April 17th, 1891 — Henri's COB, London — about half past eleven

Henri had made it halfway up the staircase towards her bedroom before being intercepted by one of her sisters. She ought to have expected this, she supposed, particularly since the ruined train of her dress trailing behind her was slowing her down, but the last thing she wanted to do at the moment was talk to a sibling. The only thing worse would have been to talk to her mother, but she was, evidently, focused on damage control in the main ballroom. Henrietta was allowed up to her room, but not to spend the rest of the night sulking behind a locked door as she had intended. Instead, she was only here long enough for Hermione to magically mend the hem of her dress, seeing the train removed so that no further damage could be done to it. Henrietta felt on the verge of tears the entire time, thinking of her beautiful gown in shambles, but when her mother appeared in the doorway she steeled herself, unwilling to cry in front of the woman.

Things were salvaged, apparently. Word had been spread that the bouquets igniting had been planned, as a sort of fireworks display, and that the only unintentional part had been that they hadn't been meant to go off until midnight, which would have given all the guests enough warning to clear the tables. Mrs. Cartwright had apologized for any inconveniences, accidental fires had been extinguished, and no one had been seriously injured... which meant, regrettably, Henrietta was supposed to go right back to the middle of the fray. And don't cause any more trouble, her mother instructed sternly, despite Henri's protests that the burnt centerpieces hadn't been her fault. She'd certainly never intended to burn their ballroom down with all her debut guests inside, at any rate.

The one positive outcome from the event was that her sisters seemed determined not to let her from their side for the rest of the evening, so she could at least offload some of the burden of keeping up polite conversation onto them. Except the strangest thing happened — when Henrietta returned to the ballroom, she found she didn't want to stand quietly and listen to other people's conversations at all anymore. Not as soon as she saw him.

It was the man who had stepped on her train and torn her dress, the man who had caused her to fall on Holden's friend. Henri's cheeks burned red at the memory. She knew he hadn't intended to do anything of the kind, but that was almost worse than if he had had some malicious intent. Here was yet another gentleman who didn't even know she existed, at her own Coming Out Ball, and she'd spent the past twenty minutes at least feeling miserable for his sake. She didn't even know his name, but she was determined — suddenly and more fiercely than she had ever been determined towards anything in her life — that he would know hers, before the evening was through. Did he even know that he'd stepped on her train now, or had he been so disinterested he hadn't even seen her fall?

Henri watched her sister for a moment until she was suitably distracted, then seized her chance and darted across the ballroom towards him. "Hello," she announced as she approached, as though the word were a challenge. "I'm Henrietta Cartwright. This is my ball."

Yassine Bensouda Elias Grimstone

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   Yassine Bensouda

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Rune made this! <3

A short while ago, Yassine had been seriously considering bailing on this ball and finding something better in London to entertain him tonight. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time, but it had been quite an insipid affair otherwise - up until the flower arrangements had gone up in flames. (Prematurely, apparently.) That, admittedly, had been a bit entertaining.

But he hadn’t even moved off two paces from his last conversation when some wide-eyed young woman made a beeline for him. Yassine blinked at the sudden obstruction, but he had nothing against the abruptness of the introduction, at least not until the blonde introduced herself as the girl actually debuting. He supposed he ought to have known that already, but he hadn’t; she hadn’t made much of an impression at the outset of the evening, and a debutante at her own coming out was not likely to be much fun. Now he knew, though, there was nothing to do but hold back the brimming laugh... and although he hadn’t laughed, exactly, he might have let a slight noise slip in suppressing his snort.

“Is it?” Yassine replied anyway, in the loosely patronising tone one used on a young child who was inordinately proud of something entirely inane. (And as balls and new debutantes went...) Had she come up to everyone like this to announce it, one by one, fishing for congratulations? Raising an eyebrow in bemusement, Yassine shot a dubious glance at his nearest acquaintance as if to communicate hey, did you know this girl was weird? before he circled around to the point of perfunctory politeness. “And you... are enjoying your night, I hope?”

Perhaps he had spotted her earlier? Or, no - he fancied the dress he remembered had been different, trailing more. Maybe he’d mixed her up with a different girl.

