A/N: A continuation of Absinthe, as requested/badgered/evilly coerced by Kirixchi. Enjoy (hopefully).
Disclaimer: Do not own them, do not want to.
~*~
In the luxurious sitting room of the Lestrange manor, two men, in dark evening-wear, sat on plush armchairs. Rabastan Lestrange took a sip of the red wine in the goblet he held, and smirked slightly at his older brother.
"Are you sure that the lovely Miss Sterling will enjoy this particular opera? Would not something like the Sleeping Beauty ballet be more to her taste?"
Rodolphus curled his lip just slightly. "Perhaps, although whether she has any taste, good, bad or in between, remains to be seen." Patrice Sterling-- beautiful, pure of blood and pure of heart, an angel in the flesh, perhaps. She would make an ideal wife and mother someday, and her obedience and discretion had its uses when it came to certain aspects of business. He could do far worse, he supposed.
She would never cross him, question him, or... truly interest him.
Quiet steps sounded on the staircase, for Patrice wore satin slippers without heels, and Rodolphus stood up to scrutinise his perhaps marriage-interest. Patrice gave him a tremulous sort of smile, her white hands in fingerless lace gloves, her virginally slender body swathed in pearlescent satin the colour of apple blossoms. She gave Rodolphus and his brother a demure smile and blushed becomingly when Rodolphus kissed her amorously on her bare neck.
"Good evening, my love," she said softly, stifling a tiny gasp of pain as Rodolphus bit down at her throat.
"Good evening," Rodolphus drawled, pulling away. "Are you ready to go, then?"
"Yes," Patrice said quietly, "As soon as I get my cloak."
A House Elf brought over a white velvet cloak lined with ermine, and Patrice thanked the little creature as though it were a friend. Carefully, she fastened it around her neck, taking care to hide the tell-tale reddening of her skin where Rodolphus had marked her. She gave her cold hand to Rodolphus, and stayed silent as he touched the portkey to take them to the theatre.
~*~
Bellatrix Black went wherever she pleased, or at least as far as she could get away with it. A pinch of powder in a lace handkerchief had been all that was necessary to purchase her ticket to freedom, and after two sneezes, Aria Black had excused her from the evening's banquet with the Rookwoods and told her to go to bed.
Andromeda and Narcissa had both wished her a good rest, and a House Elf had handed her a goblet of vitality potion. Blithely dumping the concoction into a potted rose on her windowsill, she allowed herself a thin smile as the small bush started to explode in blooms, and pulled a gown the colour of blood from her wardrobe.
By the time that she had slipped her feet into scandalous high heels, there were enough roses for a wreath, and ten minutes later, a lone girl in a rustling red dress and a crown of crimson roses appeared at the entrance of an opera house, gave a haughty look and a handful of coins to the man at the door, and followed the throng inside with her head held high.
Almost as soon as they had entered the actual theatre, Rodolphus left Patrice Sterling with a matronly woman in the upper wings of the theatre, joining his brother and walking towards seats in the front. Glancing upward at where his "ladylove" sat, Rodolphus allowed himself a slight sneer when he watched Patrice refuse to allow Mrs. Rosemond to remove her cloak.
When SHE came, the majority of the throng had already settled in, and the theatre was filled with the sounds of chattering as people waited for everyone to arrive and the show to begin. But the woman in red had opened the door for herself, and entered without any companion. A completely carefree expression on her haughty face, she had strode up to the front seat, a spot of blood-red moving through a sea of the dark that was men's evening clothes, and almost instinctively, a fellow in the front row slid down and away, perhaps sensing danger and excitement, and she acknowledged his action with a brief nod before sitting down right in the center of the row with the grace and aplomb of a queen.
If she had noticed the eyes of a young man darken as she sat down in the seat directly in front of him, she gave no indication, and if she smirked as she leaned her head back just slightly, hearing a slightly sharp intake of breath, he wouldn't have been able to see. The air around her head smelled like the roses she wore, musky and sharpened with the slight tang of blood.
The opera began, and on stage a dark, passionate woman in a crimson gown sang and cried and hated and loved and killed. Bellatrix remained completely still, her seat just out of reach, and watched with glittering eyes as the heroine seduced a man into a world of ruin and fantasy.
It was nearing the witching hour when the last scene ended, and the curtains closed for a moment, only to open again for the performers to take their bows. Bellatrix clapped politely, and stared at the dark-haired young man who had played the toreador with such intensity from the front row that he almost stumbled in surprise. A lady she undoubtedly was, but a lady never sat there.
