January 29th, 1891 — Art Exhibit, Hogsmeade Memorial Ballroom

This was... a lot of art. Ford couldn't recall the last time he'd seen so much of it all in one place. He was feeling rather overwhelmed; he'd sketched a bit as a student but had never had a particularly artistic eye. He might have skipped this sort of event altogether and only attended the ball the following night if something as mild as an art exhibit wasn't one of the few ways that he could manage to get Grace out of the house and into the public eye before she was formally out. He felt even more awkward here, however, than he did at formal parties. At least at balls or dinners one was surrounded by people to talk to; here, although there were people everywhere, he wasn't sure whether he was meant to be conversing with them or not. Many people were only staring at the walls in pensive silence; was that the thing to be done at these sort of outings?

His throat felt dry. He was pretending to be quite interested in a painting of a bowl of fruit. He coughed, lightly.

A horribly loud scraping noise suddenly filled the otherwise quiet room. Ford looked up and noticed with some horror that one of the paintings three rows up had come attached at one corner and was now looming precariously directly over some passerby's head.

"Ah — you might want to —" he suggested, but was only able to get that far before another corner came undone, cutting him off with another loud screeching noise.

  

---

Set by Lady!

There were few events Dorian enjoyed less than art gallery exhibits. Operas, for one, though even the shrill soprano notes might've been preferable to the bizarre amount of paintings covering the walls of this particular exhibit. It reminded him almost of the portraits at school, the way they crowded every available wall space with ridiculously ornate frames. Truly, where was he meant to focus with so much to take in?  Every second of useless staring overwhelmed him all the more.

The only reason he was in attendance tonight was because of Miss Beauchamp, his latest fling. She had enticed him with a promise of a stolen moment in one of the abandoned halls, but the longer he stared the more Dory realized he wouldn't be comfortable doing so. Not with so many painted eyes seemingly staring in their direction. He'd stepped from the rather large painting of a bowl of fruit with every intention of informing her of his departure.

That was, at least, until a vaguely familiar voice called out and a sharp object clunked him on his bad shoulder.

Instantly, Dory gripped the injured arm, and a hissed "bloody hell" slipped past his lips. See! This was why he hated bloody exhibits, they were so much more trouble than they were worth. Glancing towards the offending portrait, Dory cast daggers at the Grecian depiction. Or, was it Roman? He never was talented at remembering which culture enjoyed painting such ... vulgar (for this room anyway, Dory had seen much worst) images. "I say the wall looks better without it, what of you?" He called to the man who had warned him, his hand still grasping his hurt shoulder. Thankfully, Dory was quite accustomed to pain in his line of work.

  

---

beautiful set by lady

Ford bit his lip and held his breath as the painting fell. He'd seen it early enough that he could, conceivably, have done something to spare the man below, but he had never had particularly quick reactions, physically or magically. He'd been a slow study with the practical aspects of school and his job hadn't required him to improve much beyond where he'd finished with his NEWTs, so — suffice to say Ford would not be winning any dueling tournaments any time soon. So he watched it fall without so much as twitching towards his wand, then winced slightly as the victim let out a curse and grabbed his shoulder.

Since the very next thing out of his lips was a joke, though, he seemed not to be too much worse for wear. Ford smiled slightly and took a few steps closer, so that he could get a better look at the painting that had fallen. There wasn't anything wrong with it, he supposed, but he could understand why it had been skyed; there wasn't anything particularly interesting about it, either.

"You might be right," he agreed with a chuckle. "And I suppose that's a silver lining — or would it have been better to have been nearly crushed by the best painting in the gallery? It might have made for a better story," he joked. "Or a magical painting. Then it might have had something to contribute to the story." The magical paintings were spread out through the gallery, Ford had gathered, so that they weren't all talking over one another, but there weren't as many of them as he would have expected. Perhaps having subjects with the autonomy to get up and wander out of their frames wasn't particularly ideal for this sort of gallery walk exhibition.

