[identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] bait_backup
*Ordinarily it’s considered gauche for a young witch to throw her own birthday party, but Fiona has never paid much attention to what is and isn’t gauche. Like the woman herself, her salon is off the beaten path, in a condemned old warehouse between a freight company and an auto body, deep in what come would consider the savage wilds of Camberwell. But there’ll be no cut-and-color tonight: a special knock and a secret password and you’re whisked inside, past atrocious Pop-Art scrawled on the walls, past empty technicolored barber chairs and transparent fish-tank flooring, to what will be unilaterally declared the best wizarding party in the summer of 1981, if Fiona has anything to say about it.

But not the sort that end up in the Prophet, with an exclusively pureblood guest list and the ladies’ robes glowingly described--no, this is altogether different. There are slumming rich-kids and sweet young things elbow to elbow with starving artists and street-punks angling for free drinks; purebloods, half-bloods, Muggleborns, a vampire or two, obviously, and even the odd tripping Muggle, poor terrified things. In short, everyone who’s anyone is here, and quite a few more besides--and with good reason. There’s the deafening dance music and the packed floor, of course, but there’s also other glittering rooms for privacy, or relaxation, or odd entertainments, or the practicing of various vices. The goal, as she’s declaring to anyone who will listen, is to leave the world--and all that that entails--well outside.

And everywhere, of course, like hors-d’oevres laid out by a thoughtful hostess, are the usual suspects: bowls of brightly-colored Muggle uppers and downers and Every Flavor Beans laced with god-knows-what, rows of illicit potions in delicate single-serving bottles, decidedly non-organic joints and innocent-looking desserts and spiked punch and a bit of cocaine here and there, even though things have been sparse on that front in London for the past few weeks. She has been thorough in that regard, but naturally many have brought enough to spare, or share, or sell. She’s made her way through enough of it but she’s looking for something a little different, a little new. And that’s what led her here, to this dim and smoky room with only low couches and packed card tables and a jazz trio from Japan dutifully tootling away in the corner. She’s almost enthroned on the velvet couch, and leans over to blow a long plume of lavender-tinged cigarette smoke into a familiar face.*

Don't fuck with me, Alecto, what are the purple ones? I've never seen purple.
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