scene, reluctant to leave until she'd watched the whole affair play out. But Peggy was being smart, better to leave before fingers were pointed towards them. Goodness forbid her mother hear about this she'd never be allowed to leave the house till she was shipped off to Pendergast. She could hear about it later from one of the other girls. Snapping her fan shut, she turned towards her friend, dance slippers clicking against the floor as she followed.