DISCLAIMER : The characters and some events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

8: A night in society

(August 1992)

Viola's sixteenth birthday was the first in years that she could enjoy without hesitation. She was woken by golden rays of sun that streamed through the window and flooded her room. On the stool next to her bed, she found a set of new clothes, a rather expensive looking robe in light green amongst them that, when she tried it on, accented the female parts of her body a little more than her old garments did. If it had been for her, Viola would have kept it on all day. Such as it was, she knew her mother would disagree. It was not a robe for everyday life; it was meant for special occasions.

Just when the girl had changed into suiting garments and wanted to go down for breakfast, there was a sound on her window outside. Since she rarely received mail, it took Viola a moment to realise that an owl was perched on the window sill and knocked its beak against the glass. When she opened the window, the bird fluttered in with a small parcel attached to its leg. Viola detached it carefully and offered the owl a few biscuit crumps that were left over from the previous evening. The bird, however, clicked its beak in what she supposed was indignation and lifted off. The birthday child sat down with the parcel. Came it from Agnetha? That would be strange. After all, she had promised to come by in the evening. Yet perhaps she had wanted her sister to have the present in advance?

On a whim, Viola performed a Revelio – why did they learn those precaution charms at school if she didn't use them? It revealed nothing, of course. Who would send her a cursed object? Smiling at her own immaturity, she peeled the wrapping paper off. Inside, she found a piece of soft tissue. Enveloped in it was a golden hair comb inset with red rubies. It was old-fashioned, florid, not quite after her taste. Still, Viola immediately associated it with the other present she had received little over a year before. The violin. Her dearest possession. Did this come from the same person? It had certainly been expensive, too. There was a note, this time, but all it said was 'Happy Birthday' in a large, loopy hand.

Viola went down to her mother who sat at the breakfast table. When she showed her the comb, her mother's face grew stern. 'Viola, are you meeting anyone?' Her gaze was emphasised by the probing look an aged ancestor threw at Viola from a portrait through his monocle over her mother's shoulder.

Pushing away the thought of a certain dragon keeper that she had spent quite a few thoughts on during the past eight months since their last encounter (stupid her), Viola took on a stance of indignation. 'Mor! Of course not!'

Her mother's gaze did not ease. 'No man gives away presents without a purpose,' she stated. Indeed, she had been very suspicious of the instrument when Viola had returned from school with it the previous summer. In fact, she had asked around everywhere to find out about the generous sponsor without her daughter's knowledge, but her efforts had not carried any fruits. 'Don't you have any idea who could be sending you these gifts?'

Viola sat down and took a piece of toast while shaking her head. She knew who she wanted them to be from, but that thought was absurd. Totally out of the question. Although… perhaps he was truly taken with her music and wanted to support her? But why the golden hair comb, then? –It did not make sense.

'Thank you for the robes,' Viola said after a moment. 'They're gorgeous!' Despite her mother's reaction to the other present, the girl smiled at her to demonstrate her gratefulness. Her mother deserved it.

And she returned the smile warmly. 'The Nyhavns are giving a ball the next week-end, and it would be good for you to attend. You need to be properly introduced into society to find a good match.'

'Oh.' Viola could not pinpoint why, but her mood dropped at these words. Being introduced into society… Somehow, Viola did not care for that. Ever since Reg had made that comment, she had started seeing the old social traditions with more critical eyes. She was good in school. In two of her subjects – Potions and Herbology – she was even on top of her class. Lately, the desire of actually pursuing a career had grown in her. Her mother's fate had taught her not to rely too much on other people, to learn to stand on her own two feet.

To live like her sister did, now? It looked tempting, at first glance, but Viola wondered what Agnetha was doing all day. Søren and she had no children yet, and he was working all day while she stayed at home… No, Viola felt that she needed a purpose in life, needed something she could be proud of.

Of course she wanted to have a family, but she wanted to choose her husband and not have him chosen because of his pedigree. She wanted him to love her, not her bloodline. Was she a dreamer? She was not sure. But at present, she did not feel like becoming part of a society that certainly would laugh at her concept of life.

