[Disclaimer: The monkey and I do not own JK Rowling's Potterverse. We just like playing with her toys.]
Author's Note
Yet another of my little spin-off fics involving obscure characters I made up…poor Genevieve. She never gets a break. Can be read as a sequel to 'Love, Beauty and Other Such Lies'.
This is what happens when you're online at three in the morning.
Lie To Me
by Adele Elisabeth
Summary: "And when Genevieve tossed her white rose onto Julian's casket before he was buried, she wished for the kind lies."
He could see her pale face above him; she cradled him in her arms -- a painful mockery of their lovers' embrace, his blood soaking through her thin dress to her pale, soft skin that he knew so well.
He could hear her, as if from a distance, so, so far away, stumbling over the words she whispered to him, soft promises of her love that he'd waited so, so long to hear…he could hear her, he could see her, and he wanted so much to touch her. She was so beautiful to him, his tainted angel. Other voices joined hers, panicky and afraid and apart from the gentle murmurings that he strained to catch. There had been screams, earlier, he recalled, but they were gone and his angel was whispering love.
The sound of gunshots still cracked in his ears, and the wide, horrified eyes of his poor mother as she dropped the gun still stared into his.
Mother always did have bad aim. Lucky Father.
Poor me, he thought weakly, and clung to the sound of his darling's soft voice. She was panicking; he could hear it, even as she tried to hide it. She thought she was going to lose him.
She was right.
He wanted to kiss her and hold her and tell her it would all be all right. But the light was fading and with it her voice, her hot tears mingling with his blood…so, so much blood…
Julian Assante was dead.
A botched crime of passion -- poor, poor little Clarice Assante, driven over the edge by her husband's betrayal, tried to kill him…
She always did have bad aim.
Genevieve had refused to leave him, even after the light in his eyes had faded to nothing and his heart stilled. She didn't know how long she'd sat there, covered in her lover's blood, clinging to the body he'd left behind. Everything after that was a blur, Clarice being taken away, and Neela, the little house-elf that had taken a shine to her, coming and taking her upstairs, cleaning her up and putting her to bed. Sending for her friend, Avialle, who came and held her and rocked her while she cried, darling Ava who didn't whisper kind lies but simply held her until she ran out of tears.
She didn't stay long in the Assante home. She didn't think she could bear to.
So Genevieve had gone and stayed with Ava, in the Remillard family home, until the funeral.
Julian's funeral.
Genevieve had discovered she still had some tears left. And some angry, resentful, bitter, hatred towards the kindly, trembling little woman who had turned a blind eye to the fact Genevieve had more clothes in Julian's closet than in her own in the house she occasionally called 'home'.
Once, Genevieve would have done something -- anything. Renaldis, her mother preached, did not get angry. They got even.
Genevieve was too tired for that. She found she was too tired for a lot of things now.
And when Genevieve tossed her white rose onto Julian's casket before he was buried, she wished for the kind lies.
Dear Genni,
Come to England with us. We can't leave Lena alone to the mercies of all those absurd Englishmen, can we? It'll be fun. New places to see, new people to do. You could use a change of atmosphere anyway; your mother's doing you no good. I know it's so soon, and so sudden, but promise you'll at least think about it.
It'll be worth it.
Love,
Ava
In the end, it wasn't that much of a choice.