Title: The Last of the Great Romantics
Summary: Lucius needs help wooing Narcissa. Cue Rodolphus
Disclaimer: I wrote this but they're JK Rowling's characters. I just stole them for a bit, but I gave them all back after. Honest. I also stole ideas from Sabrina Fair, and a song from High Society. For that I have no excuses.
Also, the song that he sings is from High Society and is called Samantha.
The Last of the Great Romantics
The room was dark. Dark and vast. So vast that the three males in one corner could be overlooked, which was probably their intention when they chose it to conduct their conversation. As is typical, the talk had, eventually, turned to women.
"She wants romance," the blonde moaned, his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "What the hell am I going to do?"
"Roses? Wine? Candle-lit dinners?" drawled one of his companions, before taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke escaping his mouth in a hiss.
"She has all that Rab," Lucius countered. "That's not romance, that's an average Saturday evening with the family. The usual moves don't impress her. She's not some poor village girl who gets starstruck over a twenty pound locket."
"My heart bleeds." The smoker stood up, unfolding from his chair. "But I have to go, because I have a date. And I, unlike you, know how to please a woman."
There was a scoff in the gloom, and then the flare of a lighter as another cigarette was lit; this time by the other Lestrange.
"Something to say Rodolphus?" Rabastan asked coldly, pausing menacingly for a moment.
Rodolphus brought the cigarette to his mouth and waited for a second before blowing the smoke into the darkness. "No."
Rabastan frowned, but stalked away, leaving Malfoy alone with Rodolphus. Rodolphus was dating Bellatrix Black, who was not like other girls. She did not want romance, she didn't want to be surprised with bunches of flowers, she didn't want to cuddle, but she was Narcissa's sister, and quite frankly, he was running out of options, which was why Lucius turned to the younger Lestrange with a pathetic plea of help me.
Their plan was executed at the next Black ball. Lucius stole his girlfriend away from the main ballroom; her hand in his, two champagne glasses in his suit trouser pockets and a bottle of bubbly in his free hand. He led her to the rose garden. No one was there; but there was a strategically placed CD player. As a Muggle object, Lucius despised it in theory, but in practice it meant he didn't have to keep casting a song charm or rely on the radio. He pressed the play button, soft strains of songs floating into the night air. He drew Narcissa into the centre of the garden, where there was a circular arbour with a stone bench at the edge. He set the bottle down on the bench before drawing out the glasses. Narcissa laughed slightly at the flourish with which he did so. He had been all for using accio but, as Rodolphus had explained to him, if Narcissa wanted romance that wasn't a normal part of her life, then magic was out of the question. Confidently he removed the cork from the champagne and filled the two flutes, handing one to his girl.
She sat on the bench, listening as he talked about the stars. Not their names, not the facts, not the things they had learned in astronomy, but stories like how the North Star was once a light in the window of a woman, set there to guide her lover home, and now it guided sailors home. She smiled, then stood so that he could wrap one arm around her shoulders and point at shooting stars with the other. Then, as a particular song began, he murmured 'dance with me' and spun her around so they were dancing cheek to cheek. She blushed as he began to sing along, substituting the name in the song for hers. 'I love you Narcissa and my love will never die. Remember Narcissa I'm a one gal guy.' She felt she could dance forever; pressed against his chest, him singing, well, whispering in her ear.
Rodolphus Lestrange was leaning on a balcony that encompassed in its view the rose garden. With his shirt sleeves casually rolled up, his forearms resting on the stone and a dopey grin on his face, he looked nothing like Rodolphus Lestrange. The thing is deep down, right down, locked in a box that he tried to never open, he was a romantic. He loved the old movies, he loved buying presents just because, he loved candles and rose petals. But he loved Bellatrix more. She wanted horror films not chick flicks, she wanted his darkest, dirtiest secrets not sweet nothings and she did not want him catering to her every whim, worshipping the ground she walked on. Because he would.
But she didn't want that. She wanted him to kiss her so hard that he tasted blood. She wanted him to hurt her so she could hurt him back. And the fool that he was, he let her.
"What are you doing?" Her voice came from behind him, and his grin disappeared immediately.
"Malfoy's wooing your sister," he drawled. "Champagne, stars, music… I think she's sold."
Bellatrix scowled at the idea of it. "Let him try." She shot him a curious glance. "Please tell me you haven't planned anything like that for me."
He laughed, the sound harsh, rather than joyful. "You know I would never."
"Good." She drew close to him, and he pulled her to him. For a few seconds he held her tenderly. For a few seconds he let the romantic inside be happy.