Children of the Gods

by inwardtransience

When the message came, there was little left of Cassiopeia Black in her — soon she would move on, shed her face and her name for another. But, at the last possible moment, she found a reason to carry on, the smouldering embers of her identity sparking to new life. Unfortunately, adopting the Boy Who Lived came with complications. (metamorphs, fairies, AU and very weird)

31. Rebirth of the House of Black — II

August 1991

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Síomha never forgot that Ceasaí was an actual Black, of course.

She didn't tend to display her obscene wealth in the way that the nobility was known to do — it was more subtle than that. Their home was relatively modest — finer than anywhere Síomha had slept as a child, but hardly anything extravagant — only a few signs here and there, a few trinkets on shelves or hidden away up in the attic, Ceasaí's jewellery box, some of the things hanging up in Ceasaí's and Sailí's closets, the contents of the pantry or the liquor cellar. Ceasaí did dress finely on occasion, when the situation called for it, but for the most part she could easily be mistaken for a commoner at a glance, simple unornamented dresses in contemporary style. She presented herself plainly enough Síomha had had no idea she wasn't an ordinary person at first.

After some time knowing her, the signs became more obvious. There were a few hints that she realised now were part of the culture of the nobility — obviously Síomha had nothing to do with them, so she hadn't recognised that sort of thing for what it was at the time — but when it came to the money, well...

It was the casualness. She never had to think about it. Anything so small as ordering drinks, or planning meals, or things as costly as extravagant overseas trips, gifting fine clothes Síomha could wear to more formal events, buying an entire house because the wards in her flat had made Sailí uncomfortable, seemingly on a whim...

It was almost like money didn't even exist to Ceasaí — it wasn't a factor in her mind, or at least not a limiting one, payment simply part of the process of doing some things. How ironic that those who had the most gold valued it so little.

(Before Ceasaí casually asked her to hold onto her purse for her one day, Síomha had never even touched a real galleon, not once.)

She had known that Ceasaí was a Black, obviously, had known there existed obscene wealth attached to that name. Truly seeing it, with her own eyes, was quite different from simply knowing it, theoretically.

She'd been to Ravenhome a couple times now, an old Black holding in...Lincolnshire? Maybe it was Nottinghamshire, she truly didn't remember — somewhere in the middle of Britain, anyway. It was maybe the most extravagant place she had ever been. Ancient House was huge, yes, absurdly huge, but there was a reasonable point to the whole thing: it was a residence. At the heart of the sprawling complex was a tower, atop a little hill, held by one of Ceasaí's ancestors a very long time ago, a little village once gathered below. Over time, the family had grown, and grown, and grown, the houses replaced and more built to fit countless cousins, and more and more and more, bit by bit stitched together with hallways to transform what had been a sizeable private compound into an absolutely enormous palace. The lands around it were also vast, but they'd been thoroughly cultivated farmland once upon a time, to this day still hosted a modest fruit orchard, apples and pears and cherries and various berries. It seemed impossibly oversized for a family of only two, but the Blacks had once been easily as numerous as the Uí Chaoimhe — it was still a very fine place, but the available rooms had seemed much more reasonable compared to the size of the family, once upon a time.

Ravenhome, by contrast, wasn't meant for anyone to live in — it might have been a residence, once upon a time, but that time had long passed. Instead, it served one purpose and one purpose only: a place for the House of Black to hold formal functions.

That was it.

Síomha thought the whole place was a bit much, honestly. Ravenhome was huge, and spectacular, the wealth that must have been sunk into ordering the ceramics and glass alone... It was hard to imagine. Her horizons had broadened quite a lot since leaving academy, and even further still as Ceasaí started bringing her along out of the country, but some things still made her head spin.

There were single rooms in the place that, Síomha was certain, were worth more than literally everything her entire family owned, put together. And nobody even lived here — it was only meant to host parties! It seemed so, just, almost insultingly wasteful, she didn't...

Soon, Ravenhome was going to be absolutely crawling with dozens and dozens of noblemen and -women, the Minister was going to be here, and even Albus Dumbledore himself. It was simply surreal, she'd barely been able to sleep last night, just...

(She didn't belong there.)

The party was to be in place of the midday meal, so the guests were to start showing up quite early — so they needed to be at Ravenhome and prepared even earlier. Síomha was briefly woken up at the crack of dawn by Ceasaí getting out of bed — which was normal, Ceasaí didn't seem to need as much sleep as Síomha did — after some time spent restlessly tossing was roused by a gentle shake on her shoulder. Though it was hardly late by the time Ceasaí came to get her out of bed, hardly half after seven. Delaying only long enough to pull on shorts and a long chemise (they'd be changing into their formal outfits at Ravenhome anyway), by the time Síomha got downstairs Sailí was already at the counter disassembling her breakfast. In the nude, not surprisingly — Síomha still found that a bit odd, but it wasn't as though it was bothering anyone, so oh well.

The way she'd take food apart before eating it sometimes was also a bit odd. They were having a rather light breakfast today — there would be more than enough food at the party, spread out free for the taking over the course of hours — little more than coffee and croissants, wrapped around filling of various kinds. Ceasaí had made the croissants herself — the dough had been prepared last night, tucked away under preservation charms, baked at some point since she'd gotten out of bed this morning. Sailí had two of the pastries on her plate, in the process of ripping them apart with a knife and a fork, torn into strips of dough streaked here and there with the revealed filling — one strawberry and the other applesauce, looked like. Sometimes Sailí could be very picky about food, she would often (though not always) open up pastries and buns and the like, Síomha wasn't sure why. To double-check what was in there, maybe? so she could eat them in pieces, with a fork, instead of risking the insides leaking out onto her hands?

It was odd, but it wasn't bothering anyone any more than her intermittent ambivalence toward the concept of clothing — Síomha had simply made a mental note the first time she'd noticed it and moved on. (She'd worked up a long list of mental notes on Sailí's peculiarities, so she could better avoid things that would make her uncomfortable, it was just another on the list.) She dropped a quick kiss on the top of Sailí's head with a sleepy good morning, getting a warm hum in a return, before turning to pour herself some coffee.

Ceasaí's croissants were, of course, excellent — sometimes she was still taken aback by how good Ceasaí was with this stuff. Síomha had performed a number of alchemical formulations that were certainly more complex and long-running than making these croissants, but it was different. When she tried to bake something it always turned out underwhelming, and she had no idea why...

(The difference between faithfully following directions and having actual talent for it, she guessed.)

Not long after Síomha had sat down, Sailí's friend Susan joined them — the young Lady Bones, of those Boneses, but she tried not to be weird about that. Susan was a somewhat frequent guest in the house, since her mother — who happened to be the current Director of Law Enforcement, because Síomha actually knew important people now, just surreal — was terribly busy, and would often insist on a bodyguard if Susan was going to be almost anywhere else without her. (Given what Amelia did for a living, it wasn't unreasonable to fear someone might try to use Susan against her, but nobody was stupid enough to try to lay a finger on her while Ceasaí was around.) As usual, she was entirely shrouded in a plain linen robe, face gaunt and thin and her eyes strained — Síomha had known Seers before, and Susan seemed especially sensitive, the poor girl.

Of course, they'd found some rather creative means to get around some of her sensitivities: shortly after she sat down, Sailí picked up her wand from where it was sitting next to her plate, and duplicated a couple croissants. Normally eating conjured food would be unnecessarily risky — not to mention pointless, since it would vanish before long anyway — but Sailí had been blessed by the children of the gods, whatever magic she wrought made permanent by nature. (Accidentally, Ceasaí claimed, though it was difficult to believe that even they could do something so incredible without meaning to.) As Síomha understood it, it was sort of similar to how metamorphs reinforced the identity of their own bodies, but somehow extended to any substance she transfigured or conjured, or even charmed. Which was just...

Síomha would kill to be able to realise permanent transfigurations so easily — not really, of course, but what a thing! She might — might — be able to replicate what Sailí just did with those croissants, but it would take days of research, and probably hours of effort to perform the ritual itself, and the reagents necessarily would not be cheap. And the end result probably wouldn't taste as good either, something was often lost when attempting to alchemise food — Susan claimed the things Sailí conjured for her tasted better than natural substance, which was certainly an effect alchemy would have trouble replicating. Doing it so casually as Violet did was, just, incredible.

(It was a peculiar feeling, envying an eleven-year-old girl. She didn't really, given the circumstances it'd come to pass in and the possible risks of any casual use of magic, but sometimes it was difficult to avoid having a moment.)

They lingered for a short time over breakfast, sipping at coffee — or mint tea, in Violet's case — and nibbling at croissants, but they didn't have a lot of time to waste. They had a rather tight schedule today. Not long after eight, their breakfast things were washed, the leftover croissants tucked away again, and Ceasaí apparated them to Ravenhome.

The four of them, at once...and she didn't even have direct contact with one of them, Susan holding on to Violet's hand. Because Ceasaí was absurd sometimes, Síomha couldn't even apparate the three of them without her help.

(Síomha had actually been somewhat proud of her skill with apparation, before she'd seen some of the tricks Ceasaí could pull — she was the only person in her family who even had a licence, had been practically the only person she even knew who could reliably side-along anyone at all. Sometimes she was reminded that Ceasaí was the single most powerful mage she'd ever met, and by no small margin either.)

(Excluding the Morrigan, of course, She didn't count as a mortal mage.)

The four of them were transported straight to the bathhouse. Adjacent to the baths proper there was a large changing room, complete with vanities for bathers to fix their hair and cosmetics after washing up — they'd left their party clothes here a few nights ago, still hanging from the racks along one wall waiting for them. Violet immediately skipped through the door into the bath, to start the water running while the rest of them undressed.

For a moment, Síomha watched Ceasaí's light sundress slide off her, before reminding herself to behave — there were children present.

The bath here was lovely, though Síomha thought it was a little exposed. When they'd been planning the day, she'd been a little leery of them washing up and changing here, but Ceasaí assured her the wards entirely blocked the inside from view. Normally she might not care, but there were contractors on the grounds at the moment, fixing up the gardens and setting up the lunch — and also musicians, because of course — she'd prefer to avoid an uncomfortable moment, just because. (There were Black elves, of course, and also Potter elves who'd be willing to help for Sailí's birthday, but Ceasaí had divided up the prep work with various human workers, Síomha wasn't sure why.) The bath was roughly crescent-shaped, though the edge wasn't even, wavering back and forth here and there to create little outlets for stairs and close little nooks — varying in size, some only meant for individual bathers, others large enough for a few people to sit together and talk. There was a tiled area surrounding the bath with a few chairs, a row of showers to one side — exposed piping leading up to nozzles overhead, oddly enough — these tiny little wheeled tables that one could put their things on and roll along the edge of the bath to keep in reach. Not particularly extravagant, the ceramic was even relatively plain, all things considered.

The special thing about it was that it was open — there was one wall behind them, leading back into the changing room, but the space wasn't enclosed at all on the other three sides, or overhead. There were trees all around, holly and hazel and birch and rowan, smaller shrubs scattered in the spaces between, which provided some cover, but Síomha could still see through them to the grounds beyond in places. It was early enough in the morning that the sun hadn't fully cleared the trees yet, shadows slashing across the cleared space, where the light shone through in patches glinting on the ceramic and shimmering on the bubbly water, the air smelling of woodland, vanilla and rosehips from the bath. Pretty, yes, putting it outdoors was simply such an odd decision.