At Beauxbatons Viola had estranged herself from her old friends because she did not join in their talks about boys and marriage prospects. Sometimes she joined the more 'modern' girls (often, though not always, coming from mixed or Muggle households), but she could not really fit in with them either. She was too influenced by the old ways, was regarded by them as old-fashioned. Her noble reticency had been mistaken for arrogance or a complete lack of character many times. The 'modern' girls were loud, self-confident, and goofy. They did not seek to retain their composure; they simply walked and talked and expressed their feelings with almost no reserve, or so it appeared to her.

While Viola sank into these thoughts and her mother watched her intently, a small owl, one of those that were used for local mail delivery by the owl offices, fluttered in through the French window that led to the small garden in the back of their house. It landed on Mrs. Søgaard's armrest. The lady in her early forties opened the letter.

Dear Mrs Søgaard, it read,

iI had the pleasure of listening to your daughter Viola's captivating virtuosity on the violin twice in the last year and would, with your permission, like for her to accompany me to the concert of Bruno Brushoved og de danske tryllefløjter this evening. I believe listening to other contemporary artists will be beneficial for her musical development, and I hope she will enjoy it, in case she is inclined to join me.

I kindly await your answer.

Sincerely, Régis Mørkscov.

'Mørkscov… Is that not this dark wizard that lives in the north? What do you have to do with a person like that?' Viola's mother pondered aloud.

Her daughter looked at her with a lack of understanding. 'I don't know anyone with that name,' she claimed. Mrs. Søgaard handed her the missive. After skimming it, realisation dawned on Viola. Her heart beat faster. 'Oh, Reg! I didn't know his last name. He was at the julefest at which we played in December. The one at the moated castle.' No need to tell her mother that the two of them had met earlier already. She would only misinterpret that.

'You met men during the fest? I thought you have been there to make music?' her mother asked suspiciously.

'Of course we have!' assured Viola. 'But afterwards, during dinner, I talked a little with Reg. He likes my music, and he told me about his occupation.' Again, Viola was bending the truth a little, which she did not delight in, but her mother needed not to know that Reg and she had been alone during their conversation. As it was, her mother was already needlessly worried enough.

'Do you not wonder why a man of his age – from what I hear, Mr. Mørkscov is at least fifty – is interested in a girl like you?' enquired her mother.

Viola ogled at her mother. 'Fifty? –No. Reg can't be more than thirty-five. And he's married. He and his wife have a small child. Please, mor, can I go?'

Her mother remained silent for a while. 'I want to talk with him first,' she stated finally. 'I can't let you go out with a stranger.' She wrote an according reply and sent the owl off.

After tea with her aunt and grandparents, Mrs. Søgaard took her nervous daughter home to let her dress for the evening. Viola did not know what exactly her mother had written to Reg. Would he come if a full-blown interrogation awaited him? Who liked to be questioned just because he was kind enough to invite someone?

Ten minutes before Reg was supposed to come and fetch her, Viola still fumbled with shaking hands in her hair. Huffing, she gave it up and ran down the stairs to beg her mother for help. Just when a knock resounded from the door, Mrs. Søgaard had put up her daughter's hair in an elaborate tangle of braids.

Trying desperately not to show her mother how nervous she was, Viola peered through the open door of the drawing room to see what happened in the small entrance hall. Reg wore a rather strict, high-necked, dark green robe that made him look very dignified and presented her mother with a small box. Whatever its contents, he had certainly made an important step to win her over, if her beaming smile was any indication. Viola rarely saw her like that these days. The two adults exchanged a few polite words, and then her mother offered to move to the drawing room for a cup of tea. As if on clue, a pop broke the silence in the room behind Viola, and a house elf set a tray on the table. Apparently her mother had gone to such lengths as to ask her sister for help by lending her a servant.

'Miss Søgaard,' Reg greeted her in a warm tone of his dark voice.

