[Disclaimer: I do not own anything created by the wonderful and talented JK Rowling.]
Author's Notes
Since everything I write seems to be a bit iffy at the moment, I thought I'd devote a little time to one of my lesser used and lesser known characters from my role-plays, Genevieve Renaldi. I'm surprised I haven't used her before, really. She's got an interesting history – well, I think it's interesting. It's about as pleasant as most of my characters lives (that is to say, not at all), but still. She's rather endeared herself to me, and earned a starring role in this little ficlet.
There isn't really much in here you'll recognise, other than briefly mentioning that Genevieve's a witch, but it is set in the Harry Potter universe.
Love, Beauty, and Other Such Lies
by Adele Elisabeth
Long, rich, very dark, very red hair surrounded a pale, flawless face. Glittering hazel eyes stared coldly at the reflection; ruby-red lips set in a rather flattering pout. She stood before the full-length mirror, surveying herself critically.
The redhead wore a pale, sheer slip, flimsy straps threatening to slide down her arms at any given moment, the laces at the bodice tied loosely, and the hem so high it nearly displayed what it aimed to tease with at her every movement. Beneath that was very little, other than Genevieve herself. She flicked her eyes down long, slender legs, each pearl-painted toenail, examined slender arms, eyed the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts with clinical detachment.
Beauty, it had been said, was in the eye of the beholder.
What did people see, when they looked at her?
A promising young witch, clever and talented, a quick study with a quicker mind…a cold-hearted, cynical ice-princess, out for herself and nobody else…a beautiful, soft, delicate flower of womanhood…a crafty, calculating, young temptress, knowing exactly what she wants and just how to get it…a friend or a foe, wrapped up in silk, jewels and lies…
Daughter of a whore, didn't even know her own father's name…
Daughter of a whore? How did you pay for those fine schoolbooks of yours, o most innocent one?
But things were different now, weren't they? She wasn't going to be like Celeste and Marianne…visions swam before her of her sisters, Marianne's body lying limp in her mother's arms, Celeste's sightless eyes staring, accusingly at her twelve-year-old sister from the blood-stained bath…
Things were different, she told herself. They were respectable now, her and Mama. She was the daughter of a designer; she wore silk to bed at night and thought nothing of diamonds. Things were different.
In the bed behind her, there were sounds of someone stirring. "Genni…?" a sleep-laden voice called, hands clutching at the empty space where she had lain.
Control, Genevieve, my daughter. It's all about control… her mother's voice whispered in her ear.
"Here I am," she murmured, sliding back under the blankets.
Some things, she thought to herself, never changed.