During the bath, Sailí was starting to go quiet and tense, the way she did when she was nervous about something. Síomha tried to distract her from worrying about the party, but she had no idea if she actually cheered her up at all.

They didn't linger in the bath too long — again, tight schedule — before drying off and heading back into the changing room. While Ceasaí double-checked that the children had everything they needed and knew what they were doing, Síomha drifted to where her own things were hanging up, fingers idly tracing over the silky smooth fabric, enchantments faintly crackling against her skin.

They'd gone shopping for the occasion some time ago, because getting new (or at least altered) formalwear for every event that came up was common in the nobility. (They could be reused, but wearing the same dress to a second major, special event was taken as a sign of classlessness, or poverty.) That seemed a little ridiculous to Síomha, honestly — she'd only had a small handful of outfits through her childhood, only broadening once she'd been a teenager, sneaking out into muggle Dúilinn to buy things herself with money collected doing odd jobs in town — but she realised it wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The constant demand for formalwear was a huge source of work for a bunch of trades in the country, a fair portion of the labour often handed off to apprentices for practice — she had several relatives who would never have been able to land apprenticeships in various textile-related trades were it not for the nobles always needing new things all the time. And it didn't all entirely go to waste, of course, altered down the line to be more appropriate for daily wear (which often meant a second job for the same piece), or else sold off for scrap, the fabric harvested to either be reused in plainer clothes for normal people, or, if it weren't a particularly fine fabric, sold in batches to poorer families, who could use the fragments to piece together something suitable for themselves. Buying so much formalwear only to be used once might seem extremely wasteful at first glance, but they often did get reused, or else passing into a complex secondary economy which was essential in the lives of many less fortunate people.

Like Síomha herself, growing up — a lot of her clothes had been formed out of fabric that might well have first been used in high-class formalwear. (All linen and wool and not silk, obviously, they couldn't afford silk clothing even second-hand and it didn't recycle as well anyway.) She'd sometimes wondered what this or that piece had once been, what the absurdly-expensive ball gown or whatever the hell it'd once belonged to had looked like, who had worn it.

Since meeting Ceasaí, she'd sometimes wondered if Síomha had worn fabric Ceasaí had originally seen on some noble girl, years or even decades ago. She'd avoided wearing her old things when she'd be seeing Ceasaí, in part because they were hardly flattering — she'd quickly found she preferred muggle denims above the dresses she'd grown up with anyway — but also out of concern that Ceasaí might recognise something. Which was maybe overly cautious of her, just, it seemed like that would be embarrassing, that was all...

Síomha had had clothes specifically made for her by a seamster on exactly two occasions: once for a Convocation when she was around Sailí's age, which she'd later worn to multiple weddings and funerals until she'd outgrown it (whereupon it'd been passed to Aoife, and then the twins when she'd outgrown it in turn), and a second time for her Confirmation (which wasn't really reusable, save for rare special holidays). That was before Ceasaí had started inviting her to travel around the world with her and Sailí — she'd done it plenty of times now, so she'd have something appropriate to wear to overly expensive restaurants or the occasional formal party Ceasaí would get invited to, thanks to whichever duelling event or simply having a notable name. (Síomha would never have expected how often Ceasaí was randomly invited to ongoing social functions when visiting a foreign country simply because she was a Black, it was absurd.) It always made her uncomfortable, every time. Partly since she just wasn't used to seamsters poking at her, but also she, it...

Ceasaí spending so much money on her had made her uncomfortable, yes. It still did, sometimes, though she was trying to talk herself out of that — they were getting married, after all, in a year's time (or less?) Síomha would be Lady Black herself, with all the wealth and privileges that came with that. (No matter how absolutely surreal that was to think about.) But, going to expensive shops, listening to the talk planning her outfit — only sometimes contributing, too out of her depth to have much to say — all the fine embroidery and goldwork and the like, the cool feel of silk on her skin...

She couldn't help feeling terribly out of place, like she were intruding somehow. Like someone would discover there was a common daughter of peasants in their midst, and she would be bodily forced out by the power of their scorn alone. Which was ridiculous, of course, she realised that — after all, they were getting married, she'd be Lady Black herself in a year's time (or less?) — but she couldn't help the feeling, sometimes. She could only expect it was going to be worse during the party itself, surrounded by the nobility and Ministry types, literally Albus Dumbledore, and who knows who else, with their impossibly fine clothes and inscrutable etiquette and...

(She didn't belong here.)

Síomha forced out a heavy breath, and jerked a step over to her underthings, waiting folded on the vanity.

This party was to be...mixed, as far as the clothes went. She'd had less interest in the idea of (theoretically, maybe, one day) wearing proper high-class formalwear than a lot of girls her age she'd known growing up — and not only because that was a silly frivolous thing to be spending their time talking about, though obviously it was that. Mostly, they just looked terribly uncomfortable? She didn't like wearing dresses at all anymore, if she could help it. She still did, sometimes, when it was expected of her. In professional circles it was perfectly normal for women to wear trousers — though normally not muggle denims, but sticking with wool and linen was an acceptable compromise — but there were situations it wasn't so much. Like, going to Mass, or certain holiday events, or weddings and the like. If she were to, it would give off a certain militant impression, and she wasn't much of a fighter at all, so that would be inappropriate — she'd get funny looks at the very least, maybe a few comments. Ceasaí could get away with that, Síomha couldn't, the tone would be all wrong.

She also didn't much care for corsets — Ceasaí said you got used to them, so long as they were fitted correctly, but she was very sceptical.

Luckily, the dress code at parties thrown by the nobility was a bit more flexible...or it was for this party, anyway? Ceasaí and the seamstresses at the shop they got their things at had said this was fine for a semi-formal garden luncheon in high summer, but Síomha had no idea how that was different from other functions. She wasn't even sure what the difference between "lunch" and "luncheon" was — weren't those just different ways to say the same word? Sailí had gotten different outfits for different kinds of events over the last few years, but childrens' dress was obviously going to be different from adults', and Síomha honestly hadn't been paying that much attention...

The point was, trousers were fine, at least for this event. Her outfit was still a bit much, but at least it wasn't anything as overdone as Ceasaí's, or even Sailí's — Ceasaí would be wearing a corset for the rest of the day, and Sailí's dress had so much ruffles and lace, it was silly...

She started with just her normal pants, topped by a pair of light linen shorts — apparently the done thing was to keep silk from touching any of the more smell-generating parts of the body. While she would tolerate a bustier if she had to, with this outfit she'd been told she could get away with just a breastband — Ceasaí had joined her by this point, made sure it was tied correctly — and over that went a delicate linen chemise. Most of it was completely plain and undecorated, except for along the neckline, where there was curly embroidery in silver and black — silver silver, she meant, metal thread, though thankfully it wasn't real — and the sleeves transitioned into a somewhat sturdier, textured material, more embroidery along the cuff in the same silver and black, accented with glittering beads in yellow and red, hanging loose and baggy around her elbows. It was also oddly short, cutting off just around the bottom of her ribs, but it was supposed to be like that.

Once everyone was in their underclothes, they switched to finishing up their hair and makeup instead. Well, Síomha and Susan did, anyway — Ceasaí and Sailí simply concentrated for a moment, their hair twisting into the appropriate style all by itself, subtle changes sweeping over their faces in a wave. Both checked themselves in the mirror, Sailí making more adjustments — she'd transfigured something in her skin to reflect the light, like tiny flecks of glittering gemstones above her eyes and dotted across her cheeks, a subtle shimmer to the usual rainbow streaks of colour in her hair — but they were done quickly. They formed a little line, Susan at the front, Síomha behind her, and Ceasaí behind her, Sailí sitting on a nearby chair, her feet nervously kicking in the air.

Síomha's hair was still quite short, so there wasn't much for Ceasaí to do — adding a little oil to improve colour in the light and sort it to not look like too much of a mess, and that was really it — but Susan's hair would take a bit more time. After quick shielding her hands with the same charm she used to protect herself when handling caustic materials, which at least partly stopped anything too bad from getting to Susan, she carefully combed through the girl's long, curly hair (regrown from when she'd cut it short after her Sight was triggered), started dividing it out to be plaited. Ceasaí helpfully floated over the flowers and pins that were supposed to end up in Susan's hair, and she started working her way down, sticking in a flower every few turns, this pin holding it against the back of her head here, and then another here, careful to make sure the metal was kept from touching Susan's skin...

(Any one of these hairpins certainly cost more than everything in her childhood bedroom combined.)

Susan couldn't use cosmetics at all, for the obvious reasons, but Síomha very carefully cast a couple glamours, adding a little colour to her cheeks and hiding the most obvious signs of exhaustion around her eyes — the poor girl flinched a little, gritting her teeth, probably picking up an echo from Síomha's past or future. (It would be inappropriate to ask.) She relaxed after each spell resolved, though, so it seemed the glamour simply being active didn't bother her, only the casting of it. Síomha didn't normally bother with cosmetics — conditioner for her hair, yes, and perfume, but that was it — but Ceasaí quick sketched something around her eyes, smeared some stuff over her lips. Once she was done, warmly smiling (in a way she'd hardly ever done even a few years ago, happy), she gave Síomha a soft, slow, gentle kiss, before pulling away again to finish dressing.

Síomha's trousers were mostly black, gaining a slight steely-blue sheen in the sunlight, over the entire surface stitched with lines of silver in waves — close up, it was hard to tell what the texture was supposed to be, but from several steps away it almost seemed to rustle as she moved, like the feathers on a raven being tossed by the wind. They were silk, light and cool and smooth to the touch, loose and draping over her legs but coming in as they moved up, as she tied them closed hugging close around her hips. The waist was low, well under her navel, leaving an uncovered gap between the trousers and the chemise, but it was supposed to look like that. Once she was done with that, there was a waistcoat to pull on — more shimmery silk, but backed up with thick, firmer linen to give it more shape. This buttoned up the front, in close but not too tight — just enough to make her figure rather obvious — the embroidered hem of the chemise poking up along the neckline, she had to fiddle with it a little to make sure it sat right.

And then spent a moment blinking down at her own chest — she'd honestly forgotten how much the waistcoat pushed up her breasts, making her cleavage very obvious. Not that that was bad, honestly, she thought it looked great, but... Well, nobles must have different standards for propriety, her feeling was that this was a little much for a proper social event. Ceasaí and the seamstresses had said it was fine, so, she had no choice but to take their word for it.

The waistcoat itself was mostly white, with complicated curling floral embroidery across the surface in red and black, the buttons showing through as glittering golden (alchemical bronze) seven-pointed stars. Her stomach was still showing, but that's just because she wasn't done — there was a long narrow cloth, deep red with more embroidery in black and yellow and silver, beads in various colours glittering here and there through the length and dangling from the tasselled ends. That was tied loosely around her waist a couple times, draped over her hips... No, that didn't look quite right. She tried a second time, but that didn't come out right either, and after a third failed attempt she just asked Ceasaí to do it for her. Wrapped around her waist, loosely enough to kind of sag and fold over her hips, Ceasaí tied it high on her left side and let the ends fall, the beads dangling down a bit above her knee. She claimed that was right, so Síomha drifted over in front of a long mirror, looking over...

She felt ridiculous.

