[Author's note: I seek no profit from this piece, nor do I claim to own the characters in them. This piece was written a couple of months ago, inspired by one of my best friends, no matter what she says. It has been born, then, by intermittent roleplay with her, me taking the façade of Rabastan Lestrange. Romola Bulstrode can be considered as an original character of sorts. The french dialogue was made using a translator, so don't expect grammatical accurancy. Also, English is not my first language, on advance I apologize for possible errors. Thank you for reading.]
The room is full of souvenirs. Details of a life neither of us already call our own anymore. We've caught each other a month short after my graduation and August has arrived with the calidity of a thousand asters. Rain has been as seldom as peace is in London, and the comparison brings colors to the bearings of the Prophet, who has taken a swinish pleasure in describing the murders to the utmost detail. I am not sure what made me realize it was her. Maybe it was the floral, crimson skirt that stood out in the middle of the street, prismatic against the swarthy of her thighs. Or the way she timely turned to catch my eye while I turned the corner. All I remember is our approach, right in the middle. Like everything we did. With Romola, there was never a fear of either of us bringing more than the other to whatever it was we had. Or still have. We have always done everything equally, and it kept things simple for me.
The one vacant room in The Hog's Head doesn't seem enough for our stature, but I have chosen to make no comment. Diagon Alley is out of the question and I welcome her open and unfettered acquiescence to remain in Hogsmeade. As I earlier noted, the room is full of souvenirs. An indigo and black squared shirt lies on the floor next to my black moccasins, adjacent to Romola's cotton white shirt and the skirt I am now sure is the culprit of it all. The chandelier earrings moments ago she had been looking for rest close to the bed's night stand, and upon further inspection, I realize they are the Christmas present her parents gave her. The rubies catch a pallid glimpse of an introverted ray of sun that infringes from between half-closed drapes. The mental tally for sunset alerts me we still have an hour or two to go before nightfall. The last thing I want is to stay in this place overnight.
The silence is punctually broken by a dulcet. Romola, while sitting in front of the mirror of the small boudoir, has taken to singing. The keys are woven by both, lyrics and the soft, melodic whistling of her lungs. Be it an intentional cry for attention or not, I decide to turn to look at her from my anfractuous position on the bed. Wasps of billowing smoke render a veiled image of the girl that remains my junior and I met one haphazard day in the train back to Hogwarts. Be it the spectrum caused by the bottle of wine we just finished, the heat or the nearly eight-month abstinence I find myself today ending, I realize gender's the only remaining constant from that girl I met. She's become a woman. Be it my companionship or something else, the innocence of age has beginning to wane in her.
"What are you singing?" The cigarette burns crimson as I inhale it, argent ashes loitering the mess of sheets I'm on.
"A lullaby." She answers softly, her hands stopping the braid she had been slowly doing and undoing for the past twenty minutes when I told her I wanted a smoke and a glass of wine. She's halfway done un-braiding her tresses when I request her to keep her hair up.
"My mum used to sing that to me every night when I was kid." She stops and looks at my inverted image in the mirror, everything but coyness in the look she attempts to emulate at the dawning revelation that I lost those sorts of privileges when my mother left. The look is everything I need to make sure there is nothing innocent about Romola anymore, for the smile that currently garlands lips and moments ago I devoured, is full with poison. "What's the matter, 'Bastan? Want me to sing it to you until you fall asleep?"
Her words sting and I hate myself for finding a weakness in what was an obvious jab. I deem it as a step back in the months' worth of training Rodolphus has been instructing me with. Eyes are instantly pulled away from my reflection in the mirror, cursing the genes that make me my mother's son. Instead, Romola chooses to tilt her chin up and celebrate her victory, finishing the braiding of her hair before getting up.
Her movements remind me of a gazelle, preordained and with a purpose; poise or not, the gait allures me. The muscle that ripples through her skin with each stride, her frame lithe and bistered skin, the contraposition of lace and burgundy around her hips and around her chest. She's halfway through the room the moment nimble fingers reach for a new bottle of wine that she carefully uncorks, sitting next to me when the devoir is finally achieved.
"Je ne veux pas boire plus." I comment as I toss the cigarette's butt to a side, carelessly, looking at her directly in the eyes, attempting to be assertive in my comment.
That coy look once more. This time, she chooses to chastise me. "Bien sûr, vous ne." She winks and presses the bottle against her lips, a ruby drop slipping from her lips as one finger is pressed against my mouth. Her shoulders lithely move up then down as a soft giggle escapes her, and she's everything but an innocent animal lost in the wildlife.