It was only after the performers left the stage that Bellatrix turned around slowly, and faced the Lestrange brothers with a predatory, milk-white smile.
~*~
"Good evening, gentlemen," Bellatrix nodded her head coolly, her voice smooth as polished steel. Rabastan gave a slight start in recognition.
"Bellatrix Black, isn't it?" the younger man inquired, in a tone that didn't quite hide his surprise. "Are you here with your family?"
"No," Bellatrix replied directly, "But I see that YOU are."
She skimmed her eyes briefly over Rodolphus, an eyebrow raised in some sort of challenge, and smirked when his gaze lingered on her lips. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange," she remarked, "Fancy running into you here."
"Bellatrix," he nodded, inclining his head, his eyes now settled upon her neck.
"Miss Black," she corrected him a bit sharply, and then another, smaller figure, a woman, joined them.
"There you are, my love," Patrice was smiling, her voice a bit breathless from descending the stairs in her corset. She stepped next to Rodolphus and gave him an insipid look of sweetness, before noticing the woman in red, who was scrutinizing her with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Bellatrix stared at the other woman. She wore pink. PINK, paler than shriveled carnations. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, much like Narcissa. But Narcissa, even at thirteen, had more of a presence. Bellatrix continued to fix the woman with a piercing stare. Sweet, she was sure... patient. Gentle. Submissive. She looked like a porcelain doll, and was probably even easier to break. Turning to Rodolphus with a raised eyebrow, she asked lowly, "And who is this CHARMING girl, Mr. Lestrange?"
"Patrice Sterling," Rodolphus replied, "My companion for the evening."
"Charmed, miss," Patrice's voice was a dovelike coo, looking up at the taller woman, "You did a magnificent job tonight. Carmen, yes?"
Bellatrix raised her eyebrows and bit down a cruel laugh. "The opera's name is Carmen, yes, Miss Sterling. As is the name of the heroine."
"You sing wonderfully."
"Really," Bellatrix stared at the pale little thing, before suddenly moving her hand to her hair. "And would the lovely Miss Sterling like a rose?"
Before Patrice could refuse, Bellatrix had undone the wreath, none-too-gently pulling out a crimson bloom and pushing it into the other woman's hand. Patrice gasped slightly, then looked down in dismay as a drop of blood slid from her fingertip to stain the white lace of her gloves.
"It has thorns," she whispered, now gingerly holding the flower a bit away from her.
"That it does," Bellatrix replied, her voice a pleasured hiss, "If it didn't, it wouldn't be a rose, would it?"
Rodolphus was almost surprised to see blood in the first place, and stared at the spot: red stained white, a dark blot, almost infectious. He turned his gaze to Bellatrix, who was wearing the beatific smile of an angel on her devil's face, and clenched his jaw as an ache started to pool in his loins.
Almost as if sensing the shift in his mood that would seal her victory, Bellatrix backed away from the group, and fired one final shot at the ethereal Patrice Sterling. "Oh, and if I see the tarty little child who played Carmen, I shall be sure to pass along to her that you enjoyed her performance."
With that, she slid past the group, her bare arm brushing Rodolphus' sleeve, and walked out of the building, disappearing into the night.
~*~
By the time the jerking of the portkey had ceased, Rodolphus was feeling as though the slow simmer that had built up that evening, since the beginning of the opera, was just about ready to boil. Unceremoniously seizing his 'companion of the evening' by the wrist, he pulled her into the nearest bedroom, and the sound of ripping cloth was simultaneous to the slam of the door. She kept a bland smile that was supposed to be encouraging, pasted upon her angelic features.
It was hard, and he knew that it was painful. She was a small thing, and until he had shoved her against the wardrobe, the glass doors cold against her bare back, and forced himself into her, she had never been with a man. She had gasped, biting her lip hard, and if her teeth had cut into her lip, his certainly didn't help the issue. She remained unresisting, her hands weakly clinging to his shoulders for support as he took her, and when it was all over, she kissed him in a conciliatory manner as she fumbled to fix her dress.
She never screamed, or fought back, and as he let her go, he wondered if she… or any of the multitudes of girls just like her, had water in their veins instead of blood.
If that were the case, it didn't quench the burning any more than a dewdrop could extinguish a conflagration. Dissatisfied and a bit impressed with a woman wholly dissimilar to the innocent nymph he'd just deflowered, he went to take a cold shower.