This was more comfortable to wear than the thick, tight, corseted dress Ceasaí was wearing — the thing didn't have any shoulder straps at all, held up by how it clung to her body, which would just make Síomha nervous, and there were multiple layers of skirts, no thanks. But Síomha thought her own outfit was just...weird. She didn't dislike it — she rather liked how it all traced along her figure, and of course her breasts looked great — but it didn't feel like a normal thing to wear to her. Like it was some weird costume, that she'd seem naturally out of place wherever she went, more suited for some stage production than a garden luncheon or whatever the hell. She knew from pictures that people at these events did tend to dress rather dramatically, but...

(Síomha didn't belong here.)

"How does it feel?" Ceasaí asked (in English), coming up along Síomha's side, fingers trailing over her back — the waistcoat was thick enough she couldn't feel it very well, just a vague pressure. As usual — or, she thought it was normal, she knew it was a more recent development — Ceasaí was in bright colours, white and leafy green and glittering gold thread. (Probably not real gold, more alchemised bronze, but she honestly wasn't sure.) Her shoulders were left completely uncovered — except for her hair, bright blonde resting in curls and bunches against her skin — the corset clenched tight around her scooping up her breasts — which also looked great, of course, even more obvious than Síomha's, honestly a bit distracting — without a modesty panel under the laces, showing a strip of skin from her shoulders down to the small of her back, skirts in multiple layers falling from her hips, the top thinner and almost gauzy, embroidered with curling and spiralling patterns very similar to the ones on Síomha's clothes — intentionally so, the theme was supposed to be recognisable — giving the green silk underneath an extra shadowy flittery shimmer.

She'd gone relatively light on jewellery, the most obvious the silver-inlaid wand holster strapped to one forearm, a long knife in a sheath hanging right at the base of her back shining silver with tiny little red and yellow gemstones. Both were relics of the House of Black, supposedly, handed down from each Lord/Lady Black to the next for centuries now — the wand holster was newer, commissioned by the first Bellatrix for one of her children, but the knife was much older, dating back well over a thousand years. (The sheath and the decoration were newer than that, of course.) It wasn't unusual for the Lady of the House to wear those things at events, and Ceasaí had decided it was a good idea, since a lot of people at the party weren't going to recognise her. Apparently the holster and the knife were well-known enough by the rest of the nobility to identify her.

She did look different from normal, but not that different — the biggest change was just that she was rather shorter than she usually went for, her eyes several inches below Síomha's. When getting fitted for their clothes, Ceasaí joked that it was simply more convenient that way. Síomha hadn't gotten it at first, so Ceasaí explained that in proper ballroom dances it was easier to do the turns and the like if the person doing the women's part was shorter, and it just looked better for the person wearing a skirt to do the women's part...so then Síomha had reminded Ceasaí that she didn't know any of the fancy shite noble types did during bloody formal balls, so apparently Síomha had to learn that now...

Anyway, there might be minor changes to her face, but Síomha hardly noticed. She'd long ago gotten used to Ceasaí looking different from day to day, in smaller and bigger ways. It'd been confusing at first, but she didn't recognise Ceasaí by sight at all anymore — though she couldn't exactly explain how she did. Her aura helped, dark and cold and intense, like a winter lightning storm, her accent in Gaelic was a pretty big tell...if not as obvious these days, she'd gotten a lot of practice. Síomha wasn't sure how she always knew who Ceasaí was, honestly, she just did. But she knew from older pictures that Ceasaí used to look rather...different, when she wasn't slumming it with the common people — most of the guests were more used to Cassiopeia Black than Ceasaí de Dhúloidh.

But she'd asked Síomha a question. "I feel ridiculous."

Some kind of look crossed Ceasaí's face, there and gone too quick for her to read it. "Well, you don't look ridiculous." She came closer — nudging under Síomha's arm, she lifted it out of the way — to lean into Síomha's side, arm snaking around her waist and head settling against her shoulder. "I know this is new to you, but trust me, you won't look out of place — there will be at least a few young women here dressed similarly." Ceasaí paused for a breath. "Though, they will mostly be lesbians."

Síomha let out a light scoff, her lips twitching. "I didn't realise it was that kind of outfit."

"Mm, it isn't explicitly, but most young unmarried women will be in a dress more like mine." Good point. "It does send a different message, though," Ceasaí muttered — her free hand coming over to finger one of the buttons on the waistcoat, showing through as a golden (alchemised bronze) seven-pointed star. "You do look like a Black. Which is what we want."

Because Síomha's outfit was very Black-themed. The colours, black and white and red and gold. The seven-pointed stars, half of the Black...coat of arms...thing (she'd honestly forgotten what the term was) had a bunch of yellow seven-pointed stars on red — that part also had a familiar image of a hand grasping the Sword of Light, a relic of an old (failed) attempt by the Blacks to claim some Gaelic kingdom through marriage with...one of the Dál gCais clans, she didn't remember which. (The version of the story she'd heard didn't focus on the Blacks' perspective at all.) The feathery-looking pattern on the trousers was meant to be referencing the three ravens on the lower half, meaning they were taking about as much as they could from it without being crass. At least, Ceasaí said it was crass to, just, wear your family's coat of arms thing (was that the right term?) on your clothes, sort of thought of as a new money thing, done by young families whose ennoblement still hadn't yet lost its shine — the Blacks, of course, were not new money, it'd seem very out of character for them to do that kind of thing. But this much was fine, she was told, enough to get the point across without coming off too showy.

(Síomha had been a little uncomfortable with the reference to raven feathers, honestly. Gaels didn't wear raven feathers, ever — ravens belonged to the Morrigan, it was bad luck to mess with them. It wasn't actually made out of raven feathers, though, just blue-black silk with silver embroidery that sort of imitated the look, so, she thought that was fine.)

It wasn't a secret that she and Ceasaí were planning to marry soon, but it hadn't been widely publicised either. This was the first proper, public event they'd be showing up at together, so Ceasaí wanted to make a point about it.

And Síomha did appreciate that, that... Well, that this was really happening, that Ceasaí wasn't just hiding her from the actual important people and... She didn't know. That she would be at Sailí's birthday party, dressed in an obvious Black theme, was probably a good thing in the end — but that didn't mean she wasn't nervous about it, or that she didn't still feel ridiculous.

"...That's true. Hopefully I won't make too much of an idiot of myself."

"You'll be fine, love. Besides, I'm going easy on you with your first one — garden lunch parties are far more informal than most. We'll practise etiquette before doing anything more formal."

"Ach, etiquette lessons, not looking forward to that." She would do them — Ceasaí was probably already going to get shite for marrying a peasant (and a woman), she didn't want to make it worse by embarrassing her more than necessary — but she just knew she was going to have a hard time with it. Turning away from the mirror with a sigh, Síomha dropped a quick kiss on Ceasaí's head before slipping away. "All right, girls, how are things going over here?"

Sailí and Susan were pretty much ready — Síomha had stumbled enough getting everything to sit right and tying the cloth belt thing that she'd been behind. Susan was in a relatively plain long, full-sleeved linen dress in blue and white — which wasn't unusual for the Boneses, even among commoners they had a reputation for being much less extravagant than most of the rest of the nobility — soft cloth gloves shielding her hands from needing to directly touch anything. Apparently that helped some, but Síomha knew it was best to avoid touching Susan at all if she could help it. Sailí's dress, by contrast, had a lot of lace, the embroidery including strings of beadwork, the skirts big and ruffly, rustling audibly when Sailí moved — as Síomha caught up with them, Sailí was bouncing on her toes, making the beads clink and the crisp layers of cloth making up her skirt hiss, Sailí giggling to herself a little. Well, at least she didn't seem so tense and nervous anymore. The dress was a dizzying mix of colours, white and lavender and green and orange in no apparent order, even clashing at times, especially when green parts and orange parts got too close together. The seamstress had let Sailí sketch out the colours she wanted (though she'd double-checked with Ceasaí before agreeing to make it). It looked like an odd colourful jumble to Síomha, but apparently that was the way Sailí liked it.

The dress did seem a bit...much, to Síomha. When she'd been that age she... Well, she'd mostly have been concerned about damaging it and getting in trouble — all that lace and silk, far finer than she'd be comfortable with — but it was also very girly, in a way Síomha had never really liked much, and the skirts seemed like they'd get in the way? Not something she would have liked, but Sailí's tastes were different from hers.

And it might look a bit odd on someone else, but Sailí made it cute — it was the enthusiasm that sold it, she thought, grinning and giggling and bouncing, the disordered colours actually almost working with the rainbow streaks in her hair and the sparkles on her face.

Síomha took a moment to coo over how adorable she was and pepper her face with kisses until she (jokingly) started whining and pushing her away, just because.

After everyone got shoes on — just light sandals, nothing special — they all got a last quick glance-over before deciding they were ready, and they left the baths. They weren't late, quite, but they were on a rather tight schedule, so Síomha wasn't surprised to find, on reaching the reception hall, that some of the guests had already arrived. The hall held multiple floo grates by which guests could enter and exit, the floor and the walls smooth polished wood panels, the hearths themselves seamless black ceramic — Síomha knew enough about the ceramics trade to know that building such a thing, that could support and withstand the demanding magics of the Floo Network, in a single oversized piece, must have been mercilessly costly — more ceramic at the doorframes, lined with glinting silver. The entire ceiling, arching upward in a cylinder, was made out of vividly colourful stained glass — depicting the semi-historical relocation of the family from Brittany to the Isles, Ceasaí said — backlit by the sun, speckling the floor and the walls in random chinks of colour. There were no light fixtures whatsoever, illuminated entirely by the fires and the ceiling above — supposedly there were enchantments that would light up the glass during the night, filling the space with a shadowy, multicoloured glow, but Síomha hadn't seen that herself yet.

A collection of family and friends had been given permission to arrive early, to help finish setting up and just keep them company until the rest of the guests started arriving — their first guests turned out to be the Bulstrodes and the Marlowes. As soon as they came into sight, gathered talking in front of one of the fireplaces, Sailí hitched to a stop, surprised. "Grandma!" She then lurched into motion, half-running half-skipping over — she stopped before actually throwing herself at the woman in the chair, standing a step away practically vibrating.

After all, throwing herself at Diana Bulstrode wasn't the best idea — the woman was right around a hundred forty years old. (Nobody was certain precisely, as there was no formal record of her birth.) That wasn't too terribly old for a mage — she could easily live another fifty years if nothing went wrong — but she was far more frail than she used to be. One of the others lingering around must have conjured that chair for her to rest while they waited, or perhaps it'd been brought in by a house-elf trying to be thoughtful. It would make sense for the elves to try to be nice to Diana in particular, since she was Ceasaí's grandmother.

Sailí was stammering through an awkward greeting with a well-dressed middle-aged couple — vaguely familiar, but their names weren't coming to her — when the rest of them caught up, Ceasaí rescuing her. "Got ahead of me there, darling," she said, ruffling Sailí's hair a little bit. "Cousin," nodding at the man, "Mared, good to see you again. And Grandmother, welcome to Ravenhome. You remember Síomha, of course, and I don't think you've met Susan..."