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   Henrietta Cartwright

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Is it? Henrietta would not have thought it possible for two short words to drive her into such extremes of emotion, until this moment. She had spent her entire life learning to push all of her feelings down to the pit of her stomach and smother them so that she could present the placid, perfect exterior that she was meant to have, and with two careless syllables this man had shattered her carefully constructed glass box in which she placed all of her emotion. If the primrose centerpieces hadn't already gone up in flames, they doubtless wouldn't have survived this moment — but she caught herself before anything could happen, containing the rage within her and forcing it into only one outlet: her eyes, which burned as she looked over his features.

He wasn't even that handsome, was the thing, so where did he get off being so utterly dismissive? He didn't even have to be here, if he really cared so little; he could have turned down the invitation and no one here would have missed him, she was sure. But he seemed like the sort of man who thought it was a lark to look as though he didn't care at all, so it probably suited him to come to events like these and be curt and dismissive and crush the spirits of young women beneath his feet. It fit his aesthetic, with his mildly disheveled but obviously expensive clothing and his mussed curls. He wanted everyone to think that he was better than them, but effortlessly so. Henri hated him more than anyone she had ever met in the world, and she still didn't even know his name.

"Of course," she answered brightly, and flashed one of those artificial smiles in his direction, though this too held an undercurrent of challenge to it. And why wouldn't I be? I'm perfectly suited to this, and I don't care at all if you disagree. Nevermind that it was a lie and she hadn't been enjoying herself at all, and nevermind if she wasn't suited for this — she would not give him any reason to think so.

"Though your perspective as a guest is perhaps a more telling one," she continued. "Have we managed to keep you entertained?"

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   Yassine Bensouda

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Rune made this! <3

There was an odd flash of... anger in her eyes, he thought. But that kind of fuming, competitive look was one he had mostly encountered on the quidditch pitch in the past, in coming up against a losing keeper or when a beater’s hit had missed its mark - so he was probably imagining it out of boredom. The rest of this party had been a placid affair, and the perfume of all those pink flowers must have confused his senses. Yassine didn’t even know this debutante, and she definitely didn’t know him, so there was no chance that she could be irate for any specific reason. Maybe she was just ill-tempered at the lack of forthcoming compliments.

Because she was certainly demanding them now.

Perhaps because of that, he was a little tempted to be rude. “Oh, well -” Yassine drawled, feigning a moment of having to consider it before he flashed her a proper grin. “I did enjoy the fire display. That was a nice touch, I thought. Although,” he added, lowering his tone, “one of your other guests caught his suit quite badly on fire, so he might not be so pleased with you.”

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   Henrietta Cartwright

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He said oh, well, as if he was struggling to come up with anything pleasant to say. The delay was only a moment, but Henrietta noticed it. She had been so carefully instructed to never let such a delay occur in her own speech, and really there was only one polite thing to say in response. It wasn't that he was struggling to come up with the sort of pleasant banalities that the situation required; he was doing this on purpose. Merlin, how infuriating he was — this was supposed to be a moment where he paid her a compliment, and he'd managed to turn even this around into another assertion of how much better he was than everyone else.

The fire display. Henrietta smiled at this, her grin wide and genuine if perhaps a little manic. Well, the thing he liked best about the evening was the fire display — and what would her mother or sisters have had to say about that? Not that Henri was planning to recount this conversation to them, of course, but she felt triumphant all the same. "Those were my idea," she said smoothly, as though they had been an idea at all, rather than a spontaneous disaster. "I enjoy the symbolism." This was offered without further explanation — she herself did not entirely know what she meant by it, but felt it was a mildly provocative thing to say — the sort of thing that would have appalled her mother — and she wanted to provoke him a bit, to see if she could knock that stupid smug smirk off of his face only for a moment.

"I'm sure he'll recover," she continued, regarding the man who had caught on fire. Really, she had little sympathy; no one could have suffered more badly than she had during the moment the primroses had ignited, she was fairly certain, and anyone who was here in the first place could afford to replace a suit.

