It was late. Far later than Octavia Lestrange would have preferred to remain awake, especially on a night such as this, but there were some matters more pressing than sleep at hand. Her husband of more than three months (a miraculous feat in her eyes, being that they didn't even think they were going to get to the wedding) was out incredibly late. She knew for certain he was not working, because he hadn't gone in to the Ministry at all this day. Instead, she arrived home to find a note left with one of the House-Elves, that the master of the house had gone out--he would be out late, and she should certainly not wait up. Octavia's lips curled in cold amusement at his use of master, knowing full well the implications it carried. Having received the same note about five times in this short time span, she would have disregarded Rabastan and his worthless message entirely, had it not been for a certain piece of information that had reached her ears.

Being the owner of a restaurant meant that one was privy to a slew of gossip, all of which pertained to staff and patron for all the dining establishments in the area, be they bars, four-star destinations such as her own, or a sidewalk cafe. What should reach her ears but the suspicious if not largely discreet behavior of her husband, in the company of other females.

To say Octavia was astonished was not far from the truth. The man had, after all, gone on and on about propriety and public image, and all such rot when she told him to break off the engagement. That he should cavort about with women from only-Merlin-knew-where was nearly staggering. But no one--no one--scorned Octavia Alexandra Borgin, and walked away from it unscathed. Her husband, even with a rumored reputation such as his, was no exception.

Octavia had seated herself calmly in one of the large, high-backed armchairs in virtual darkness, the flames in the fireplace extinguished. The white of her nightgown glowed softly in the weak moonlight streaming in from the uncovered windows, and her fingers stroked the small vial of potion she had taken to wearing around her neck. The clock struck ten to one.

She waited.

He had a wife, now.

Rabastan rolled his eyes at the thought, something that he never believed would become a fact in his life. Octavia was his wife, and by the looks of their extravagant wedding and reception, it was going to be a bloody long ride. At least she was pretty, beautiful, even. Rabastan would have had a much bigger problem if he had been stuck with a dog-faced woman like Parkinson was, or a woman who was mousey and quiet, with no opinion at all. As much as he showed his apparent disdain for his bride, Rabastan knew that he had lucked out.

Ugh.

The guests seemed to be having a delightful time, how very good for them. Rabastan knew that his brother was around somewhere, ready to humiliate him in some manner. Maybe Grayson could provide a wedding gift in the form of a deceased Rodolphus...that would be most pleasing.

His eyes lifted as he was approached, but he made no movement from his slightly slumped over position. His chin in his hands kept his head up, and Rabastan was quite sure that it was the only thing doing so. He wanted to go to bed, but since he could not, he would drink, and was already on his third, or fourth--whatever it was, glass.

Who: Rabastan Lestrange and Octavia Borgin
What: Engagement, murder... your run-of-the-mill daily activities
Where: Esculentus!
When: Today! Thiiis morning?

( She was merely a house-elf to him, now. )

Gabriel's eyes bore into the grandfather clock across the room, finding the date and counting. It had been a week since he had found out he was going to be a father, and that meant it had been a week since he'd completely dropped off the face of the earth when it came to--anything. Octvia's invitation could not have been timed any better, and Gabriel used the sick days he'd been saving up to take the week off in Austria.

He should be home. When he had thought about it, because all young pureblooded men thought about their heirs and when the time would come, this was supposed to be a happy time. He should be thrilled, he should be elated. And, to be honest--there was an excitement bubbling under his skin.

It was just being completely overwhelmed by being disowned by his entire family and losing everything he knew.

His shoulders slightly tensed as the door opened, and Gabriel's gaze left the clock to send a soft smile at Octavia. He would apologize for being a lousy companion, but that would mean revealing the reasons behind his nearly forlorn demeanor.

"Where would you like to have dinner?"

In all of her years at Hogwarts, in all of her years being a prefect and working on a team full of the best students in Hogwarts, Phoebe Smethwyck had never been as impressed as she was right now as she stared around the Great Hall. Illuminated with candles in all shapes and sizes (and colors, a nifty charm a sixth year had found), the tables surrounding the dance floor were decorated with pumpkins, spiderwebs, and fall leaves, creating a spooky, yet beautiful design. The Ghosts of Hogwarts had volunteered to mingle more than usual (she thanked Nearly Headless Nick profusely, and promised to hold him a belated Death-Day party), captivating the guests with stories---how much truth they held, she couldn't be sure, but they were interesting nonetheless.

The band was a new kind of wizard rock, a bit more political than the Hobgoblins, W.O.A.R. There had been a lot of discussion at the prefect meetings about whether or not they should try and book them, but at the end of the day the naysayers (read: the Slytherins) were outvoted, and the band with the hit song "Do You Believe in M.A.G.I.C" was creating an incredible atmosphere.

So---people looked happy. They were laughing, smiling, and just---happy. Not something Phoebe felt like the wizarding world had been in a long time, and she was glad to be a big part of it.

Now, if only she could find a reason to be happy, herself.

ooc: No wands! Just your ID is needed. Everyone is welcome!

Who: Octavia Borgin and Kirby Catchlove
What: CRACK Afternoon innuendos.
Where: Esculentus (SAB I CAN SPELL IT NOW!)
When: Today, at 4

( You are exactly my brand of heroin )