The middle-aged couple, it turned out, were the Lord and Lady Bulstrode, Felix and Mared — Felix was a cousin of Ceasaí's somehow, Síomha didn't remember how they were related exactly. Felix was tall and auburn-haired, Mared blonde, probably in their sixties or seventies, both in relatively modern dress, Felix in trousers and a light summer coat — no waistcoat, too warm, the rich silk shirt underneath better in the summer weather, everything smooth and shining and finely embroidered with curls and leaves — Mared in a corseted dress that was rather more reserved than Ceasaí's, but no less finely made. Along with them was Sailí's school friend Millicent — a tall, somewhat pudgy girl with vivid red hair, who looked painfully uncomfortable in her nice, finely-embroidered silky dress (Síomha got the clear impression that she'd much rather be wearing something plainer) — and her father Marcus, a very tall, broad-shouldered man with a long mane of curly red-orange hair — he was quite large, and somewhat loud, Síomha had found him slightly intimidating the first time they'd met, but he was a surprisingly gentle sort, just big.

And, of course, there was Ceasaí's grandmother. The old woman's straight, shoulder-length hair was completely white, but supposedly that wasn't new: her hair had always been white, to match the feathers of her other body. He eyes were a deep, almost black grey, and she was dressed very plainly for a gathering of nobles — a linen gown, lovingly embroidered around the hems but hardly anything special, topped with a woollen shawl wrapped over her shoulders. But then wilderfolk could be peculiar about clothes, the fussy stuck-up types at this thing should just be happy Diana had worn any at all.

Inviting Diana had probably been a somewhat provocative thing to do — Síomha had gotten the impression that a lot of upper-class types didn't like wilderfolk much. The Bulstrodes were a little peculiar, living alongside multiple clans of wilderfolk on their lands and occasionally intermixing with them — there was Diana, of course, and Marcus's father spent most of his time as a deer — but they were very much the exception and not the rule. But even if it wasn't the most politic thing to do, Ceasaí had been very interested in getting to know the grandmother she'd only ever heard stories of before, and Sailí loved her, so it wasn't a surprise that she'd been invited anyway.

(Síomha wasn't sure why Ceasaí hadn't met her grandmother at all until very recently, but she suspected ridiculous noble politics had something to do with it.)

Walter Marlowe had been invited, of course, it would have been inappropriate not to. Though Síomha suspected he'd prefer not to go to fancy noble parties if he had any choice — her feeling was that the old painting master was happier spending as little time talking to people as possible. He hadn't bothered dressing up, in plain linen trousers and a wool jumper, some kind of work bag slung over a shoulder. With him was Allison — his granddaughter, helped him run the studio and manage the paperwork, Síomha had met her before — and another younger man named Raymond, who was also a Marlowe, but more distantly related, she thought. Allison and Raymond were more nicely dressed, but by the standards of commoners, Síomha had the feeling they'd stand out surrounded by the aristocracy.

Raymond had an easel frame with him, the feet set on the ground and resting against his side. It seemed Walter planned on spending as much of the party painting as possible. He wasn't really much for gossip to begin with, and Síomha guessed it made sense — do a little bit of showing off, maybe land some business for the studio, perfectly reasonable. Apparently Allison and Raymond were also in the market for apprenticeships (or possibly marriages), and it was possible they would be able to land something as long as they were here, leaning on the prestige that came with Walter personally training the new Lady Black's young daughter. Not likely, Síomha didn't think, but trying wouldn't hurt anyone. Walter would prefer to find a place to set up before there were people wandering around and getting in the way — and, Síomha guessed, so he'd be out of the way and already busy when guests started arriving, so they'd be less likely to bother him — Ceasaí knew the perfect spot, they could get going right away...

Except before they started moving the hearth flared green, signalling the arrival of more people. First out was a somewhat tall, somewhat plump man with short, dark blond hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee — very professional, matching the crisp trousers, waistcoat, and dress coat in blue, white, and yellow. Not an unusual style for certain more well-off commoners, though the glint of precious metal in the buttons and the intricate curling and weaving embroidery on the waistcoat was somewhat finer than average, more like you might see on prominent guild officers, or Ministry officials, or in the trades closer to the halls of power, like attorneys and the like. The man turned to spot them, face curling in a warm friendly smile, and Síomha belatedly recognised him: she was right on the attorney guess, that was Ted Tonks. "Ah, hello everyone. I'll be over in just a moment..."

The hearth flared green again, and a long, narrow, colourful figure was spat out, and immediately staggered, would have slammed face-first down onto the tile if Ted didn't catch them by the waist. "Aarggghh! I hate the floo!" With her father's help, Sailí's cousin Dora pushed herself upright, teetering on her heels for a second before finding her balance. She was in closely-tailored trousers — deep black, simmering silkily in the night — and a sleeveless red button-up shirt, topped with a half-cape sort of thing, turned to hang over one shoulder, white stitched with yellow. Combined with the black leather heeled boots and reddish fingerless gloves and visible wand holster it was a bit of an eccentric look, but Aurors were known to be a bit eccentric sometimes — she was currently in their summer internship programme, and planned on joining straight out of academy, so maybe she could get away with that? Síomha didn't know enough about this sort of thing to know if this was appropriate or not. She was wearing Black colours too — so she and Síomha almost sort of matched, in a way — but Ceasaí was openly sponsoring her and all, so that must be on purpose.

Her hair was a clear, sky blue, the dangling tips shifting into bright pink, but this was Dora, Síomha would hardly expect anything else.

"You know," Ceasaí said, "if you can't even get through the floo without falling on your face, I don't know how you're going to get through your apprenticeship. Tripping all over yourself tends to end badly when you're in the middle of a fight."

Letting go of her father, Dora started walking toward their group, turning a scowl back at the fireplace over her shoulder. Just as she looked away, the fire flared green, another figure stepping through. "Fighting I can do, the floo is awful. I swear, that bloody thing is trying to kill me, piece of shite. So, who are you lot?"

"Nymphadora, I believe we had just finished this discussion." Andromeda sounded a little exasperated, but not as though she expected anything different — Dora's manners were just like that, and she was very stubborn about it. Ceasaí's niece was somewhat short, as many purebloods were, very pale with long curly black hair. Her dress was rather more modest than Ceasaí's — though it also had a corset, of course (and hoo, do not stare at your lover's niece's breasts, Síomha, behave) — in deep black and green, with a little bit of silvery stitching here and there. Almost certainly not actual silver, she was pretty sure the Tonkses couldn't afford that. They did do quite well for themselves — Andromeda was a healer at Saint Mungo's, Ted ran a legal practice with a few colleagues — but she knew Ceasaí helped them with a few things...not that Síomha knew what, she'd just overheard...

Dora rolled her eyes. "You said I had to mind my manners with the real guests, but these are just family and friends and shite, right? So, who are you lot?"

There was a little bit of a hiccough in the introductions when they got to Diana — she was also Andromeda and Dora's great-great-(great-)grandmother, and they'd never met before. Dora's hair flickered through colours for a couple seconds, surprise, but it went over well enough, the silly girl leaned over to give Diana a hug and everything. Andromeda was somewhat more stiff about it, but Síomha really had no idea whether that was because this had just been sprung on her without warning, or because Diana was wilderfolk, or just because Andromeda was a more stiff and formal sort of person to begin with.

Andromeda was rather cool with the other Bulstrodes too, but that wasn't a surprise. The Bulstrodes had supported the Dark Lord — Síomha knew from their small handful of meetings that she could take that very personally.

They were just about finishing up introducing the Tonkses and the Marlowes — Dora shamelessly flirting with Raymond, her mother shooting her an irritated look but her father trying to hide an amused smirk — when the fire tinted green again. Poor Walter, seemed he had to wait even longer to get outside. A second later, a figure smoothly stepped out of the hearth, and Síomha felt herself stiffen: that was Lucius Malfoy.

Síomha didn't pay that much attention to society news and the like — there was little point to, since the ridiculous high society nonsense that was printed in the newspaper for some unfathomable reason was hardly likely to affect her life at all. She hadn't known Cassiopeia Black existed before meeting Ceasaí (though people had made a point of telling her stories since), most of the nobles she'd met in the last couple years were vaguely familiar names at best, only rarely did she actually know anything about any of them. Amelia Bones, of course — she was very visible, being the Director of Law Enforcement and a literal war hero and all, Síomha had even recognised her from photos in the papers — and she'd heard of Arcturus before, and Rufus Scrimgeour. She'd heard of the Bulstrodes and the Longbottoms and the Greengrasses and the Smethwycks before, but none of the particular people she'd met were anyone familiar, really.

But she recognised Lucius Malfoy instantly. And of course she did, he was literally the single wealthiest person in the entire damn country, and he and his wife were in the papers seemingly all the time. There was the scandal around the end of the war, obviously, but they were just important, she couldn't even guess how many photos she'd seen over the last however many years...

Seeing him in real life was weird. Just a little bit.

Like usual, he was dressed in the style of a professional tradesman, though with richer materials — deep night-blue trousers and creamy white shirt and black waistcoat all in shimmery silk, buttons and cuffs glinting, the fine embroidery along the seam of his waistcoat done in glittering goldwork. (Síomha would bet that actually was real gold thread, because Malfoys.) The long black cape, the fabric gleaming a subtle blue where the light hit it, and the snow-white ceramic cane weren't following the normal style, but those were very much Lucius Malfoy, he had that cane and some kind of cape or cloak in pretty much every picture of him she'd ever seen. He raised his free hand to them in greeting, but didn't move their way, waiting by the hearth for the rest of his family.

Draco came out a moment later, looking very much like a down-sized copy of his father, with the same pale face and unnaturally white hair. They were even dressed pretty similarly — Draco's trousers were a bit more black, though still with a subtle blue sheen to them, instead of the shirt and waistcoat a short-sleeved wrap-around tunic the same creamy white with glittery gold embroidery, topped with a black cloak. (The cloak seemed unnecessary, but Síomha knew aristocratic types considered it inappropriate to leave the house without one.) Narcissa followed a moment later, in a dress style Síomha knew the upper classes called "summer robes" — just looked like a light flowy dress to her, normally quite short (almost muggle minidress length) with leggings underneath for modesty — pulled in from waist to clavicle with a...bodice thing of some kind — she'd seen Ceasaí wearing similar things before, but Síomha got confused about the terminology sometimes — the stiffer cloth the same gold-embroidered white as her son and husband, the loose silky sleeves dangling down to her elbows and the asymmetrical uneven skirts swaying around her thighs in blue contrasted here and there with a bit of soft green. The leggings — because of course she had them, that skirt was too short for a noblewoman to be caught dead in without — were a solid black that transitioned smoothly into the leather of her heels, clacking smartly as she stepped out of the floo to join her family.

Síomha had met Draco and Narcissa before. Her only interactions with Draco had been a couple funny looks, she didn't think he'd ever spoken a single word to her. Maybe a couple polite nothings in passing? She thought he was confused with her being around, like for Lord Arcturus's funeral, but was too polite to say anything about it. (Or, more likely, didn't want to annoy Sailí by being rude to Síomha right in front of her.) She'd only met Narcissa once, at Lord Arcturus's funeral, and she'd spent half of the time indirectly interrogating Síomha over her presence and her relationship with Ceasaí — Síomha wasn't sure if it was supposed to be obvious what she'd been doing, and it was just rude to directly draw attention to it, or if Narcissa had thought she was a stupid oblivious peasant who wouldn't notice that kind of thing, she'd found it very uncomfortable. Honestly, Sailí leaving the room had provided an excellent excuse for Síomha to get the hell away too.

