welcome to chimera!

[Zamira Gulch]

The evening, apparently, was already off with a bang. Having been minding her own business at the dinner table, sat between two young men who proved to be singularly boring and completely unworthy of her time, Zamira had been gratified to see the fight (if you could call it that) break out between her housemates, Violet Zeller and that new prefect, Wood. Her notepad unsheathed beneath the table, she had very slyly placed down her knife and fork, taking the smallest notes in the best shorthand she could manage and being particularly pleased when she noticed that things only seemed to be esculating. She was, after all, not a particularly nice person; while she may have loathed physical violence, that wasn't to say it didn't make a good story for the newspaper - and, after the incident in the Astronomy tower, she was itching for a reason to go after Henrietta.

She had been disappointed, then, when Slughorn had attempted to defuse the situation by making them all leave the table, and even less pleased to see Rosier (spoilsport) break things up before they could advance into anything more newsworthy. With a faint sigh and a definite air of disappointment she closed her notebook after drying off the ink, tucking both her quill and the notes back inside her dress robes and rising. The robes themselves were not wonderfully flattering - black in colour with the occasional silver trim, they would perhaps have suited someone who was not already so dour. Instead, they picked out the boniness of her frame, the lack of anything that could be considered feminine, and drained her already pale face of colour.

Truthfully, though, Zamira did not mind. She very rarely spared a thought for how attractive she was, not being prone to vanity by nature and having never really paid much attention to her mother's lessons on beauty. The most she'd conceded to in the way of effort today was that she'd piled and pinned her usually straight black hair onto the top of her head and applied perhaps a little makeup around her eyes and cheeks. As always, she failed both in looking ugly and in looking anything close to beautiful - her strong features and poor choice of dress simply succeeded in making her look different.

Meandering to a corner close to a window, Gulch didn't bother to seek any of her friends out - she suspected they'd all be in this same corner soon enough, half itching for cigarettes and the other half itching to discuss what they'd already seen. Her fingers felt twitchy for a reason she knew she couldn't abate for at least an hour, and so she distracted herself by pulling her quill and notebook out of her robes again, scrawling some bored notes on what people were wearing should Betty want to write a fashion column but forget to take her own. She had not, despite the extra passes provided, brought anyone with her. Those she would have considered bringing were already in attendance and, in any case, she had no romantic interest to be inviting along.

[Betty Braithwaite]

"Zamira!"

The jangle of bangles preempted the greeting, and in swept a smiling Betty Braithwaite, filled drink in one hand and stylized purse in another. She was similarly armed with a notepad and pen, though these were presently tucked beneath her elbow for safekeeping as she sipped from her glass.

"How are you, Drac? You look so bleak in that," she added offhandedly, nodding toward the colorless robe. There was no real judgment in the comment, however - rather the tone of a familiar colleague remarking fondly on some tradition. "Though," she continued, leaning in closer conspiratorially, "not half so bleak as that Quirrell girl. Did you see that outfit? Absolutely hideous. Those sleeves drooped so much that she looked like an old, wrinkled little bat. And did you catch the dip of Burke's neckline? If I saw any more décolletage, I'd mistake it for a canyon."

She smiled spitefully, twisting around to lean against the wall - perhaps an excuse to command a better view of the room. Setting down her drink on the ledge of the window, she pulled out her notepad and set pen to paper again. "What do you think of that, Zam? 'Bat overlooks canyon - Quirrell droops, Burke heaves, and other scandals.' Perhaps the next fashion column title? I could throw in a sentence about Bole's collar too, he looks like a vicar. Oh, and Zeller's skirt was ridiculously lowcut - such low class."

Betty herself was dressed unmistakably in the latest trends; besides journalism and gossip, her other interest was fashion. Her hair was also fixed up carefully, better to show her dangling earrings. These, along with her necklace, high heels, and makeup indicated she put in a good deal of effort at appearing presentable, though this was nothing out of the ordinary.

"But anyway, what juicy things do you have? Did you catch that argument in the far end of the table? Delectable."

[Zamira Gulch]

Though to anyone else the start to the conversation might have been perceived as more offensive than friendly, Zamira was not just any person: the corners of her lips turned up into a faint, sardonic grin.
"And you look as matching as always," she replied, mildly, casting an appraising eye over the other woman and feeling satisfied with the continuation of tradition. Any other friends might have been offended; she knew for a fact that they both knew better than that. Besides, she hadn't taken the pen name of Dracula for nothing.