The wine, its taste, color and smell are all I can think about the moment her mouth presses against mine. I can feel it in her tongue and in her cheeks, and the fermented taste of grapes overrides my reason. I idly note the hue is the same found on her underwear, and before I can react, her hands are around my neck again. The grazing of her nails at the nape of my neck has my own hands scavenging her back, hauling her closer to me, allocating her upon me. She starts singing again, but all I want her is to stop. The resolution finds an advocate in the pressure I choose to kiss her back with. She likes it, and deems it as compulsory to answer back with the same strength.
"You're going to end up destroying yourself, Rabastan." She liltingly speaks during a brief intermission where my lungs collect air. By now, both of her arms are around me and her breathing is heavy. Mine is as well, but for different reasons. It's the mirror I find in her eyes once more, the mirror of my own reflection with the words that echo. "You're not going to stop until you burn everything around you, starting with you."
The only option I see is to push her against the mattress and practically invert our positions, but the action exhilarates her and she starts laughing. "I already have." The retort sounds weak, almost feeble, and with it she knows I'm all out of answers when it comes to the truth she's just revealed. She keeps laughing, but it doesn't stop her from pressing her cold hands against my chest.
"That includes me, then?" Her front teeth dig at the tender flesh of her lower lip, that mighty glance in her eyes again.
"It includes everyone." That is the last I wish to speak. There is no point in perpetrating a conversation I deem as senseless, futile. Rodolphus' first lesson was to let go of the past, the mistakes and the variables that cannot be fixed. He's taught me to focus and learn the present. The present has me, alone. Whoever wishes to sit around and dwindle in the storm should know better. They should know the risks of being caught in the eye of the storm.
It's her again, who instigates contact. The force in my forearms that moments ago kept me bridging above her is no more and instead I'm at level with her. I drink wine once more even though the bottle is inches away from my reach. There's the sound of muffled laughter, but it's swiftly replaced by a croaking moan. Her words have inevitably piqued my mood, and my hands see it best to make her loose the last piece of garment that adheres to her body. Her present vulnerability brings me the vaguest of satisfactions, knowing her unprotected and exposed below me. It's even enough for me to take no notice whatsoever of the subtle movements of her hips as they sway, teeth still clinging to rosy tiers. She knows I would never hurt her like this, and even though her lips are not moving, I know she is laughing.
There has never been method in what we do. Last time I was with her, she still seemed like a novice. I remember the look in her eyes as if it was yesterday. There was something else, back then, that made me believe that if things had been different, Romola and I would have actually been something. Her blood would never allow that to happen in the eyes of my family, but there would have been something more than hiding in corridors or her sneaking into my bed at night. More than the haphazard encounters in the Astronomy Tower. As any man would do, I took pride in being the first for her. Of becoming a guide, of being looked up at. Where we once fumbled, now there is nothing but a battle of wits, of power. For each kiss I press, she makes sure to press two against my neck, against my mouth. This is a game, a dance, a play for both of us. Her legs around my back, my arms around her back, a synchronicity found but never felt. And I inevitably realize it's only like this that we can truly get to know each other. In between the sheets, believing each other invincible, playing a bet against the world that could care less about two adolescents rolling in a bed. We are both alleged to be strong and powerful. Smart. But there is nothing smart about what we do. We really aren't cheating anyone with our devices. Deep down, I will always be the man that answers to no moral compass; the only difference is that now I am aware of it, and instead of fighting it, I rebel in it. Because we are all good with something. And we inevitably cling to that. And she, she will always be the woman I will fall back on when my lies do no longer justice. When I look at the mirror and realize it is my mother's eyes that stare at me. The gaze of running away. Of elusion.
The bed feels too small for both of us and I have the sudden urge to get up and leave, but exhaustion keeps me chained down to it. If it wasn't for her quiet singing and humming, I could swear she has fallen asleep. She is singing that lullaby again. I have lit another smoke for the sake of having something to do, to look at the waning smolder in the darkness to amuse my mind, my thoughts.
"This is the last time we will see each other."
She doesn't answer and instead keeps singing in the same tone. I vaguely crave the taste of wine as my arms fold against my head, and she moves slightly next to me, unbraiding her hair again, but I feel her moving closer to me. Her skin against mine makes me almost want to take my words back, but I end up closing my eyes and she tosses my cigarette.
"Si nous allons tous finir par brûler, Rabastan… "She answers simplistically, matter-offactly,
"… Alors je préfère brûler avec vous que seul."
We are kissing again, and she is singing. We kiss again and again, until the craving for wine completely vanishes.