...Wait a second. Narcissa hadn't known about the engagement at the time — they'd still been keeping it private, confirming it would all come together before telling anyone. (They had told Lord Arcturus, but he'd been on his way out anyway.) Síomha had an unpleasant feeling that Narcissa was going to be difficult about that.

Once the Malfoys had all gathered, they walked the short distance over to the rest of the group, Narcissa slipping up into the lead. Smiling bright and pleasant, she walked straight toward Ceasaí, holding her hands out, "Aunt Cassie, lovely to see you again."

Taking her hands, Ceasaí grumbled, "Yeah, yeah," but cooperated with the cheek-kissing some upper-class people did anyway. "Acting like we haven't seen each other for ages, it's only been..." She trailed off, frowning.

"Four months," Síomha said.

Ceasaí glanced at her, blinking. "Was it?"

"As far as I know. Hilaria, I think it was called?" Síomha didn't know much about the weird pseudo-Roman religion some British people had — she hadn't been able to go with Ceasaí and Sailí because it'd overlapped with Holy Week, that was the only reason she remembered. It was apparently a festival with a lot of food and drink and silly games and stuff, and it'd happened to land on Holy Monday, so.

Looking a little exasperated, Narcissa drawled, "Thank you, Síomha, it was Hilaria. You have quite some trouble keeping in touch with people, Auntie."

"Ah, yeah, sorry about that. The days pass differently when you get to be my age."

"So I have heard." Narcissa dropped Ceasaí's hands, turned her cheerful smile on Sailí. "Happy birthday, Violet — and aren't you just adorable today."

"Um, thank you, ah- ah- Aunt Narcissa."

"Would a hug be out of the question?"

Síomha didn't really know how to feel about Narcissa so far, but she did appreciate that she actually asked. (Sailí could be prickly about being touched sometimes.) It seemed like Sailí was a little surprised, looking wide-eyed up at Narcissa — now that she thought about it, Síomha didn't actually know if hugging was normal for them, she'd only seen them interact a couple times. "Oh! Um. Yes? Hugs are nice..."

While they were doing that — Narcissa sinking down more to Sailí's height, cooing about how she and Draco were getting so big now, eleven years old and about to go off to Hogwarts... — Lucius gave Ceasaí a mild little nod. "Cassie, good morning."

"Lucius," Ceasaí said, with an equally mild nod back. If Síomha hadn't been explicitly told (by Ceasaí) that they didn't like each other, it would be difficult to tell, in full Society politeness.

"I had no idea Ravenhome was in such good condition — there is a rumour about that the property had come into neglect since my father's time."

"Mm, it had, but when it became clear that the family wasn't dying any time soon Arcturus had it cleaned up. The work necessary was rather modest, I don't think it was too bad."

"Ah. So I expect we may look forward to more functions hosted here in future." Síomha had the feeling Lucius was asking something else, indirectly, but she really had no idea what it was supposed to be.

"To my chagrin, yes, I expect there will be plenty more Black events. Unfortunately. Oh, speaking of which, ah—" Ceasaí hesitated, just for a second, before reaching back to Síomha, one hand slipping in at the inside of her upper arm. "—I don't think you've met my fiancée? Síomha Ní Shirideáin, my nephew Lucius Malfoy — I'm sure you've heard of him before."

Síomha had, in fact, heard of Lucius sodding Malfoy. Honestly, Ceasaí...

Before either of them could figure out what to say, Lucius looking at her with one eyebrow arced up, Narcissa repeated, "Fiancée? Do you mean...?"

Ceasaí nodded. "Winter holiday, maybe next summer."

Narcissa gasped, one hand coming up to politely cover her mouth, her eyes wide. "I didn't— I heard she was living with you, but I didn't hear— Did you know about this?" she asked, her head snapping around to look over at Andromeda, hovering with her family several steps away.

She looked a little taken aback to be directly addressed — as far as Síomha knew, the sisters had hardly spoken for decades — but after a second Andromeda said, "No, I had no idea! When did this happen?"

"I, er..." Ceasaí winced. Probably realised her nieces weren't going to be happy with her keeping it from them as long as she had.

Síomha might as well tear off the bandage for her. "She asked me back in December, a couple days before Christmas."

"Cassie! I can't believe you didn't— Oh, this is wonderful news, I'm—" And then Narcissa was suddenly hugging Ceasaí, the hand on Síomha's arm twitching before letting go to hug her back. Síomha was pretty sure there was a muttered exchange in Cambrian, but she couldn't really hear it. After a few seconds, Narcissa backed off a step and turned to Síomha — the Tonkses and the Bulstrodes immediately descending on Ceasaí, unsurprisingly. Smiling brightly, she reached for her hands, Síomha let her take them, her skin cool and smooth. "Well then, Síomha— Excuse me, how do you say it? And, was there a second name?"

"Ah, we don't normally do second names, unless there's another Síomha around. But, I guess, it's Sorcha — Síomha Shorcha Ní Shirideáin."

Narcissa repeated her name, coming out more like Símhe Chorcha Nao Chiriodán, which she guessed was close enough. (Brits were often terrible at pronouncing Gaelic, couldn't be picky about these things.) Smiling, she leaned in, Síomha belatedly realised she was going for cheek-kisses, tensed up — she didn't know what she was supposed to do, just, feeling terribly out of place and awkward. "Welcome to the family, Auntie."

Trying to hold back a grimace, and ignore the warmth she felt on her own face, Síomha groaned. "You really don't need to call me that. Besides, aren't you a good five years older than me, at least?"

Her lips curling in a smirk, she drawled, "Yes, well, I'm afraid that's what happens when you marry a woman in her eighties."

...Good point.

The conversation was then immediately taken up with congratulations, and questions about how that was supposed to work, exactly — it wasn't exactly legal in this country, after all. Síomha might feel a little guilty about the topic completely sucking up everyone's attention, considering they were here for Sailí's birthday, but Sailí didn't seem to mind, grinning and all but bouncing on her toes, the rainbow flecks in her hair flickering. As Ceasaí explained the little legal loophole she'd come up with, they drifted toward the doors out into the garden, questions about when the on paper wedding would be — there wasn't going to be any real ceremony for that, just signing papers to cover themselves legally when travelling outside of Britain, but she guessed they could have a dinner afterward or something? — and what their plans were in general, really. Not a surprise they had questions, she guessed, since it was big news...and she kind of got the impression everyone had been expecting Ceasaí would be moving on once Sailí didn't need to be looked after anymore, so.

When Síomha clarified that they'd be waiting until after the proper wedding ceremony (whenever that was going to be) before starting to prepare for children, just for the look of the thing (and also so she'd be able to drink at her own wedding), there were immediate questions about how that was going to work, exactly. Very nosey questions, over something that really wasn't their business. Ceasaí started jokingly saying something along the lines of very much in the usual fashion, I expect, but second-guessed herself in mid-sentence, and just told Lucius to piss off instead. Not that they should need to ask in the first place, Ceasaí was a metamorph — it was quite obvious when you thought about it.

It wouldn't even be the first time they'd done it. Not Síomha's favourite thing to do, but as long as the rest of Ceasaí still felt (and smelled) like herself, she didn't mind. It really wasn't a big deal, but it was also absolutely none of their fecking business.

Unsurprisingly, the gardens were extensive, Síomha didn't even know how far the lands surrounding Ravenhome extended out — this had probably been a village and farmland, long ago. Though the party would only be using a relatively small plot of the grounds. Straight out through a pair of oversized double doors, on the other side of an arcing brick track — the remains of a drive, Síomha guessed, dating to centuries ago when guests would reach Ravenhome by carriage — was a smooth ceramic path that led through a wall of bushes, pruned into a round, dense, solid shape, tall and thick enough that Síomha couldn't see past them. After a short walk the path opened up into a wide courtyard, the perimeter all around drawn by thick rose bushes, every now and then reaching up over the bushes an undersized apple tree, ranging maybe from only eight to twelve feet high. They were planted recently, but apparently they wouldn't get much bigger than that, more meant for decoration than harvest — though they would make fruit regardless, she could see little plump buds of growing apples dotted here and there through the branches. Intermittently throughout the courtyard, the ceramic of the flooring was interrupted to let a rose bush sprout in the middle of the party area, or various other flowers or whatever else, Síomha spotted some kind of berry, not sure what that was...

As she'd learned was common in these gardens meant to hold parties and stuff, there were water fixtures around — meant to keep the place relatively cool before unenclosed environmental wards had become at all practical, apparently. Instead of one big fountain or something, there were these long low troughs, rising to about waist-high, running along the four sides and criss-crossing the courtyard here and there, filled with flowing water. Every so often a sort of step-pyramid structure rose above the surface, water welling up from the top level to sprinkle down to the second, and the next and the next, a constant low pattering and burbling on the air through the whole courtyard.

Though it was difficult to hear now, with all the activity ongoing. There were multiple tables where food had been laid out, or was in the process of being laid out, crawling with workers making the finishing touches. It looked like they were actually making a few final things right here in the courtyard, enchanted griddles or bubbling pots on wheeled stands brought over right to where they were needed, which was a neat trick. Toward one corner of the space were a group of musicians — actually not that unusual to Síomha, but most of the music at events she'd been to before was done just for fun, or even guests who felt like it, paying professionals to come in and do it was still slightly odd to her...though she knew some of the big public festivals she'd been to would have had paid musicians there, but obviously that was a different thing.

Síomha had even heard Lovegoods perform before — they were a pretty common sight at big public festivals and the like, and would occasionally even volunteer for smaller parties thrown by people who couldn't afford to pay them. As she understood it, making enjoyable art was some kind of worship for them, so it was its own reward. Of course, the Lovegoods had to eat like anyone else, so Ceasaí would be paying them for today, but, Síomha would never have guessed that the nobility considered hiring Lovegood musicians to be a special, high-class thing to do, since they got around everywhere all the time. They were good at their jobs, she guessed, maybe that's all it was...

A man who seemed to be in charge — watching the rest of the staff work and giving orders, glancing back and forth between the courtyard and a noteboard he was carrying — spotted their group coming in and started their way, looking rather flustered. He hadn't expected them to show up yet, apparently — Síomha suspected he was worried his team's pay was about to be docked for being 'late'. Ceasaí ignored the apologies and just said it looked like they were right on track, don't let them get in the way. While he tried to figure out how to respond to his employer not being a complete terror to the help and completely blowing off his attempt to try to cool her down — Síomha had heard stories about how taking jobs for the rich bastards running this country tended to go — Narcissa asked some question about the arrangements at the tables. In place of, what, vases of flowers or whatever else you might expect, there were this little sculptures made out of coloured glass. Probably because Violet liked the look of that kind of thing, Síomha guessed they were pretty neat. The man blinked at her for a second before, presumably, realising he was talking to Narcissa Malfoy, and immediately jumped into salesman mode — probably hoping he'd be able to land another job straight after this one, or at least get a kickback for arranging more business for whoever had made those things, so.

Ceasaí was pointing out a few available spots across the courtyard Walter could set up at. Maybe that one right there — near where the musicians were fiddling about warming up and chattering, so he'd be able to clearly listen to the music as he worked, but also near the drinks table so he didn't have to walk far through the partygoers to get refills. Allison pointed out that being closer to the music meant it'd be more difficult for people to talk to him, which made Walter immediately perk up and start walking in that direction, leaving Sailí and Dora giggling behind him.