Briefly letting her eyes meander away from her company to twitch down a few notes on some boy leaned across an already inebriated girl (the two were tucked away in a "subtle" corner), she glanced back only for a second before searching out the individuals Betty had mentioned. Locating one - the Quirrell girl - she gave a dry chuckle and raised an eyebrow. "Dear, dear," she murmured, half under her breath, as was her usual fashion, smirk fixed firmly in place. "I wonder from which rag shop the poor girl fetched that." Sketching a quick and crude drawing of the outfit, lest it not burn itself upon her retinas, she returned to people watching. Immediately rewarded with Burke's cleavage, she raised both eyebrows this time.

Promptly turning away and taking a glass from the hand of a passing second-year (she offered him a wink as he turned to complain; he blushed and stumbled away), she eyed Betty with a look halfway towards outrage. "You weren't joking," she commented, bleakly. "It's enough to make one question the values of common decency, isn't it?" Sipping her illicitly procured drink and propping her quill and notepad on the side, she cupped her elbow loosely in her free hand and offered her partner in crime a slightly wolfish smile.

"Yes, I think so. Bole'd over by an over-Zellerous hemline, perhaps. I'm sure you'll think of something." Swallowing another mouthful or two of wine, she returned to people-watching, then glanced back in an amused sort of fashion and rolled her eyes. "Of course. Such clumsy people at the table today, honestly. I thought it was going to evolve into a full-blown fight. Pity Rosier had to stop it."

[Betty Braithwaite]

A sharp smile curved Betty's lips as Zamira picked up the disdainful commentary, losing neither its spite not its fresh mirth. There was always something delicious about negative gossip, and there were only a few who were as good of a sport at it as her present companion. She too glanced at each of the subjects as they were referenced, even sparing Quirrel an innocent wave when the girl happened to look in her direction.

At the speculative headline, however, she laughed outright, as fondly as though the other had made a very pleasant joke. "Oh Zamira, that's delicious," she said, jotting it down not a second after. "I can see it printed now, a beautiful title."

Her pen continued to move, ostensibly noting other things in the room if her attentive gaze was any indication. "Ah yes, such a pity. If only Rosier had stepped back and allowed the magic to happen, we might have quite the sensation now. Perhaps a heavily injured Gryffindor or two, followed by a larger fight on her behalf - I can't imagine Brand not making a big deal out of his own housemate. And then Slughorn would have such a mess on his hands - it would have been fabulous."

Betty paused in her faux narration, eyes directing themselves to the entrance of the room, where several guests were just now pouring in. "Well, isn't that strange? What are they doing - "

Her words tapered off as something even stranger caught her attention. "Why look, Slughorn's turning purple! And there, Rosier's beginning to look like a corpse! Quirrel's looking positively orange! I say!"

She failed to notice that her own skin was taking on a reddish tinge, preoccupied as she was.

[Zamira Gulch]

Having been smirking lightly through Betty's commentary, still sipping her wine and enjoying the moment of spiteful relaxation with her companion, it took Zamira a moment to be goaded properly into looking up. Raising her eyes after only a moment, having been amusing herself by wondering exactly where she might procure another glass, she instantly found herself caught in a stare as she noted the occupants of the room transforming. Unlike Betty, however, Zamira was an intrinsically selfish, self-absorbed being: her first thought was to her own skin, and she pulled her sleeve back to witness herself turn a jaundiced shade of yellow that only deepened as the seconds went on. Eyes widening for a moment, she took the opportunity to look at her friend and-- ah, yes.

Her eyed narrowed again. She wasn't, as a general rule, given to panic or to emotional overreaction.
"Yes, well," she replied, drily, finding irritation mounting. "They're not the only ones. Look at your arm." Immediately, however, she had pushed herself off the wall, determinedly looking around for a likely culprit. Her eyes were narrowed dangerously, quill in hand, and she scrawled only a few notes on who was going what colour down.

[Betty Braithwaite]

Prompted as she was, Betty duly glanced down at her arm - which had, by now, become a very startling shade of scarlet. "Oh my," she exclaimed, not possessing the kind of calm that allowed her to react silently. She looked at Zamira a second later, and even in this darker corner of the room, could definitely observe a yellowed hue creeping over her complexion.

But Betty was also not disposed to panic in a strange situation; after the initial shock of it all, and sparing a look at the discord beginning to manifest in the room, she was actually inclined to laugh. "What a marvelous prank," she said, deducing it immediately. "I did hear something like this was going to happen."

Not so much alarmed as excited, she refocused her attention on the rest of the party attendees. There was a great deal of pointing fingers and shouts of surprise, as people suddenly discovered their complexions shifting color. Slughorn, now a vibrant purple, was bumbling about trying to make sense of it and to calm down his guests at the same time; it was largely a failed endeavor, as the previously quiet chatter of the room crescendoed into a din of both laughter and horrified shrieks.

Betty was happy to see it all and note it all down, her pen nearly scurrying across the paper in her haste.