  

---

Set by Lady!

"A magical portrait would be more entertaining, certainly." He acknowledged as he spared the toga wrapped woman another glance. Togas had to be easier to remove than corsets, though they certainly didn't allow for nearly as much fantasising. ""Though I'm not sure if it would be meaningful contributions or shouts for having fallen from its spot."

Never one to forget a face, Dory knew himself to have been acquainted with his conversation partner at some point in his life. When, though, he hadn't the slightest idea. Work was the most obvious answer, as a great many people passed through the ministry on any given day. (Not to mention that this man had the look of a ministry employee.) But, whatever office he was in couldn't have been one Dory interacted with regularly. Dory held out his hand in greeting, the one not attached to the aching shoulder. "Dorian Fisk."

  

---

beautiful set by lady

Ford hadn't recognized him, most likely because he'd been too distracted by the commotion of the falling painting, but he recognized the name immediately. "Oh, hullo," he said, taking the proffered hand and giving it a firm but pleasant shake. "Ford Greengrass. Your brother was in my dorm at Hogwarts," he explained. He had been at least passingly aware of Dorian Fisk while they'd been at school, but not intimately; he was a few years older, in a different house, and had a whole different vibe from the one Ford had had in school (and, to be honest, had still). He was the sort who cracked jokes and played Quidditch; Ford was the sort who daydreamed during classes and occasionally spent his lunch break chatting with one of the resident ghosts instead of with his fellow classmates.

Ford shifted his attention back to the fallen painting, which still seemed to be intact despite having fallen from quite a height. He then glanced up at the place it had occupied, now a conspicuous blank space on the wall. "Do you suppose we should try and put it back? They must have staff for that," he said uncertainly; aside from the ticket-takers at the entrance, he had seen no one who appeared to be here in an official capacity. He was hesitant to take on the job himself and potentially be responsible for another disaster in an hour or two if the painting fell again, but he didn't think they ought to just leave it in the middle of the floor, and given the density of the other art it wasn't as though there was an inconspicuous place to lean it up somewhere, or anything.

  

---

Set by Lady!

Ah, that wasit then. A friend of Nemo's. (Why Nemo seemed to amass so many attractive friends but remain a virgin was just bizarre.) Dory released Greengrass' hand without a second thought but maintained his pleasant grin. Pleasant if only to disguise how eager he was to disappear now that his shoulder ached so. "I knew you looked familiar," he said. Then, suddenly the memory of Greengrass struck him: Ford was the kid obsessed with ghosts. Dory wasn't the biggest fan of them himself, but he knew better than to get on their bad side.

Dory looked towards the vacant spot. Replacimg the portrait wouldn't be too difficult, he certainly dealt with more complicated scenarios everyday at work. But, did he want to be responsbile when they all inevitably came tumbling down like dominos? He looked about the room, his gaze landing on none who might be working the event. "Leaving it here seems hazardous, no? A lady might trip." They could push it off to the side, he supposed. "See that painting there?" He gestured to the one directly beneath where the fallen one had existed. "It's going to fall too, I believe. If we knock into it by mistake we may cause a greater catastrophe."

  

A painting just laying in the middle of the walkway was exactly the sort of thing that might send Grace headlong down the hall, Ford thought. Dorian Fisk was right that it had to be removed; leaving it would be a bigger hazard than replacing it would be, even if it did fall again later. Perhaps if they simply got it out of the way, Ford could go off in search of someone who worked here and let them know that it ought to be looked at again to ensure it was properly affixed? On the other hand — how hard could it be to stick a painting on a wall? Surely between the two of them, they could manage it. They'd both had a full Hogwarts education and worked at the Ministry of Magic (if Ford remembered correctly), and this was the sort of task that anyone with a wand could be hired to do. In fact, that was probably exactly who'd hung it in the first place, which was why it had toppled over on Mr. Fisk to begin with.