After another short moment standing around, Sailí asked if she could go say hi to the people setting up, and thank them and everything. The man in charge looked a little taken aback, and Síomha noticed Lucius cut Ceasaí a glance she didn't quite know how to read. Ceasaí herself hesitated, before she could say anything Síomha told Sailí she could go ahead — just don't get in the way, and avoid touching anything that looks hot. From what she'd heard, most of the staff would be used to not interacting with the people they were working for at all, being personally thanked by the future Lady Black (for all they knew) for helping set up her birthday party would at least be a noteworthy thing to happen. And it wouldn't be bad for Sailí's reputation with common people, for that rumour to get around — especially since the reveal of her real name wasn't so far away now. If it were anyone else, she would worry about her bothering them and just making their job harder than it needed to be, or saying something thoughtless and insulting, but Sailí was careful and a big damn sweetheart, it would be fine.

Oh, Sailí took Susan with her, the two girls walking off hand-in-hand. All right, then. She wouldn't touch anything for Seer reasons, and also meeting the young Lady Bones would be another thing they could tell people about after, that was fine.

Síomha assumed that at least part of the reason Sailí didn't want to stick around with the adults was because the conversation was boring — they were continuing on about the history of Ravenhome and the work on the gardens and what was being done with the outlying lands, which simply wasn't interesting to her at all. Perhaps mildly irritating that there was all this land that wasn't being used for anything, but getting herself worked up about that would just make people curious what was wrong, so. Not too long after the girls left, Síomha slipped away over to where Walter was setting up with Raymond.

Apparently Watler had brought more than just the single canvas and supplies for him to spend the party painting. He and Raymond had pulled out a few finished works from somewhere, setting them up on conjured— Oh, let her redo that one, the joints here were a little shaky. (Raymond's conjuration felt rather mediocre, Síomha wouldn't trust it to last through the party — apparently he agreed, since he asked her to replace Walter's stool for him.) Holding up one of the frames so she could vanish and re-conjure its stand, Síomha belatedly recognised it as Sailí's work. Walter had had her working on something to do with colours and shadows for what felt like a long time now, and getting things to look right, in the proportions and how they were laid out and the like?

Síomha didn't know what, exactly, if she was being honest. Sometimes Sailí would talk to her about her lessons, or would babble on about things the handful of times they'd visited museums when travelling, but she wasn't an art person — most of the time, it went right over her head. Apparently, getting people to look close enough to right that they didn't come out a little disturbingly wrong was very difficult, so Walter was having her build up other foundational skills before working up to anything involving people. There was a trick to layering colours to get them to look natural, Síomha didn't understand it, but.

Sailí was getting quite good at this point, if hardly professional quality yet. There were a couple landscapes, one of them a low angle over Rome in the evening, painted from the rooftop dining room of their hotel when they were there just recently — a little girl painting the city, especially so well, had drawn attention from the other guests there, but not bad attention. (Well, Sailí hadn't gotten any bad attention, but she and Ceasaí sort of had, sometimes she forgot muggles could be worse about that.) Síomha recognised the Basilica in the near distance, Ceasaí had wanted a hotel near the Vatican so Sailí could visit the museums there as often as she liked for the duration of the tournament, the painting detailed enough she could easily tell what it was supposed to be. The other one Síomha didn't know where it was, low rolling hills somewhere, grass turning almost orangeish on the sunny side. Maybe not quite realistic, but very pretty. And there were a couple smaller things, one a proper painting but another rougher sketch done in pastels, the latter of an ancient-looking tower on a hill somewhere, the former a glass vase of flowers and a bowl filled with loose beads on a parchment-strewn desk, the glass almost seeming to glow in places in the sunlight, white and gold and orange — Síomha hadn't seen this one yet, that looked really good, actually...

She'd met Walter a couple times before, but they'd never talked much. But this time, while he was setting up, he actually volunteered information about how Sailí was doing — maybe because he knew about the (technically still informal) engagement, so it was her business now? Whatever. They'd need to cut their lessons while Sailí was away at Hogwarts, but Walter would be giving her a whole schedule of practice to do, and would be keeping up with her by letter when they couldn't meet in person. She was picking up the basic stuff quicker than he'd honestly expected — he grabbed the painting of Rome, pointing out something about it that Síomha didn't really follow — and would be ready to move on to life study as early as next summer, starting with animals and working up to people. (Part of the reason he was spending so long on other topics before moving on to people, it turned out, was because that normally involved sketching volunteers, fully in the nude, to properly familiarise yourself with human anatomy well enough to make anything close to lifelike, and he wanted to wait until Sailí was somewhat older and more likely to be mature about it. Okay, then.) A year or two after that, and she should be ready to start adding animation — he'd be shocked if she didn't finish a masterwork before the age of twenty. Fifteen wouldn't be out of the question, even, she really was very talented.

Yes, well, Síomha could see that. The colours were a bit exaggerated, and the sunlight on the glass here didn't look quite real, exactly, but it was pretty. Walter admitted that Sailí tended to focus on the sharpest, most colourful parts of things, making them clear and vibrant and eye-drawing, the other details turning a little muddy by comparison — which wasn't bad, some things were up to personal style.

Apparently part of the reason Walter had brought some of her work was, yes, it was her party, but also to advertise his abilities as a teacher. He did have at least one apprentice who'd finished and moved on since he'd taken on Sailí, so, fair enough.

Síomha hung around talking to Walter and Raymond for some minutes, long enough that the workers were beginning to wrap up and clear away. Walter was setting out his supplies, tipping out dabs of paint onto a palette enchanted to hover at his elbow, mixing a few of them into smearing gradients, when Ceasaí came to find her, appearing at her side. It was almost time for guests to start showing up.

In most situations, it would be appropriate for the host to meet guests wherever they were arriving — in this case, the hearths in the reception hall — but the etiquette in garden parties like this was often a little different. Supposedly garlands had been set up in the reception hall since they'd been in there, which would mark the direction they were supposed to go — the guests would come as far as the opening of the courtyard past the row of bushes, where they would be met by Ceasaí, Sailí, and Síomha.

She was a little surprised Ceasaí wanted her here for this, honestly. She'd thought... Well, she didn't know what she'd thought, honestly. That she was not comfortable with this sort of formal, high society stuff, and would probably just embarrass herself (and Ceasaí by extension)? She was here at the party, yes, but, she guessed she just hadn't expected...

Well, to be treated like part of the family, she guessed — obviously it would be perfectly normal for the host to greet guests along with their spouse, but... It was unexpected, and Síomha was a little nervous about messing it up, but it was nice anyway.

While they waited, Sailí— Violet, she should try to remember to call her Violet today, and avoid accidentally slipping into Gaelic. Anyway, she went on a little bit about the workers she'd just been talking to, though it sounded like it hadn't gone quite smoothly — some of them only spoke Cambrian, and didn't know enough English or Gaelic to really communicate much. One of them gave her a super fresh little cheese fritter thing though, they were nice! Ceasaí shot Síomha a glance, smilingly rolled her eyes.

(She'd guess neither of them were surprised that Violet had managed to get treats out of perfect strangers after only a couple minutes.)

They stood there talking for five, ten minutes or so — the workers completely cleared out, the courtyard empty save for the few people who'd come early — before the guests started arriving. They started in a trickle, and then quickly built to a flood, everyone pausing to be properly welcomed by the hosts making a choke point at the entrance to the courtyard, a blob of people waiting their turn growing and shrinking as some got through and more showed up. Way too many names and faces, fine clothes in different styles (but generally light and cool, done in vibrant colours, summer-themed), she was introduced to one person and another and another, she definitely forgot them all by the time the person three places back in the line was saying hello, no way she could remember all of this...

She'd known the guest list was stupidly long, of course. Since she'd gotten Violet away from her muggle relatives, Ceasaí had been keeping her somewhat isolated from their 'peers'. Originally it was to just give her time to recover, but then some of the difficulties Violet had had started getting more obvious — Ceasaí was worried high society things might be a bit much of a high-pressure environment for her, and of course they could be gossipy and petty and awful. She had exposed Violet to the nobility, in small doses — primarily just her future classmates at Hogwarts, and an occasional party Narcissa invited them to — but they'd stayed away from the big gatherings, or doing anything to officially introduce her to their isolated little world.

That's basically what this party was supposed to do, Síomha understood: Ceasaí had sent an invitation to, basically, all the noble families, to 'properly' introduce Violet before she just showed up at Hogwarts. There were a few who hadn't gotten invitations, who had some history with the Blacks or Ceasaí specifically she didn't want to deal with. But, most of the noble families would be sending a couple people, plus a few extras. Cedrella Weasley, Ceasaí's first cousin, and her husband had been invited. A couple families whose children would be Violet's classmates, but weren't nobility — the Turpins, the Patils, Mirabella Zabini. (The same Mirabella Zabini who was the Director of Education, turned out.) The Minister and his family would be here, though he was actually coming with the Carmichaels, who he was associated with somehow? And the actual Albus Dumbledore would be coming, of course, couldn't forget about him.

(The fact that Ceasaí and Albus Dumbledore were old friends had never stopped feeling weird every time she was reminded of it..)

And that was a lot of people, yes — once everyone arrived, there'd probably be a couple hundred in the courtyard — but it wasn't just that. Síomha could deal with a large number of people. What made her nervous, unreasonably self-conscious, was that they were important people.

Her family were poor — no use softening it, they simply were. They could only afford to send a couple of them to school every once in a while, Síomha was just lucky she'd showed enough promise early enough to be picked. And it wasn't until she started at the Academy that she started to get a sense of just how poor her family was. They were peasant farmers, yes, but everyone else around them were also peasant farmers — maybe there would be some more well-off people in craft trades and the like at church or that she might bump into at some festival or sanctuary or anything, but she never really thought about it. But peasants were rare at the Academy, the students mostly the children of tradespeople and officials and academics, the owners, even the children of the nobility who didn't get a spot at Hogwarts. She'd been poor compared to her classmates — and obviously so, her clothes and her supplies, her manners and even her accent — it'd been impossible to miss, even at her age.

There had been noble children in her year at the Academy, but she'd hardly spoken to them. Children could be cliquish — they kept to their own. She hadn't been lying, when she'd told Ceasaí she was the first person from the nobility she'd ever really known. They mostly didn't give people like her the time of day. She'd started bumping into them more in the latter days of her Mastery study, and now that she'd been properly accepted into the guild and all — the nobility tended to be overrepresented in the academic guilds, for obvious reasons — but those conversations were only ever about alchemy, or occasionally guild business.

She did not belong here, this was very far outside of her comfort zone. She didn't know what she was supposed to do with herself. Just trying to be polite seemed like a good start, but she must be doing something wrong, they kept giving her looks...

Of course, the looks might be because Ceasaí introduce Síomha as her fiancée, every time.

That was probably the bigger reason that meeting all these important people was making her nervous. She was painfully aware, telling one aristocrat after another that they would be getting married, that she did not belong here. That was fine enough when she was just some random peasant, Síomha was aware it wasn't unusual for someone of Ceasaí's class to keep a lover around. But marrying one was different — Síomha would reflect on Ceasaí now, in their eyes.

Síomha did not want to mess it up. The thought itching at the back of her mind, making her twitchy, that she might embarrass Ceasaí badly enough in front of her 'peers' that she'd change her mind, which she knew was paranoid, she was fully aware that Ceasaí didn't care much for the rest of the nobility anyway, barely tolerated them most of the time (and occasionally beat the piss out of one who'd annoyed her in an informal duel), but she still couldn't help the thought, she didn't belong here, she was going to...

