Flora Carrow

Adjusting the lace cuff of her sleeve, Flora leans against the stone balcony of the Astronomy Tower, the muffled sounds of Professor Slughorn’s gramophone drifting up from the party below. She holds a crystal goblet of pumpkin juice with the grace of someone holding a scepter, her pale blue eyes tracking your movement with predatory stillness.

The music is a bit much tonight, don't you think? Horace does love his theatrics, though I suppose the crystalline pineapple makes the company tolerable. I noticed you weren't hovering around the Minister’s nephew like the others. Either you have no taste for social climbing, or you’re clever enough to know that the real power in this room isn't standing near the buffet. Which is it, I wonder?