He was surprised to hear Dorian's assessment that the painting below was in danger of falling as well. He angled a bit closer and peered at it, trying to determine what Fisk had seen that gave him that idea. In the process he unwittingly moved half a step closer to the other man than he might have been comfortable with had he been paying any attention. "What makes you say so?" he asked, lightly chewing his lower lip as he considered the painting.

  

---

Set by Lady!

If Greengrass were a woman, Dory might've used the closer than normal proximity to reach his hand to the man's back to guide him into a better viewing position. His fingers would've lingered, pressing firmly against the lacings of the lady's dress and the bones of her corset. However, Mr. Greengrass was decidedly not a woman, and touching a man as he would a woman was beyond the realms of acceptability.

Still, Dorian didn't move away as he knew he ought to. His hand fell from his shoulder to point towards the falling corner. The painting was awhile yet from crashing to the ground, but the loosened nail was evident to the man who spent the majority of his career carefully assessing a situation before acting. (Most of the time.) "There," he stated, firmly focused on the portrait and not Greengrass chewing his lip in thought. "See the corner? It's sagging just so."

  

Ford followed the other man's pointed finger with his eyes and saw the nail slightly visible behind the corner of the painting. "Oh, yes, I do. You're right. You've got keen eyes," he remarked as he turned back towards him. He realized then that he was standing too close and took a quick half-step back, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. Fisk didn't seem to have been offended by his slight misstep, however, so Ford decided to just press on without apologizing for it outright. "I never would've noticed a little thing like that. So maybe leaving this one on the ground would be a service, if it would block the area off and save someone else from walking below at the wrong moment. Speaking of which — is your arm alright?" he asked, realizing that he ought to have inquired much sooner. He had been distracted by the smile, he thought; it seemed improbable that someone could have been seriously injured if they were smiling so congenially. It had taken Dorian Fisk removing his hand from the injured shoulder for Ford to even realize it had still been there at all, up until this moment, and now it was far past the moment to have asked.

  

---

Set by Lady!

"It's my job," Dorian chuckled. "Accidental magic requires a certain level of observation, and even then you've still a high chance of injury." He wasn't meaning to brag, the risk of injury was just a matter of fact of his job. Hell, he'd been in the hospital vomiting jam on Christmas, after all.

Greengrass stepped away and he released a quiet breath of relief. His hands still itched to feel the small of his back through his coat, and that was just more than he could handle at present. "Aggravated an old quidditch injury is all." He said in an attempt to wave off the concern. Nothing a quick stop to his favorite healer couldn't fix. "I think if we move it off to the side an employee will address the issues later." He continued in regards to the painting. "Better them than us, anyway."

  

Ford had no experience at all with old Quidditch injuries, so he wasn't sure whether to take Dorian's answer at face- value or not. The tone implied it was nothing serious, but agitating a previous injury of any origin seemed like something that might require attention, in his opinion. He frowned briefly, but it was hardly his job to worry about Mr. Fisk; he was an adult and could look after himself, and Ford hadn't even had anything to do with the injury at all except for being moderately close at hand when it had happened.

"If by we you mean me," he said, moving towards the top of the picture frame. With both hands on one side and his foot planted on the other to keep it from sliding, he stood it upright. It was a large painting, but not unmanageable for one man to carry by himself, and it didn't seem to be unreasonably heavy. He could manage it without trouble, particularly if it was only a short distance. "You shouldn't be rearranging art galleries with a mortal wound," he joked. "Where should we put it?"

  

---

Set by Lady!

Ford's quick lifting of the painting surprised Dory. He had, presumably, received a full Hogwarts education, and yet decided to use physical labor over a simple levitating spell. Dory wasn't one to avoid using his hands when the situation called for it, but lifitng in his dinner jacket was just tempting fate to perform some sort of cruel trickery. Luckily, Greengrass seemed to have little issue on that front.