It was a bit embarrassing, she felt annoyingly self-conscious, trying to act like she wasn't so far out of her comfort zone (like she didn't belong here) — and like she couldn't feel the warmth on her own face. But it was also intensely gratifying.

Ceasaí was telling people.

Sometimes she wondered. They'd been seeing each other for a while, now and then, only becoming more regular some months after she took in Sailí, and then brought along with them travelling... She was aware that the reason Ceasaí had started asking her over more often was because she was Sailí's favourite — Ceasaí had had a few lovers back then (a couple of whom had even been invited to this party), but Sailí liked Síomha best. This wasn't a secret or anything, Ceasaí had told her as much, thought Síomha would think it was cute. Which it was, of course, Síomha had been rather flattered (Sailí was just so precious sometimes), but thinking back on it, she...

Sometimes she wondered — if Sailí hadn't told Ceasaí that Síomha was her favourite, would any of this have happened? Would they have ended up growing closer regardless, would they be making plans to marry right now?

Síomha doubted it.

And, sometimes, in her less confident moments, she wondered if that was still all this was, if Ceasaí were just keeping Síomha around because Sailí wanted her here. She knew that was ridiculous, rationally, but, it was hard sometimes...

It'd been months now, and, there'd been a long time there where nothing had really happened. Sure, Síomha had agreed to keep it quiet for a time — it was reasonable to wait to make sure the legal side would work out before actually doing anything. And with her father being a little bit difficult about it, playing it safe, yes, that'd been as much her idea as Ceasaí's. But, sometimes, she couldn't help but feel like keeping it secret was convenient for Ceasaí. That, when it came down to it, she didn't have any intention of telling anyone at all, because she had no intention of doing it, in the end. It was a uselessly paranoid thought, she irritated herself every time it came up, but she couldn't help it.

Lady Black marrying some random peasant — and another woman, at that — would be something of a scandal, Síomha knew that. Maybe, when it came down to it, she'd prefer to save herself the embarrassment.

(Síomha didn't belong here, after all.)

But she was telling people, now.

She was telling everyone.

That made it feel real, somehow, in a way talking to her family about it hadn't. After all, Síomha's family were just peasants — there wouldn't be any consequences if Ceasaí backed out, not for her. But telling the entirety of the aristocracy, as they were doing now — they weren't personally telling literally every member of every noble family, but the news would spread from here, so it was a minor difference — meant Ceasaí was committed now, at least socially, in a way she hadn't been before. And they hadn't discussed this ahead of time, she'd chosen to commit herself, on her own.

As nervous and uncomfortable and embarrassingly observed as she felt at the moment, meeting all these important people, she was also almost deliriously happy. It was a little difficult, through all the polite hellos and silly little gossip with one person after another after another, to not be just a bit smug about it.

The introductions lasted seemingly forever, there were far too many people coming to this thing. It didn't take very long before Sail– Violet was getting visibly bored, shifting on her feet and pouting up at each new person approaching them. Eventually, Ceasaí told her she could go play instead — worried that Violet being obviously bored and impatient would make a bad first impression, Síomha thought. Violet looked up at them, silently double-checking that she had permission, before skipping away into the courtyard and leaving them behind.

Violet not being here with them was slightly awkward, since Ceasaí now had to tell people that she was inside — bits of rainbow colours in her hair, couldn't miss her — and the lack of the distraction also meant people were paying rather more attention to Síomha, and making more comments and asking more questions about the engagement. Also, some people had brought gifts with them, and Violet wasn't here to directly hand them to. She'd learned over the last several years that, at least in Ceasaí's generation, the aristocracy didn't expect birthday gifts — sometimes from the parents specifically to a small child, but even that was normally only on certain milestone years. Apparently that was changing somewhat in younger generations, and Ceasaí had made a point of getting Violet gifts each year because she was more familiar with the muggle tradition, but she clearly hadn't anticipated anyone would bring anything. The first time someone had something, she'd looked a bit taken aback, had needed to conjure a table to set them down on. Ceasaí had to make sure the gifter's name was on it somewhere, promise she'd get it to Violet and make sure she knew who it was from, a whole script added on to the pleasantries...

Most of them were concealed in some way, but not usually enough to hide what they were — books, maybe some basic (but overly nice) school supplies and accessories and the like. A few of the people who knew anything about Violet, either through children who went to school with her or indirectly somehow, had brought puzzles of some kind, which was good thinking, she'd appreciate that. Zabini had brought an absolutely huge muggle puzzle, thousands of pieces. According to the box, the finished project would be nearly two metres to a side, which was ridiculous. She'd arrived earlier, so Violet had still been here, she'd oohed over the picture on the box — a few women in the middle of weaving, looked like? — immediately identified it as a Baroque painting by someone, she didn't know this one off the top of her head. (Better than Síomha would do, she didn't even know what she meant by "Baroque" exactly.)

Looking at some of them, Síomha got the impression that the gifters were really trying to bribe Ceasaí indirectly by getting nice things for her daughter, but she guessed that made sense. The Blacks were obscenely wealthy, owned enough land in particular to make trouble for people who annoyed them, and Ceasaí was a very dangerous duellist in her own right — wanting to make a good impression was perfectly reasonable.

...That might be a fair part of why nobody was hardly saying anything about Síomha, at least not directly. If they were just being polite about them marrying to not annoy Lady Black, would keep whatever snide, condescending, insulting comments they were thinking to themselves for that reason and that reason alone, Síomha guessed she'd take it.

Eventually, the endless queue of well-dressed guests dried up. Ceasaí must have been keeping count in her head, she commented that they were still missing a few — they must have ignored the invitation as a snub. Shrugging that off, Ceasaí lead Síomha back into the courtyard proper, now far more full and simmering with activity, light bouncy cheerful music filling the air, dozens and dozens and dozens of people standing around chatting...

Síomha stuck with Ceasaí for a while, but there was only so much blandly smiling and trying not to feel terribly out of place that she could stand. It felt like the conversations went far over her head, talking about things and people that she'd sometimes at least heard of, but definitely couldn't follow along with. Also, she suspected there were a few subtle, catty insults now and then — she didn't know if it was her English failing her, like not getting a pun or something, or if she just didn't have the cultural background necessary, because most of the time she didn't get what they were saying, just that there was something she was missing. She might not have noticed they were supposed to be insults at all if the low, steely tone on Ceasaí's voice didn't tip her off, polite smile sometimes turning fake and sharp, arm sometimes tightening around Síomha's.

...

She didn't like that some catty aristocrats were insulting her to her face, but it was sweet that Ceasaí's first reaction was to get defensive, and angry on her behalf. But she'd had quite enough of this, thanks — she was going to go check on Violet.

From across the courtyard, she'd noticed that (unsurprisingly) Violet was playing table tennis with some of the other children. They'd talked about a few games and stuff they could have at the party, since Síomha assumed the children would get terribly bored just sitting around while the adults gossipped — they might be children of the aristocracy, but they were still children — came up with some ideas with Violet and filtered them through Ceasaí. She'd had to explain what table tennis was (which was fair enough, Síomha was barely familiar with it herself), but she'd agreed this one was fine — in fact, she thought it was funny to have them playing a very muggle game at the party, especially since few of them were likely to recognise it as a muggle thing. The tables had been easy enough to come up with — Ceasaí had just let them have a couple spare tables, Síomha transfiguring them into the proper shape, a little lower than a normal one to be easier for children to use, charmed the surface green, and then carved a couple runes into the underside to ground the spells — and they bought some muggle-made rackets that would work just fine. The rubber was a bit odd by magical standards, if not entirely alien, but the balls were a bigger problem.

See, the prank worked best if nobody realised it was a muggle thing — rubber at least existed in the magical world, if rare in Britain, but table tennis balls were plastic. It was a natural plastic, sure — her understanding was that it was made with the same fibres that could be pressed into paper, treated with aqua fortis and vitriol and then mixed with camphor — but it was still an odd-seeming material to mages. After a couple afternoons of playing around with it, Síomha managed to craft an enamelled ceramic shell packed with a variation of Hirschel tensor fabric, which had a similar weight, size, and bounce to normal table tennis balls, but wouldn't seem too peculiar to mages. She might not have put that much effort into something so frivolous, but Violet really seemed to enjoy watching the process of forming the balls out of the materials, so Síomha had decided she might as well entertain her.

Ceasaí had joked that she should write up a paper about the balls she'd just invented, but Síomha doubted anyone would even publish it — nothing she'd done was actually original alchemy work, it'd just taken a bit of fiddling to figure out how to put together known materials in a way that led to the proper result. In that case, Ceasaí said that they should patent it, and sell table tennis sets to purebloods, and simply not tell them that they're a muggle game. And sure, Síomha didn't see why they couldn't do that. She wouldn't know how to go about the paperwork, though...also, producing them in volume for sale would be difficult, and how did people get things into shops, anyway?

(Síomha was pretty sure Ceasaí was going to figure out the paperwork part and get back to her on it. No idea why she found the idea so funny, but she didn't really mind the idea of introducing table tennis to muggle Britain, so.)

There wasn't endless available space in the courtyard, so they'd only been able to spare enough room to put in two tables. Not all, but most of the families coming had brought children, and a fair number of them were around Violet's age, or teenagers who found the unfamiliar game interesting enough to tolerate the younger children — certainly more than the eight spots available at the tables. There was a small crowd around the marked-off play area, children and teenagers and a few curious adults. A few of them had spare rackets, practising juggling extra balls or bouncing them back and forth, sometimes dropping to bounce against the tile with a high pak sound. (The sound was even pretty close to the muggle balls, though there was a little bit more of a ring to it.) There were two games going on, four people at each table, a mix of teenagers and younger children — as unfamiliar as they were, a lot of the hits went off-course, or their swings would miss, but sometimes they would get a play going for some seconds, the ball whipping back and forth surprisingly fast, as table tennis could be, some of the watchers oohing or gasping...

Violet was, of course, a natural at table tennis. In the few practice games the three of them had played, she'd consistently won against both Síomha and Ceasaí, once even playing against her two on one. She'd pouted at them during that game, told them it wasn't fun if they let her win, but they hadn't been — the light super bouncy ball and the weird little racket were awkward to get used to, getting the ball to go where she wanted was shockingly difficult. (The few times she'd played around with table tennis before she'd been out with friends at muggle pubs, and not drinking at the time barely made it any easier.) It wasn't a big surprise that Violet was so good at it, given how quickly she'd picked up iomáint and quidditch, she was unexpectedly good at hitting balls with sticks.

So it wasn't any shock that Violet was apparently winning. When Síomha showed up, one of the people she was playing against was just quitting — and when Violet noticed her, waving and grinning, the remaining boy opposite her practically begged Síomha to join his team. Well okay, but if he's assuming she's good at this just because she made the balls, he was going to be unpleasantly disappointed...

Síomha spent most of the rest of the party playing with the children, who were at least less stuck-up and condescending than the adults. She actually ended up being pretty popular here, since Violet credited her with inventing the game — most of them thought that it was really interesting, if difficult. There were a few who she thought already knew what table tennis was, but they were playing along with the joke, occasionally smirking a little at the ignorance of the other children.