She smiled at him, drinking in his appearance while at the same time telling herself to pull herself together. She was no more than a child to him and had to accept it.

The three of them took seats, and Mrs. Søgaard engaged Reg in harmless chatting about his professional occupation. A few minutes into the conversation, her enquiries turned to more sensitive matters. 'May I ask why you intend to spend the evening with my daughter instead of taking your wife with you?' Despite Mrs. Søgaard's gentle tone and the amicable atmosphere, Viola was sure that Reg recognised the suspicion behind this question. The girl wondered if it was not impolite to ask so bluntly, even though her mother had been brought up very strictly and certainly knew every aspect of social etiquette by heart.

'My wife?' Reg asked in mild surprise, his gaze drifting from Mrs. Søgaard to her daughter and back. 'I'm not married.'

Viola felt her mother's eyes on herself. 'But the child on your lap during our concert in December…,' she objected.

Amusement entered Reg's face. 'Ah, I see. That was my father's child. He has married rather late, and his wife is only a few years older than I am, which might have misled you to believe she was mine.' Still retaining a smile, Reg stirred his tea, balanced the tip of the spoon on the rim of the cup to allow for the last droplets of fluid to run off, and put it down on the saucer. 'To answer your enquiry of what brings me here,' he continued, 'I am in town for business, and I often use such stays to visit a concert, an opportunity of which I'm deprived while working in Romania. Since it is summer and I knew your daughter must be back from school, I thought that I might do her a favour by inviting her along.' He added, 'I freely admit that such evenings are more enjoyable in company for me as well.'

'You spoke of your father. I was wondering about your family name already. It is quite well-known…,' Mrs. Søgaard prompted her visitor to explain. She had gained a sharpness in manner and thinking since her husband had abandoned her that Viola could not recall from her earlier days of childhood.

He nodded. 'My father is well known indeed. He owns a large enterprise and is a learned man.'

Once more, Mrs. Søgaard was not easily appeased and pressed on. 'A learned man in the Dark Arts, people say,' she commented. Viola felt that in the face of a truly dark wizard such conduct would be foolhardy.

Régis received the allegations with a calm demeanour and leaned back in his seat. 'People gossip a lot and know very little. I will not deny that he is a knowledgeable man on the mentioned field as well – to know what he's dealing with in the face of it, not to mindlessly utilise it himself. When it comes to the Dark Arts, he, and I alongside him, is very cautious, be assured of that.' He retrieved his pocket watch. 'We should go soon if we want to be there on time.'

Viola eyed her mother expectantly. When the woman nodded and rose, she jumped up to fetch her travelling coat. With the promise that Viola was going to be returned before eleven, Reg and Viola left the house. He offered her his arm. Even though in Scandinavia minors were not generally forbidden to use magic as long as an adult carried the responsibility of making sure they hid it from Muggles, he proposed to side-along-Apparate her. Flattered by the attention he paid her, she accepted the offer and hesitantly wound her arm around his. Holding her hand tightly, he spun around, and they disappeared.

Despite the limited number of Danish wizards, or perhaps because of it, the København tryllerioperahus was a huge Prunkbau, the largest building for cultural events in the whole Scandinavian wizard society. Viola looked up in awe at the huge columns of the eighteenth century building as they ascended the broad marble stairs. 'An attempt at the grandeur that Danish wizard kind otherwise lacked in comparison to other countries at the time,' Reg remarked.

'Yes, it was built on orders of King Christian VII., wasn't it?' Viola remembered having read about it once.

'It was,' confirmed Reg. 'The Muggles still believe the King of Denmark and Norway was mentally ill. In his time, he was only nominally king. In truth, the reign lay in the hands of his stepmother and later in the hands of his son. Christian's problem was that he was a Muggle-born wizard, doomed to be representative of people that did not recognise his talent for what it was and shunned him because of his strange behaviour. He yielded to his fate and played the mindless monarch for them, but secretly, he led a double life. To make up for his failure in the Muggle world, he sought grandeur in wizarding society. Not an easy feat as a Muggle-born at the time.'