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Rune made this! <3

His eyebrow shot up without him entirely meaning it to, at her pride in the idea and mention of symbolism and especially the matter-of-fact answer about the man he’d mentioned. Yassine had expected that hearing about something going awry with her special night or of a displeased guest grumbling somewhere might have caused some anxiety or discomfort or embarrassment - a wince, at the very least - but no, he was wrong, she didn’t seem fazed at all.

“Yes, I’m sure he wasn’t using his arm that much anyway,” he agreed after a beat, huffing a short laugh when he had finally overcome his surprise. (The man assuredly wouldn’t be for at least a while, the way his sleeve had gone up in flames - though it had hardly been mortally serious.) In any case, Yassine didn’t actually care because he didn’t know the fellow and it had been entertaining in the moment to watch him panic, and she clearly didn’t care, which was more intriguing than he cared to admit.

“I must have missed this - ah, symbolism of yours, though,” he added, with a nonchalant shrug; it was rare that he ever confessed to inadequacy in any field, but any symbolism of flowers, or flames, or flowers going up in flames, was appropriately beyond his expected interests as a quidditch player, he thought, and perhaps it would irk her if he didn’t profess to understand its importance. Mostly he was interested to hear what she would say next, because he had a hunch it would be mildly strange again. Maybe she was a secret pyromaniac. Maybe ‘slightly manic’ was just what all debutantes in this country were like.

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   Henrietta Cartwright

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His eyebrow rose and his smile seemed to falter for a second (or was that just wistful thinking on her part?) and Henrietta felt a rush of victory, as if she had just summited a mountain and was standing at the precipice looking down at everyone else in the ballroom at this very moment. It only lasted a moment, however, because then he recovered himself and was laughing at her, and she wasn't at all sure what to think about that. Laughter was generally considered a good sign in conversations between men and women. She had always been advised to laugh as often as possible when talking to men, even if they hadn't said anything funny (a feat she did not often manage; she felt terribly self conscious about trying to fake laughter and she was always paranoid it would sound as disingenuous as it felt). She didn't think she had said anything particularly funny. Was he patronizing her?

And he was circling back to her comment about symbolism. Was this a trap? Could he tell that she'd made it up on the spot? Perhaps he was trying to get her to admit it, or to make her look foolish. Well, she was undaunted. She'd managed to surprise him a moment ago, and she could do it again, she just knew it.

"Maybe it was too abstract for you," she commented in an offhand tone. "What do primroses bring to mind for you?"

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Rune made this! <3

He narrowed his eyes at the question, now almost feeling as though she were trying to test him, or catch him out. But he could not say he had strong enough feelings about this conversation or this party to care what she thought of him, so he gave the room another cursory look - as if most of the flowers hadn’t already been destroyed - and gave another exaggerated shrug.

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps the naivety of youth,” Yassine answered, as if he had ever thought about primroses for more than a second of his life. There had been enough of them about tonight, though they were hardly flashy flowers and rather insipid in colour, too; so he had seen more than enough of them to last a lifetime. Certainly not a reflection of the beauty of youth, or the boldness, and maybe he ought to have said innocence rather than naivety - but he was being quite kind, he thought, by not saying directly that they were largely lacklustre and probably pointed to the debutante of the evening being no less so.

Admittedly, Yassine was not exactly a master of kindness. He turned his gaze upon her again, appraising. “I could not say why they caught fire, though,” he added, feigning innocence. “Is that just what happens to the debutantes who do not make a match, once they have seen a few too many seasons?” (He suspected they usually just wilted away, but once they were a little past their expiration date spontaneous combustion probably would be more merciful.)

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He did not seem particularly enthused about primroses in general, which might have been a mark in his favor since it was a sentiment Henrietta quite agreed with. In the context of the conversation, though, she couldn't help but be a little annoyed. He knew that this was her debut, since she'd just told him, and he could have guessed from the abundance of primroses that she liked them. It was the only logical assumption, for all that it was incorrect. He could have mustered up just a slight hint of appreciation for the flowers, even if it was insincere — it was what was expected of guests at a party like this. This was just another sign of how superior he wanted to appear, she supposed.