She hadn't known very many before today, but in her experience the children of the nobility weren't really any different from the ones she knew from home. Their clothes were overly expensive, yes, and most of them had obvious aristocratic accents, but they were just kids. Much easier to get along with than their parents, honestly.

Case in point, after spending some time playing table tennis some of the children decided they wanted to go get some lunch, so Síomha went with them, in case anybody needed help sorting things out or carrying them back. While she was helping a little boy — maybe eight or nine, didn't remember who he belonged to — get some cider into a cup (charming it so it didn't spill), she was positive she overheard a nearby lady make a comment about Ceasaí marrying the nursemaid. Síomha glanced that way for a blink, but forced herself to ignore it, focussed on what she was doing.

She'd heard some upper-class people considered taking care of their own children to be work for servants, but she honestly hadn't believed that was real until right this second. That was just...

Síomha did not belong here, no, but suddenly she was having a hard time thinking that was a bad thing.

She was playing cards with a collection of younger children — the older ones were mostly more interested in the table tennis — when parents started dipping by to collect them. Glancing up at the sky, she guessed it was getting into the afternoon. Though it wasn't just coming by for their children, they'd also stop to wish Violet a happy birthday — every time, Violet just looked a little bemused by the interruption, Síomha hiding her smile behind her cards. The games corner of the party emptied at a trickle, children leaving with their families in ones and twos.

Until, finally, a couple came by to retrieve the boy Violet was playing with. She pouted, but it seemed like she said goodbye politely enough, and they left — leaving Violet and Susan and Síomha alone in the corner.

Though not entirely alone in the courtyard — of course the Tonkses and the Marlows and the Malfoys were still here, along with Cedrella Weasley and her husband, and Dumbledore with a colourful little old man by the name of Daedalus Diggle. (Síomha remembered Diggle had been put in charge of managing the Potters' properties, but they'd never met before.) The Minister was still here too, along with his wife and teenage daughter — she hadn't come over here at all, spending the whole party mingling with the adults — Fudge huddled up talking with Ceasaí, Dumbledore, and Lucius, the women instead chatting with the Tonkses, Narcissa and Draco, and the Weasleys.

Watching the group, Síomha frowned to herself. Andromeda and Narcissa seemed to be getting on...decently well. She'd been told they'd hardly even spoken for decades...

"Do you think anyone will mind if I sneak off to take a nap?" Susan asked, eyeing the remaining guests.

"I think the party is about done. Did you have a hard time of it? You did look a little strained now and then."

The poor girl grimaced. "It was so noisy here. Not noise noisy, you know what I mean. And people kept nudging me."

Yes, that would do it. "Then go sneak off, girl. If anyone asks where you went off to I'll make your excuses."

"Thanks, Síomha." A little slow and stiff, tired, Susan stood up, went by Violet at the tennis tables for a quick hug, before slipping out of the courtyard.

She was up not far behind Susan, coming to lean against one of the tables near Sailí. "Hey lovely. Have fun?"

Sailí shrugged. "It was okay." She was playing around with one of the balls — balancing it on top of the racket, then flipping around and whapping it against the tile, catching it with a hand off the bounce, and then tossing it up to catch it on the back of the racket again, bouncing a couple times before it settled. "T-t-t-tie-t-t—" She frowned, whapped the ball against the tile again, caught it. "The g-games were fun! And people wer-weren't so mean. And th– and, and, there are new p-puzzles!"

"There are so. That one Zabini brought is huge, do you think you'll even be able to finish it before you leave for Hogwarts?"

The smile on Sailí's face dimmed a little. "...Oh. No, maybe not. There are things g-g-going on, we'll be busy. You're g-g-g-getting m-married!"

Smirking down at the silly girl, Síomha drawled, "Only on paper — it doesn't count until someone's in a pretty dress and a priest says so."

Instead of saying anything to that, Sailí just bounced her ball again, then stuck out her tongue at Síomha.

She asked Sailí if she wanted to go say hello to anyone who was still around, but wasn't surprised when she said she'd rather just stay here. So Síomha grabbed a racket and one of the balls, and started messing around bouncing it against the tile with Sailí. It was a bit easier actually aiming at the thing when she could control exactly where the ball was going, without the unpredictability of someone else hitting it toward her, but it still sometimes bounced at funny angles she didn't see coming. They'd pass a ball back and forth now and then, but that Síomha was even worse at — though it was easier when she could just cheat and grab it with her free hand if she wasn't confident of hitting it right...

Guests continued trickling away while they were playing around, before too long Ceasaí came up to them. "There you two are, standing around by yourselves over here."

"I think Sailí here may have had enough socialising for the day already."

"Ah," Ceasaí breathed, nodding. "I hope you talked to some of the guests, at least, and didn't just bounce balls around the whole time."

Sailí pouted, a little bit of a whine to her voice, "I c-c-can do both." Frowning to herself, she whapped the ball against the ground, caught it, whapped it down, caught it again. "I, I, I think– It's easier w-when I have something to do. You know?"

"That's okay, darling, I'm just worried people might think you're being rude on purpose and annoy me about it later."

"I was b-b-being nice. I can do both."

"All right, good." Ceasaí waited for a second, Sailí bouncing the ball again, before she said, "So, we've been invited to dinner with Albus, the Malfoys, and the Fudges." Sailí groaned, her shoulders sagging. "You don't have to come if you don't want — I don't think the restaurant Lucius has in mind is particularly child-friendly anyway."

"Then no, please. Um, can me and Draco g-g-go flying at his, at his place instead?"

Smirking, Síomha said, "I didn't think you liked Draco."

Sailí shrugged. "I don't, he's mean, but, but, but, he has flying stuff."

"Mercenary, I like it," Ceasaí said, grinning — and then she gave Sailí a slow, exaggerated wink, making the silly girl giggle. "Go ask Narcissa, if she's okay with it I am. No bludgers without adult supervision."

"Okay, I'll geh-go ask." Sailí set her racket and the ball down on the table, and skipped off to do that right away.

Once the silly girl was off, Ceasaí said, "Seems like the table tennis was popular today."

"So it was." Honestly, she was thinking about seeing if she could sell a few of them — it'd be better if she could pay for as many of her things for the wedding as possible, just for the look of the thing. (It wasn't as though her family would be able to contribute much, so.) She didn't know a damn thing about business, though. "How was your end of the party?"

Ceasaí shrugged. "All right, I think." She shuffled over to stand leaning against the table next to Síomha, bonking her with her hip a little. Síomha set the racket and the ball aside, Ceasaí snagged her hand, leaning close. "There were a few tense moments — some of the people who showed up really don't like each other — but nobody tried to kill anyone, so it could have been worse. The feeling I have is that people think Violet is odd, but she's so sweet and adorable, I think it'll be fine. And the engagement isn't popular, but they can go fuck themselves if they don't like it."

Something about the hard, cold, caustic tone on Ceasaí's voice made Síomha smile. "Yeah, I got that feeling too. I left you alone to go off with the children because I was tired of being politely insulted to my face." Ceasaí ground out something in a low snarl, but it was in Cambrian, she didn't catch it. "By the way, I was wondering, is it normal for aristocrats to hire nurses and nannies and the like to take care of their children for them?"

Ceasaí turned to frown up at Síomha. "I...guess it depends? Nursing, no, not in the Dark — there are superstitions about that. Babies are supposed to be nursed by their mother, or a sister or cousin, if she can't for whatever reason. I actually helped my mother with Dorea, a little."

"...Really?" She guessed that wasn't really that weird, when she thought about it? Ceasaí was...fifteen years older than her youngest sibling, something like that, and she was a metamorph...

Shrugging a little, Ceasaí said, "Sure, when I happened to be home. Mother was having a little trouble keeping up with Dorea, these things happen sometimes. But anyway, I've heard the Light get wetnurses sometimes, but I honestly don't know how common that is. For families that have elves, it's normal for them to be charged with minding the children — families who don't will sometimes hire staff for it — and often they'll be spending a lot of their time with tutors and whatever else. So, sometimes I guess, but it really depends. Why are you asking?"

"We're not going to be hiring people for that." It was at least as much a question as it was a statement — family helping each other out was obviously perfectly normal, but hiring complete strangers to raise your children for you struck her as extremely weird.

Thankfully, Ceasaí just looked confused. "...I wasn't planning on it? I didn't hire anyone when I took in Violet either, did I?" She had had people to help, but no, that was true. "It's not like either of us need to work, and if I need to hire someone to help out, I'd rather have it be to manage House business for me. If I had to pick one." A bit of a shaky smile pulling at her lips, "I do find this whole adventure rather intimidating, but, there's no point in doing it if I'm not doing it, you know."

Síomha gave her hand a squeeze. "You'll do fine. Look at Sailí."

"Yes, well, that's Sailí — colourful little ball of sunshine, that one."

"Mm." She hesitated for a second, before saying, "When we do, prepare for some insults from your peers, then. I'm sure I overheard someone saying you were marrying the nursemaid."

Ceasaí forced out a harsh sigh through her teeth. She went a little tense, rigid — noticeable by her hand tightening on Síomha's, just a bit — glaring sightlessly across the courtyard. After muttering something in Cambrian, she switched back to English to say, "I'm sorry. I knew some of them might be bastards about it, but."

"It's not your fault, what those stuck-up gossipy shrews say."

"Well, no, but I did invite them, and—"

Síomha saw where this was going, cut her off with a nudge of her elbow in Ceasaí's side. "It's all right. I'm going to have to do a lot more formal events like this, aren't I? If I'm going to be Lady Black and all."

"...Yeah," Ceasaí grumbled, grimacing. "We will have to start showing up, since the family isn't dying out. Unfortunately. I didn't think about—"

Before she could say something about not thinking of her 'peers' being bastards when she'd asked Síomha to marry her, Síomha said (in Gaelic), "You don't need to keep apologising, Ceasaí. I'm a big girl, I can handle it."

"I know, I just—" She sighed, her head tipping back for a second. "I just wish things were different sometimes, that's all. Anyway, I can make our excuses to Lucy and Cornelius, if you're not up to it."

"It's all right, I can go." Besides, she had met the Minister earlier, briefly, and he'd seemed perfectly polite — curious about how they were managing to get married in a country they legally couldn't, but otherwise fine. His wife had a made a little face, but. She had a feeling the Minister was going to be in politician mode, and Lucius wouldn't want to annoy Narcissa by offending her aunt, so it should be fine. "No matter how intimidating I find it to be in a room with the Minister of Magic and the actual Chief Warlock. Peasants don't tend to meet important people, you know."

Ceasaí turned to smirk up at her. "It's okay, love, I'll protect you from the scary politicians." Síomha rolled her eyes, trying to look annoyed, but she could feel the traitorous smile pulling at her face. Tipping up onto her toes, Ceasaí gave her a soft, sweet kiss — just for a second or two, enough to notice the rosemary and wine on her breath. "Come on, let's go."

Her shoes clacked against the tile as she dropped back down, and Ceasaí turned to start off, aiming for where Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, the Minister of Magic, and the Albus Dumbledore were standing and chatting. Their fingers loosely intertwined, Síomha stuck close to her, matching her pace alongside.

(She belonged here, at least. That was good enough for now.)

---

Bllluuuuuhhhhhh. Hated writing this one too. Still feel like it's bad, but oh well.

Hopefully the next scene won't be so slow and painful to get through...