Disaster or Masterpiece? [Sam Turner]

[Owen Fairchild]

Owen stood in front of the mirror, blinking at the reflection that didn’t feel entirely like him. The long black tailcoat with its golden lining flared behind him like some sort of extravagant cape, and he had to resist the urge to spin around just to see it catch the light. The gold pattern on the inside gleamed, almost daring him to step into the ball with confidence.

The black waistcoat was perfectly snug, buttoned up with gold buttons that matched the tie he’d painstakingly chosen. The sharp black trousers fell straight, almost too perfect, and polished shoes reflected the candlelight in tiny, mocking flashes. He tugged at the cuffs, smoothed the lapels, and straightened the cravat once more. Bold. He should feel bold. But…

He shifted from foot to foot, twisting and turning to view either side of his back. What if it was too much? What if everyone stared—and not in a good way? What if he looked ridiculous, like a magician’s rejected apprentice rather than a student ready for a ball?

No. Sam. Only Sam could judge this fairly.

He grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled a note, heart hammering:

"Sam, meet me in the Room of Requirement. Need a second opinion. Urgent. No one else can see this disaster—or masterpiece—get here... stat!"

Rolling up his note, he quickly darted to his owl (not so quick to startle the poor creature), and handed it over. The owl gracefully took a hold of the note and hooted before taking off with the message, leaving Owen alone with his own reflection once more. He ran a hand down the coat, feeling the silky golden lining under his fingertips. Bold. Daring. And maybe… just a little ridiculous. Who was he trying to impress? The more he stood in front of the mirror and inspected his outfit, the more he started to panic.

He paced, adjusted the tailcoat again, and tried not to fidget too much. Soon, Sam would appear, and hopefully she’d say the words he needed to hear: You look amazing. Until then… he would just have to wait, twirling a golden cuff in his fingers, heart racing at the thought of her verdict - pacing up and down the little room.

[Sam Turner]

Sam had been halfway buried beneath her duvet, cocooned in warmth and stubborn avoidance, when the owl arrived. For a long moment, she didn’t move, just stared at it through the dim light of the dorm, as if staying still might somehow make it disappear. She had no interest in letters, or people, or anything that required her to think about what had just happened. The memory pressed in anyway: standing there in front of Kyle, the question already out before she could take it back… would you like to go to the dance with me?

…and he’d said no.

That was as far as she let it go. She hadn’t stayed to hear the rest, hadn’t given him the chance to explain or soften it. Her mind had gone blank for a split second before everything in her chest tightened at once. Heat rushed to her face, her thoughts scattering, and before she could steady herself - before she could even try to recover with a nod or a simple “that’s alright” - she’d turned on her heel and hurried off, the sound of her own footsteps too loud in her ears.

Now, though, the moment replayed with uncomfortable clarity. Not just the rejection, but her reaction to it. The way she hadn’t handled it well at all. The way she’d run instead of just standing there for a few seconds longer and letting it be… normal. Why couldn’t she have just accepted it gracefully? Why did she have to make it so obvious that it mattered?

The owl hooted again, more persistent this time, breaking into her thoughts.

Sam let out a quiet breath and dragged herself upright, reaching for the letter with reluctant fingers. She stared at Owen’s handwriting for a moment, the urgency in it cutting through the fog in her mind just enough to shift her focus. Whatever was going on with him… he needed her. And she knew, more than ever, what it felt like to need someone in a moment you couldn’t quite handle on your own.

With a small, resigned sigh, she pushed the duvet aside and swung her legs out of bed. There wasn’t time to dwell on it any longer, not if she wanted to be there for him properly. She dragged her fingers through her hair, wincing slightly at the tangles, then hastily gathered the golden-brown curls into a loose, uneven ponytail that would have to do. It wasn’t neat, and she didn’t really care.

Sam slipped out of the dorm and through the portrait hole of the Fat Lady at a near jog. The castle corridors blurred past her as she made her way toward the Room of Requirement, and by the time she reached the stretch of wall where the door would appear, her breathing had picked up, a mix of the run and the embarrassment she hadn’t quite shaken off.

The door formed, and Sam didn’t hesitate. She pushed it open and stepped inside. “Oh!” The sound escaped her before she could stop it, her eyes widening slightly as she took him in all at once. The long black tailcoat, the flash of gold when he moved, the way the light caught along the lining. It was striking, undeniably so, but also… a lot. More dramatic than she’d expected. For a second, Sam just stood there, caught between surprise and the effort to figure out what, exactly, she was supposed to say.

She drew in a breath, steadying herself, and let her gaze move over him again, slower this time, more deliberate. It wasn’t bad—far from it—but it was bold in a way that demanded a reaction, and her brain felt a step behind, still trying to catch up. “Um… what’s the emergency?” she asked at last, her tone polite and carefully neutral, like she hadn’t already guessed the answer the moment she walked in.

[Owen Fairchild]

Owen had been mid-pace - again - when the door finally appeared. He whipped around the second it opened, his hand instinctively flying to smooth down the front of his waistcoat - and the movement sent the long tailcoat sweeping out behind him in a dramatic arc, the golden lining catching the light as it flared wide, almost like the skirts of a ballgown mid-spin.

He froze the moment it settled, eyes wide as he saw Sam's expression.

Oh.
Oh NO!

There had been absolutely no intention behind that. None. And yet now the image of that... twirl, and how it must have looked was lodged firmly in his mind.

Well. That wasn’t helping his case.

“Sam—hi—” he started, a little too quickly, his voice cracking as he tried very hard to pretend he hadn’t just twirled at her. “I wouldn’t call it an emergency - unless you think it is, in which case I’ll panic appropriately.”

A nervous laugh slipped out, and he immediately busied himself with his cuffs, then the edge of his coat - anything to avoid acknowledging what had just happened.

“Be honest,” he added, quieter now, the humor softening as he glanced back up at her. “It’s… a lot, isn’t it?”

He gestured vaguely to himself, though a small part of him resisted moving too sharply again in case the coat decided to… perform.

“I thought it looked good earlier,” he admitted, shifting his weight. “Bold. Different.” A pause, then a faint grimace. “Now I’m wondering if I look like I’m about to host the ball. Or accidentally be the entertainment.”

His hand brushed the gold lining again, more deliberately this time, as if testing it - mercifully, it stayed still.

Then, softer...

“You’re the only one I wanted to ask.” His gaze settled on her, a little steadier despite the nerves.

“I trust you, Sam. So… j-just tell me straight, yeah? Does it work, or should I find something a bit less…” he glanced down at himself, “…prone to dramatic entrances?”