'It would not be an easy feat today either,' Viola reckoned. They had reached the cloakroom, and Reg helped the girl (that for the first time felt like the young woman that she truly was) out of her travelling robe.

'Not in Denmark, no. But from what I see in other countries, and especially from what I hear from Britain and America, the social order is in the process of changing.'

'Perhaps that is better so,' Viola commented. She meant it as well, although she would not have dared expressing a different opinion. Now that she knew who Reg's father was, she knew that Reg was no pureblood. The story about the scandal of the only Mørkscov heir marrying a Muggleborn was still a favourite topic of gossip at pureblood tea parties, even though the affair had happened in the 1920ies. 'All this worrying of pedigree and producing a pureblood heir… it drives people to treating each other with coldness and disrespect.'

Reg handed their travelling cloaks to the property man and gently directed her towards the stairs that led further up to loges. 'I agree that there are some disadvantages of the old ways,' he joined in the topic, 'but they hold much good as well. They shield us from Muggle influences that in the long run will erase our culture, and thus perhaps will make us forget much of our knowledge. It has started already. The old pureblood lines slowly diminish. Those that are still left desperately try to secure their continuity and sometimes take drastic measures to achieve this goal. What you experience as negative sides of the pureblood tradition these days are in many cases in fact merely the desperate struggles of the old ways for survival.'

Viola eyed her companion in surprise. She had not expected him to speak in favour of the society that she had come to regard with scepticism because of remarks he had made. He seemed so modern, independent. How could he defend a society that put its members in such tight corsets? 'I don't think it's right to subordinate a family's welfare for such reasons,' she said finally, keeping her remark purposefully unspecific.

Reg grasped the true meaning of her words all the same. 'I do not condone what your father has done,' replied he. 'All I wanted was for you to see the cause behind such behaviour. You know that our social etiquette condemns it in the harshest of terms. He has lost face forever.'

Viola felt uncomfortable discussing her father's conduct. She had not thought that Reg knew about it. She felt small and ashamed.

Her companion stopped in front of a curtain above which an engraving in a wooden beam showed his family name. He lifted the heavy drapery and beckoned for her to step into the loge. At the sight of the huge hall, she forgot her uneasiness.

There were five levels, each holding dozens of loges. The wavering light of hundreds of fairies illuminated the moving images of dragons and unicorns that flew and galloped over the ceiling. When Viola stepped up to the balustrade of the loge's balcony, she looked down on a sea of hundreds of people that talked animatedly amongst each other while they took their seats in the pit.

When Viola took the seat next to Reg's, her gaze wandered over the many loges on the other side of the hall. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but she thought she saw a classmate of hers, and a level above her Agnetha's parents in law. A thought struck the girl. 'Is there a meaning behind the sitting arrangements? Or can you choose your loge freely?' enquired she.

'No; you cannot,' Reg explained willingly. 'The higher your loge, the higher your rank in society. Down in the pit there is the "simple" folk' – Reg pronounced 'simple' in a way that let her know he was not meaning it in a derisive way – 'then follow the impoverished pureblood families, and these days also the occasional halfblood upstart. The further up someone is seated, the more ancient their family is, although misdeeds can have a negative influence.'

Viola tried to find more familiar faces. 'What happens when someone from a highly ranked family misbehaves severely?'

'That depends,' Reg answered while he scanned the tiers as well. 'If he or she is disowned, the family's reputation would remain relatively untouched. Of course there would be gossiping, but they would keep their faces. Yet by standing by the offender, they would drop in the social order and thus also lose their loge in the high ranks here as well. It happened to the Mørkscovs eighty years ago. Up until then, we sat in the highest rank up there,' he pointed to a loge close to the middle of 'U' that the auditorium formed. Now, they were located on the second level. Still, while listening to conversations of elder people, Viola had often heard them speak of the Mørkscovs with reverence.

'My family does not have seats here, does it?' asked Viola meekly.

