It's the Accent

[Ophelia Dippet]

January 21st; set at the MACUSA party before the limbo moment, so open to anyone who was invited!

Americans! How thrilling!

The only benefit of having Armando as a guardian was that he tended to get invited to most of the well-to-do parties. Convincing him to actually attend them, of course, was it's own special kind of torment, but her father hadn't even had the opportunity to attend these sorts of things. Ophelia had loved her father, of course, but he had been a middle-class traveling magizoologist, and he hadn't made any great discoveries that would have put him into the public eye. He hadn't been famous until he was dead, and even then he was only really known in creature-related circles because of the quite gruesome manner of his death.

Since she was a fashion writer now, of course she'd gone to great trouble to look her best, even though this party was only one of many she was scheduled to attend throughout the Christmas season (she'd already written her first article about the questionable fashion choices at the Ministry Christmas Party and at Mr. Pettigrew's Quidditch event). Taking her inspiration from the American flag, Ophelia wanted to look festive--but as it was winter, she knew of course that she couldn't risk being too bright. Over a large ruffled black skirt, she'd worn a dark, jewel-toned blue coat, which incorporated an elaborate ruffled collar and corset bodice before flowing out into a skirt that covered the back half of her black underskirt. With a practiced charm, she'd created a bed of little silver stars, which swam around the surface of her navy blue bodice and skirt like so many bugs on the surface of a still pond. She'd done up her dark curls with a long pearl hair net, so thin the silver lines holding it together were barely visible. The pearls were enhanced by a few more of her enchanted stars, though the ones in her hair didn't move, since she thought that might be distracting. A pair of simple pearl earrings completed the look, and overall Ophelia was feeling both elegant and appropriate, for a party of Americans.

She was currently questing after said Americans, but unfortunately she kept getting pulled away to be introduced to various Ministry men, who were almost uniformly old, unattractive, and mostly married. She assumed she would recognize the Americans because they would all be dashing and handsome and young, but she hadn't been able to pin down any such man the entire time she'd been here.

"Excuse me," she said, boldly approaching the first person she saw who wasn't otherwise engaged in conversation, "But where are the--the guests of honor, I suppose? This is a party for the Americans, isn't it?" she asked a little impatiently.

  

[Ichabod Malcorvus]

Ichabod’s invitation to this event was rather weak willed, he didn’t much like these sorts of general assemblys. They were generally too ‘mixed’ for his liking and he generally spent them standing by the door waiting for the earliest possible moment for him to escape back to his own home. He was wary of most of the young ladies he met, mostly because he was still generally unaware of their blood status and with few exceptions found them to be plain and rather boring.

He was engaged in such a contemplation when, a feminine voice broke into his thoughts and he turned his head to look at the speaker, even if he did have to tilt his head downwards, to meet eyes with the petite young lady. He vaguely recognised her, her guardian was Armando Dippet, an old fart that he spent little time with, even if he had heard that the old man was a more than competent duelist. ”Ms. Dippet,” he greeted with an inclination of his head. ”I am fairly sure that I would not have warranted an invitation if it had not been for the presence of my countrymen.” he said with a small sniff of disdain. He realised that the young lady might not know his name, and proper etiquette dictated that he introduce himself, so that she would at least know his name. ”Ichabod Crane, madmame.” he offered a curt head bow.

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   Ophelia Dippet

[Ophelia Dippet]

Ophelia was quite surprised that this rather angular man knew her name, and was immediately plunged into uncertainty. Had she met him before? Ought she to remember him? He wasn't particularly handsome, in her opinion, and he seemed rather stiff. She didn't imagine that meeting him or even dancing with him prior to tonight might have been very memorable. Still, even if he wasn't the sort to make much of an impression, all the fault would be on her for forgetting him--and she had to admit that it was rather rude, if he remembered her.

She was immensely relieved when he offered his name, though whether he had noticed the flush of her cheeks and was trying to save her the embarrassment of asking for an introduction, or whether she actually hadn't met him before, she couldn't say. While she'd like to believe that she was the sort of rising starlet who would be instantly recognizeable to strange men, that wasn't really the case. She might make a fine socialite, in time--in fact she rather expected to be the talk of the town one way or another, whether she married or not--but she'd only been out for two season so far, so it was hardly as though she'd had time to become famous (or infamous).

Maybe he knew her grandfather. That seemed to make the most sense, Ophelia decided. She could picture her grandfather having very angular friends, even though she couldn't particularly recall this precise gentleman having ever been through their house. Maybe he was the type to hang around at clubs all day. She was being awfully judgemental, now, but he did look like the sort of man who probably belonged to one or more club--that was, the rich and semi-reclusive kind.

"A pleasure, Mr. Crane," she said with a brief smile as she offered a perfunctory curtsey. She hadn't really decided what to think of him yet. "I'm sure you do yourself a disservice in your assumption," she said with a mischevious little twitch of her lips, "Because if you already know who I am, then of course you must know that I really have no cause for having been invited at all, so you certainly must be a good deal more important than I am, at any rate."

Even though he was an American, he wasn't exactly living up to her expectations. She expected them to have a sort of glow of vivaciousness, not to walk around with such a formal manner. The way that he'd used the word countrymen, though, seemed to imply that he'd been living in England for some time, so he couldn't possibly have been indicative of the rest of the American guests, Ophelia decided. "Do you know any of the visitors, sir?" she asked, because that seemed like a tasteful way to get back to her point--where are the real Americans--without implying that she wasn't enjoying his company.