Disclaimer: Do not own them, do not want to.
~*~
In the luxurious sitting room of the Lestrange manor, two men, in dark evening-wear, sat on plush armchairs. Rabastan Lestrange took a sip of the red wine in the goblet he held, and smirked slightly at his older brother.
"Are you sure that the lovely Miss Sterling will enjoy this particular opera? Would not something like the Sleeping Beauty ballet be more to her taste?"
Rodolphus curled his lip just slightly. "Perhaps, although whether she has any taste, good, bad or in between, remains to be seen." Patrice Sterling-- beautiful, pure of blood and pure of heart, an angel in the flesh, perhaps. She would make an ideal wife and mother someday, and her obedience and discretion had its uses when it came to certain aspects of business. He could do far worse, he supposed.
She would never cross him, question him, or... truly interest him.
Quiet steps sounded on the staircase, for Patrice wore satin slippers without heels, and Rodolphus stood up to scrutinise his perhaps marriage-interest. Patrice gave him a tremulous sort of smile, her white hands in fingerless lace gloves, her virginally slender body swathed in pearlescent satin the colour of apple blossoms. She gave Rodolphus and his brother a demure smile and blushed becomingly when Rodolphus kissed her amorously on her bare neck.
"Good evening, my love," she said softly, stifling a tiny gasp of pain as Rodolphus bit down at her throat.
"Good evening," Rodolphus drawled, pulling away. "Are you ready to go, then?"
"Yes," Patrice said quietly, "As soon as I get my cloak."
A House Elf brought over a white velvet cloak lined with ermine, and Patrice thanked the little creature as though it were a friend. Carefully, she fastened it around her neck, taking care to hide the tell-tale reddening of her skin where Rodolphus had marked her. She gave her cold hand to Rodolphus, and stayed silent as he touched the portkey to take them to the theatre.
~*~
Bellatrix Black went wherever she pleased, or at least as far as she could get away with it. A pinch of powder in a lace handkerchief had been all that was necessary to purchase her ticket to freedom, and after two sneezes, Aria Black had excused her from the evening's banquet with the Rookwoods and told her to go to bed.
Andromeda and Narcissa had both wished her a good rest, and a House Elf had handed her a goblet of vitality potion. Blithely dumping the concoction into a potted rose on her windowsill, she allowed herself a thin smile as the small bush started to explode in blooms, and pulled a gown the colour of blood from her wardrobe.
By the time that she had slipped her feet into scandalous high heels, there were enough roses for a wreath, and ten minutes later, a lone girl in a rustling red dress and a crown of crimson roses appeared at the entrance of an opera house, gave a haughty look and a handful of coins to the man at the door, and followed the throng inside with her head held high.
Almost as soon as they had entered the actual theatre, Rodolphus left Patrice Sterling with a matronly woman in the upper wings of the theatre, joining his brother and walking towards seats in the front. Glancing upward at where his "ladylove" sat, Rodolphus allowed himself a slight sneer when he watched Patrice refuse to allow Mrs. Rosemond to remove her cloak.
When SHE came, the majority of the throng had already settled in, and the theatre was filled with the sounds of chattering as people waited for everyone to arrive and the show to begin. But the woman in red had opened the door for herself, and entered without any companion. A completely carefree expression on her haughty face, she had strode up to the front seat, a spot of blood-red moving through a sea of the dark that was men's evening clothes, and almost instinctively, a fellow in the front row slid down and away, perhaps sensing danger and excitement, and she acknowledged his action with a brief nod before sitting down right in the center of the row with the grace and aplomb of a queen.
If she had noticed the eyes of a young man darken as she sat down in the seat directly in front of him, she gave no indication, and if she smirked as she leaned her head back just slightly, hearing a slightly sharp intake of breath, he wouldn't have been able to see. The air around her head smelled like the roses she wore, musky and sharpened with the slight tang of blood.
The opera began, and on stage a dark, passionate woman in a crimson gown sang and cried and hated and loved and killed. Bellatrix remained completely still, her seat just out of reach, and watched with glittering eyes as the heroine seduced a man into a world of ruin and fantasy.
It was nearing the witching hour when the last scene ended, and the curtains closed for a moment, only to open again for the performers to take their bows. Bellatrix clapped politely, and stared at the dark-haired young man who had played the toreador with such intensity from the front row that he almost stumbled in surprise. A lady she undoubtedly was, but a lady never sat there.