"T'is hardly a mortal wound. A dislocation at its worst." Dory chuckled. He was certain it wasn't dislocated, it would be lying limp against him if it were. A deep bruise most likely, or perhaps a chipped bone. Either way, he wasn't wholly incapable of being of use, even if the arm did hurt to move more than a fraction.

Stepping back to allow Ford room, Dory gestured towards the nearest wall. "There should be sufficient, I suppose. If you lean it against the wall it will be securely out of the way until someone can attend to it."

  

There wasn't any wall space large enough to rest the painting without at least partially obscuring the view of another, but Ford supposed that would be alright. It should only be leaning there long enough for him to locate a staff member and alert them to the situation, so unless he entirely obstructed one of the few magical paintings no one was likely to be too inconvenienced by the addition of the woman in the toga. He lifted it carefully, since he wasn't sure whether the integrity of the frame had been compromised during the fall and wanted to avoid having this presumably expensive work of art fall apart on his feet. He made the short walk to the wall and set it down just as gingerly, taking care not to jostle either of the paintings whose frames it was now leaning against too much.

As he stepped back he wondered if he ought to turn the painting around, so that the image was facing out into the gallery instead of the plain brown paper on the back. He felt a little bad for the woman in the painting for half a moment before reminding himself that she wasn't animate and had no feelings about the situation one way or another.

"Do you want help finding anyone, so you can go get the shoulder seen to?" he offered. If he had wanted to leave unexpectedly he would have had to first collect his mother and sisters, so he assumed that a young man in a roughly comparable stage of life was likely chaperoning someone, or at least had come with someone he ought to alert before departing, even if he didn't have the misfortune of being technically responsible for them.

  

---

Set by Lady!

"Hm?" Dory asked, a bit confused by the question. The only person Dory might've liked to find at the party was Miss Beauchamp, and he could hardly request Greengrass to seek her out without rousing suspicion. If they were friends, perhaps, but all Dory knew of the former Hufflepuff was that he liked to talk to ghosts and was strong enough to move a heavy and awkwardly sized painting. That hardly constituted a friendship.

Then, the obvious nature of the question sunk in and Dory laughed once again at his error. One of the many benefits of living alone meant he rarely.was called upon to serve as Xena or Zelda's chaperone. There were far better options in the family — Ari and Kons immediately popped into mind — than him. "No, no. I arrived here on my own this evening. I'll be alright, Greengrass. The healers at St. Mungo's are quite familiar with me by now." Some in more ways than one.

  

"On your own?" Ford asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Just here for the love of art, then?" He was being sarcastic, because it seemed patently ridiculous to him that anyone might pay just to stare at paintings (this was the sort of thing, like awkward dinner parties, that people endured for the sake of being seen out and about in society rather than actually enjoying, he assumed). Only after he'd said it did he pause to think that maybe he was here just for the art. If he was unaccompanied, it was really the only explanation. He might have been an amateur artist himself, even, and Ford might have just thoroughly offended him with his tone.

"Sorry," he said as his cheeks flushed. "I didn't mean — I hope your shoulder's fine," he finished clumsily. "Goodbye, then, Mr. Fisk."

  

---

Set by Lady!

Dory laughed. Such sarcasm from a mere acquaintance was unexpected, but amused him nevertheless. "Do you mean you weren't utterly delighted by the woman in the toga?" He teased. "Or the one a few turns back of the bowl of fruit? I must admit, that one did leave me craving an apple." A banana, too, though the potential euphemism in that piece of fruit was obvious enough that even Dory knew better than to voice it in mixed company.

He waved off the apology and, in a moment of pure forgetfulness, attempted to shrug. The movement caused him to sway slightly on his feet as the pain registered. Fuck. That woman got him good. "Yes, goodbye, Greengrass." He responded far less jovially than a moment prior. "Enjoy your evening." And with that, Dory set off towards the nearest floo.