Reg shook his head. 'Not anymore. But look into the upper ranks – most loges are empty. Not just because their owners had no time or do not care for music but because they are not owned any longer. The fourth rank his half empty as well. I told you, it's a fate that many old families are befallen by.' He was right. In many loges dark curtains were drawn.

A pop announced the unexpected arrival of a house elf in front of them. Well, Viola had not expected it; Reg seemed perfectly relaxed. 'Master Mørkscov,' it greeted him and bowed. Spotting her, it bowed a second time. 'And Master Mørkscov's lady.' Returning its gaze to Reg, it asked, 'What can Tub do for Master?'

The man turned to Viola. 'Is there anything you would like? A drink, some snacks?'

The 'lady' was insecure. 'Is that seemly?'

Her companion smiled benignly. 'Would the theatre offer such a service otherwise?'

'A drink would be nice,' Viola hurried to reply before her embarrassment in the face of her inexperience grew.

'Shall we make it wine, then?' Reg asked. 'Young ladies usually prefer light, sweet wine. Does that meet your taste as well?'

She nodded.

'Make it two glasses of Italian elderflower whine,' he told the elf, who bowed once more and vanished. His female companion had little knowledge of wine and once more felt the difference in age and experience between them.

For the rest of the time before the concert started, the two of them sat in silence, a state that Reg obviously was not uncomfortable with. The wine that the elf brought them was indeed quite tasty. She sipped it slowly, and with each sip, the tension in her dissipated a little more. Reg would not have bothered inviting her if he were annoyed by her youthful lack of knowledge, would he? Instead he patiently answered her every question. No, she was sure he was not irritated by her. He seemed perfectly at ease, so she should be as well.

Eventually, the curtains lifted, and the audience started applauding. On stage were a large choir of dwarves, a number of percussionists that played on drums made of the shells of fire crabs, and an octet of magic flutes. The vocals of the heavily bearded dwarves (one of them actually carried his long mane as a belt around his belly) sounded like a low rumble coming from the deep, and the percussionists added a sluggish rhythm to it as if a herd of Erumpents were crossing the hall. When the flutes joined in, playing high, fleeting and twittering notes, Viola suddenly felt strangely removed, as if she had been taken by portkey into a primeval forest where she heard the heartbeat of the earth, saw Erumpents move with heavy steps in the undergrowth, and observed little birds flying through the trees and singing their songs.

When after a while the music ended rather abruptly and a break was announced, Viola was confused about the where and when of her existence. It took a moment for her to become fully aware of her surroundings again.

Agnetha's mother-in-law looked down to her. Viola lifted her hand in what she hoped was a graceful wave, and the elderly lady (Søren's parents had had him very late in their lives) nodded curtly back before she averted her gaze.

'Establishing ties?' Reg asked half jestingly, having witnessed the exchange.

'My sister married that lady's son in spring,' Viola justified herself.

'Yes, I'm aware,' her companion commented. 'Still, many people would say that is the sole purpose of these events: seeing and being seen.'

Viola looked at him quizzically.

He smirked meaningfully. 'Well, it seems quite obvious to me. The whole auditorium is determined by the who-is-who of the society, as we have already discussed. Such events are the perfect opportunity to meet important people and to be seen with them. I cannot be sure, but I could well imagine that the reason why your mother put aside her doubts about me tonight was not only to make you happy but also because people will see you, will be reminded of the existence of this healthy, good-looking pureblood girl, and might consider you when they seek a bride for their sons. In short, each time you are seen amongst the high society, sitting in a loge, dancing on a ball, being pretty on a tea party, without arousing negative attention will heighten your chances of marrying well.'

Of course Viola had known that before, but hearing it put into such coldly calculating thoughts… 'My mother gave me this robe this morning so I could go to a ball next week,' she annotated in an upset tone.

'And you look charming in it,' Reg said softly.

Viola averted her gaze.

'She'll die it.'

'Pardon?' asked Viola confusedly.