"Perhaps what a casual observer mistakes for naivety is only a disguise for something more interesting," she replied archly. Between the disdain for the decor and his comment about failed debutantes, her ability to muster up a pleasant tone was wearing thin. On a whim, she continued without putting much thought into the words, "And perhaps gentlemen who fail to recognize it are in danger of their sleeves catching fire."

Hopefully whoever had caught fire wasn't a very influential fellow, or a particularly eligible one, or else Henrietta might be ruining her prospects by making such a cavalier remark where anyone might overhear her. Regardless, she was sure she would hear about it from her mother later — her mother seemed to hear everything.

"But you can make any interpretation you like," she continued after a slight pause. "I believe I am in need of another glass of champagne." This was offered as a way to begin her exit from this conversation, though her tone was perhaps too neutral to make that intention clear. She had made at least enough of an impression that he was unlikely to forget whose ball he was at for the rest of the evening, she thought, and thinking of how her mother would react to these comments had put her off the idea of making very many more of them.

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Rune made this! <3

“Hm,” Yassine only remarked. She was - clever enough, he supposed, he would give her that; though he narrowed his eyes at the latter half of her answer, about gentlemen failing to recognise it, which he thought had the vague air of a threat, or at least the pointedness of stern advice. Not to him, of course, because he wasn’t stupid either. Yassine might enjoy provoking people a little, prodding at them until they lashed out, but he was not stupid enough to imagine that he was in any danger from her. Or her little flame-throwing primroses, whatever she said.

There were things Yassine might have done, to attempt to smooth over the slightly strained undertone of this conversation - she had mentioned champagne, and he could easily have sought out a glass for her and given it to her as a peace offering, or found a passing compliment to give her, or even put down his name on her dance card, if there was to be more dancing on this drag of an evening - but that would have necessitated him caring far too much. (By ‘far too much’, he meant at all. It was hardly worth the effort, not for this odd little fair-haired, wide-eyed debutante.)

I may need some alcohol too, if I’m to last another half-hour here, Yassine thought, but instead of making a quip this time he offered her a perfectly cordial smile and an understanding nod. “Yes, you probably are,” he said, which sounded neutral enough to maybe pass for polite, whatever he meant by it, and let his eyes drift across the room in preparation to move away, too. “Enjoy the rest of your ball...” he added in parting - with nothing in his face to say whether this was an accident or an intentional slip - “Miss Carter.”

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   Henrietta Cartwright

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Henrietta had already started to turn away by the time he said it. Miss Carter. Her face froze for half a second as she tried to make sense of this. Did he really care so little that he'd forgotten her name mere minutes after she'd introduced herself to him (in quite a remarkably bold fashion, so that it ought to have been memorable) or was he doing this purposefully to antagonize her? She was inclined to think the latter — he had not seemed during their brief conversation to be an imbecile, and she had difficulty believing anyone but an imbecile could forget a name so quickly after learning it, particularly when he didn't even have the disadvantage of being introduced to a dozen people in the meantime as she had during the receiving line at the beginning of the evening. She'd forgotten a few names (alright, fine, most of the names), but not within the span of two minutes. So he must have been doing it on purpose, which might mean she'd irritated him enough that he was trying to have the last word. That was a little gratifying, if it was true — but on the other hand, maybe this was just how he was, and he hadn't been fazed by anything she'd said at all.

She wanted to butcher his name in response, as if to say you don't intimidate me, you boar, but there was one obvious problem with that: she didn't know his name. She'd started the conversation with hers, and he'd never returned the introduction. And he was leaving now, anyway, so she didn't have much time to think up a response. She let out a huff of frustration, but came up with nothing to say, and then he was half a step away and it would have seemed foolish and desperate to try and say anything, anyway, which was the last thing she wanted. He may have had the parting shot this time — whoever he was — but this final slight had ensured that he would not go forgotten after tonight was through. If he was one of the gentlemen considered a staple of society she would see him again this Season, and she would find some way to break through that superior facade of his, if it was the last thing she did.

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   Yassine Bensouda

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Rune made this! <3