August 13th, 1894 — Paris

Samuel stood at a mirror hung between two windows of this beautiful house in Paris as night fell, the second night since his arrival in the city. The edge of an open razor glided around the contours of his jaw in a practiced motion.
His reflection was tall and rather dark. His face was unlike a regular face, one that one would see many times on the streets. And the house, it did not belong to him. It was his friend Etienne's, who had already taken off to Beauxbatons to prepare for the new term.
Etienne belonged to a very old family and carried a name that he always said would die with him. He was a good man; Samuel was fond of him. But he was not sorry to be without him on the occasion of this visit.
This visit marked, in a way, the point of many things ending. His laboratory in London was disbanded and his new quarters in Hogwarts ready for his tenure there. A chapter of Samuel's life was closing and in two weeks, a new one would open.
Maybe it was this circumstance that made him feel like something else — new and of a familiar nature at the same time — would transpire in this limbo in between.

Samuel dried his face with a towel and gave a spin to one of his metal placards that lay on a table. It showed his location to his clients if he wished so, although presently it would display this address to exactly one person and remain blank for the rest.
He got dressed. One thing was certain: he would go out tonight; he would dance. He knew just the place for it.
Uncertain was, at this point, if Miss Blackwood would join him, or if he would find a companion out there. He took a look out at the dark street and decided to give it half an hour before he would depart.

---Ginevra Blackwood---

  

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The rich, velvety notes of the soprano floated through the air of the grand opera house, but Vera's attention was only loosely tethered to the performance. Her grandmother, the venerable matriarch that she was, had succumbed to the lull of the music and the warmth of the box, her delicate snores almost in time with the orchestra. Vera had absented herself from the box to mix with the rest of the crowd.

The audience, the crème de la crème of society, appeared more interested in each other than the art being performed. Conversations buzzed in hushed tones, fans fluttered, and glances were exchanged. It was an environment Vera knew well, one where the true currency was influence and charm, not Galleons - but those didn't hurt either.

As she scanned the sea of faces, something—or rather, someone—caught her eye. A man, standing apart from the crowd in the corridor adjacent to the boxes, his tall figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the chandeliers. His posture was relaxed yet alert, as if he were part of the scene but not entirely of it.

It was Mr Griffith. He was dressed immaculately, his hair perfectly in place, his expression one of calm detachment. She made her way toward the corridor, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, her green gown swishing softly around her. "Mr Griffth," she greeted him softly as she neared, her voice carrying just enough surprise to be polite. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^

He registered, standing in the corridor, the movement towards him and turned slightly; Samuel watched Ginevra Blackwood approach through the crowd and smiled at the half-truth of her words. The lights of the opera house gathered in her hair and then in the many facets of her emerald-colored gown and on the jewelry; he saw also, almost opening up on the ground at their feet, the class divide between them.
“Why not?” he asked, ignoring how he ought to act infront of her. From the flippancy and familiarity of that response, he then slipped into his manners as if donning a coat that he had improperly been caught without. He gently took her hand and inclined towards a slight bow.
“Miss Blackwood, delighted that our paths should cross again.”
There was an air of easy amusement about him now, as he let go of her hand, straightened himself up, and looked her up and down, taking note of the absence of family members and chaperones in her vicinity.
The jewel of the mighty Blackwoods was either quite adept at the art of escape, or the keepers of her were doing a poor job. Presently, he thought it to be the former, or perhaps it was both.
“And to meet in a much more pleasant place,” he added.

The voice of the soprano was climbing to new heights in the background of their conversation. All around them was the colorful bustle of Paris society, its many sharp and inquisitive eyes that did not linger on them, because to this city they were strangers.
“Did you return to Paris to continue the explorations you were telling me about before we regrettably got interrupted?”

  

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His greeting, a mix of charm and flippancy, drew a soft, amused laugh from her lips. "Perhaps I did," she replied, her voice carrying a lightness that matched the sparkle in her eyes. "Though this time, I may be exploring less of the city and more of the company it offers." She paused, a playful tilt to her head as she took in the scene around them. The hum of the opera, the swell of the orchestra, and the vibrant swirl of Parisian society framed their meeting like something from a book - a book one didn't discuss in polite society but a book none the less.

The formality with which he’d then formally greeted her, bowing and all, amused her, especially in contrast to their more frank exchange last time. She appreciated the shift, though—a sign that beneath his nonchalant exterior, Samuel Griffith respected or at least knew the game that society expected them to play.

"But I must confess, Monsieur Griffith," she continued, leaning in ever so slightly, lowering her voice to match the conspiratorial tone they’d once shared. "I did not expect to find you at an opera. You seem more like the sort to avoid such... orchestrated affairs." Her eyes gleamed with mischief, daring him to reveal whether he was there by choice or necessity.

As she spoke, Vera couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on him, studying his features more closely. His presence here, in Paris, felt different—less restrained, more natural. She wondered, fleetingly, if this was closer to who he truly was. The soprano's voice reached a soaring note in the background. "Are you here to indulge in Parisian delights or simply to escape the solitude of your laboratory once more?"

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^

"My laboratory is no more," he answered. "It seems I am remiss of occupation and direction, at least for a short while — so I find myself untethered. And I have come here because Paris lends itself to that state of being much better than home." He looked at her as she leaned in and smiled slightly and added, "I intend to become distracted. Even if that requires a visit to the opera." Now it was as if they entered back into the space they had left off at the soirée—and as if this evening was meant to play out exactly as the other did, a man stepped out of one of the boxes and put a hand on Samuel Griffith's shoulder. Just his grip was light and he was not Mr. Travers; it was Samuel's friend Yves. He was a chameleon-like sort who seemed always at home where he was and also slightly out of place. His manner of dressing said old wealth; his face suggested a poet; his sly eyes said he might be none of that at all.
"I was just about to say that I came to the opera tonight to meet you, Yves," said Samuel to Yves. "And to accost you for your opinion on where to go thereafter."
Yves inclined his head towards Miss Blackwood and said: "Delighted to be in your company, madmoiselle." After her name he inquired not, nor did he supply his own, at least not his full name. His gloved hand gestured towards one of the high windows, through which the moon could be seen. It shone above, full and bright. "As it happens, we are in the ides of August. The zenith of summer is passing us by. We cannot help but recall what is to come. To honor this wistful occasion, we should all head tonight to the residence of Monsieur Jacques in Montparnasse." He smiled at them. "I'll see you later. Ah, it will be a masquerade. Comme il faut," and then he bowed out and left them.

On the stage, the opera was reaching a crescendo; something grave was happening — perhaps a calamity, a fall from grace, perhaps the death of innocence. Samuel had not paid much attention. He looked at Miss Blackwood and said, "Now, I know where I will find the sort of dance I was looking for since we last met at that dreadful soirée. Will you join me? That is," allowing the conspiratorial manner they seemed to share to return, "if you can arrange for yourself to be sufficiently free."

  

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