'She will die it,' Reg repeated. 'For the ball. She'll die it and perform some modifying charms on it so people won't recognise it's the same dress as the one you wore tonight.'

'How do you know?'

Reg's smirk grew mischievous. 'Shall we bet? I must warn you, though, that betting is considered very unseemly! Especially for young ladies.'

Viola snickered. 'What do we bet on? Nothing big, please, for I fear you are going to win…'

'Let me see,' Reg said while his eyes drifted over the audience. 'If I win, we'll play together. It's been years since last I've touched the keys of a piano, so it'll be an utter embarrassment for me, but I'd like to try, and it shouldn't be too hard a feat for you, should it?'

Viola shook her head and smiled. 'And what if I win?'

'In that case, provided that your mother gives us permission, I'll show you the dragons. Does that sound like a deal?'

The girl's face lit up. 'Yes!'

Before she could say more, Reg turned to the stage, where the musicians assembled once more.

When the last notes faded away, Reg looked at his pocket watch. 'We have half an hour left,' he announced. Offering Viola his arm again, he led her out of the loge and through the crowd. Several people eyed them interestedly. Insecurity made Viola cling tighter to her companion. On the steps in front of the theatre, Reg spun around and Disapparated.

'Miss Søgaard,' he turned to her with an air of saying good bye when they landed on Viola's doorstep, 'thank you for the lovely evening.'

'I have to thank you,' Viola returned. In the desperate need of prolonging their time together, she added, 'Since you're such a connoisseur of our society, perhaps you could help me figuring something out?'

Reg raised an eyebrow in silent curiosity.

'This comb,' Viola reached for the back of her head and pulled the golden piece out of her hair, making her long mane tumble down around her shoulders, 'I received it this morning. The note that went along with it carried no signature. What am I to make of that?'

There was this telling smirk on Reg's face as he took the comb from her outstretched hand. 'Well, a comb is a rather personal article. It clearly refers to the hair, which is regarded as a sign of beauty, health, and femininity. The longer and thicker it is, the more attractive a woman is regarded as. For many men, pardon me saying so, it is seductive, which is why it is often tamed through braiding and putting it up.'

Viola blushed at the meaningful look he directed towards her ruined hair dress.

'It seems perfectly obvious that someone has taken an interest in you – as a woman, not as a girl – and this is his message to you declaring his intentions. One might even interpret the choice of an object like a comb, that is meant to tame the wild nature of your hair, as a manner of saying that the giver wishes to "tame" – or shall we say "cage up"? – you. Following this negative train of thoughts, I cannot see why anyone would hide his name when he so obviously is a suitor. One might think he's just toying with you, not respecting you as a person with a mind of her own but rather regarding you as a wild beast that he has to decoy before stepping into the open and catching it.' Reg smiled. 'I'm sure my imagination has gone a little too wild with these last guesses.' He gave her the comb back.

'I hope I did not do any harm with my wild speculations and you sleep peacefully tonight.' He indicated a bow and stepped backwards. 'Oh, and Happy Birthday…' He winked and Disapparated.

Viola stood very still for several moments, gazing at the spot where Reg had vanished. She was a little overwhelmed by all the new ideas he had planted into her head that night. And how had he known it was her birthday?

Notes concerning chapter 8

The name Mørkscov (ø is pronounced like the 'u' in 'murky'; the v is pronounced like the double-o in 'school' and set apart from the o): mørk = dark, gloomy, murky; scov = wood/forest
By giving Åge and Reg that surname, I gave credit to both their mysterious reputation and the fact that they actually are dealing with dark magic, as well as to their claim of only using it the 'natural' way. It is also continuing a tradition – the 'wald' in Grindelwald is German for 'wood', after all. Incidentally, it is also related to the Mirkwood in J.R.R. Tolkien's works, but that happened by accident.

Bruno Brushoved og de danske tryllefløjter = Bruno Scatterbrain and the Danish magic flutes (a reference to the Mozart opera, of course)

Trylleri = wizardry

København = Copenhagen