It was only after the performers left the stage that Bellatrix turned around slowly, and faced the Lestrange brothers with a predatory, milk-white smile.
~*~
"Good evening, gentlemen," Bellatrix nodded her head coolly, her voice smooth as polished steel. Rabastan gave a slight start in recognition.
"Bellatrix Black, isn't it?" the younger man inquired, in a tone that didn't quite hide his surprise. "Are you here with your family?"
"No," Bellatrix replied directly, "But I see that YOU are."
She skimmed her eyes briefly over Rodolphus, an eyebrow raised in some sort of challenge, and smirked when his gaze lingered on her lips. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange," she remarked, "Fancy running into you here."
"Bellatrix," he nodded, inclining his head, his eyes now settled upon her neck.
"Miss Black," she corrected him a bit sharply, and then another, smaller figure, a woman, joined them.
"There you are, my love," Patrice was smiling, her voice a bit breathless from descending the stairs in her corset. She stepped next to Rodolphus and gave him an insipid look of sweetness, before noticing the woman in red, who was scrutinizing her with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Bellatrix stared at the other woman. She wore pink. PINK, paler than shriveled carnations. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, much like Narcissa. But Narcissa, even at thirteen, had more of a presence. Bellatrix continued to fix the woman with a piercing stare. Sweet, she was sure... patient. Gentle. Submissive. She looked like a porcelain doll, and was probably even easier to break. Turning to Rodolphus with a raised eyebrow, she asked lowly, "And who is this CHARMING girl, Mr. Lestrange?"
"Patrice Sterling," Rodolphus replied, "My companion for the evening."
"Charmed, miss," Patrice's voice was a dovelike coo, looking up at the taller woman, "You did a magnificent job tonight. Carmen, yes?"
Bellatrix raised her eyebrows and bit down a cruel laugh. "The opera's name is Carmen, yes, Miss Sterling. As is the name of the heroine."
"You sing wonderfully."
"Really," Bellatrix stared at the pale little thing, before suddenly moving her hand to her hair. "And would the lovely Miss Sterling like a rose?"
Before Patrice could refuse, Bellatrix had undone the wreath, none-too-gently pulling out a crimson bloom and pushing it into the other woman's hand. Patrice gasped slightly, then looked down in dismay as a drop of blood slid from her fingertip to stain the white lace of her gloves.
"It has thorns," she whispered, now gingerly holding the flower a bit away from her.
"That it does," Bellatrix replied, her voice a pleasured hiss, "If it didn't, it wouldn't be a rose, would it?"
Rodolphus was almost surprised to see blood in the first place, and stared at the spot: red stained white, a dark blot, almost infectious. He turned his gaze to Bellatrix, who was wearing the beatific smile of an angel on her devil's face, and clenched his jaw as an ache started to pool in his loins.
Almost as if sensing the shift in his mood that would seal her victory, Bellatrix backed away from the group, and fired one final shot at the ethereal Patrice Sterling. "Oh, and if I see the tarty little child who played Carmen, I shall be sure to pass along to her that you enjoyed her performance."
With that, she slid past the group, her bare arm brushing Rodolphus' sleeve, and walked out of the building, disappearing into the night.
~*~
By the time the jerking of the portkey had ceased, Rodolphus was feeling as though the slow simmer that had built up that evening, since the beginning of the opera, was just about ready to boil. Unceremoniously seizing his 'companion of the evening' by the wrist, he pulled her into the nearest bedroom, and the sound of ripping cloth was simultaneous to the slam of the door. She kept a bland smile that was supposed to be encouraging, pasted upon her angelic features.
It was hard, and he knew that it was painful. She was a small thing, and until he had shoved her against the wardrobe, the glass doors cold against her bare back, and forced himself into her, she had never been with a man. She had gasped, biting her lip hard, and if her teeth had cut into her lip, his certainly didn't help the issue. She remained unresisting, her hands weakly clinging to his shoulders for support as he took her, and when it was all over, she kissed him in a conciliatory manner as she fumbled to fix her dress.
She never screamed, or fought back, and as he let her go, he wondered if she… or any of the multitudes of girls just like her, had water in their veins instead of blood.
If that were the case, it didn't quench the burning any more than a dewdrop could extinguish a conflagration. Dissatisfied and a bit impressed with a woman wholly dissimilar to the innocent nymph he'd just deflowered, he went to take a cold shower.