A/N: Yeah, I decided to return to this fic after working on and
finishing my senior thesis. I'm sure Kirixchi is fairly angry with me
for the long delay, but... at least it's back?
Disclaimer: Get a clue unless you want Bellatrix to curse one into you.
She knew just how to get the attention of all and hold it as her due. A Black in her imperious elegance: fire in her veins and ice in her eyes, and heads turned as she entered a room, satin dress robes the colour of blood rustling as she walked past with a cool, determined stride.
Bellatrix's eyes didn't linger upon any face as she moved to her table; this was but a ball in honour of Desdemona Wilkes' engagement to Bartholemew Avery, and a Black simply didn't deign to associate with such mere mortals.
There were some ties because of... things, of course. Aria Black had been Miss Wilkes' godmother, but in Bella's eyes, the only redeeming grace of the insipid, white-clad bride-to-be, with her plain face and the frilly muslin robes that her pathetic family must have scrounged up to buy, was her purity of blood.
Bellatrix felt no compunction, obviously, in the unspoken courtesy not to outshine her.
The other girls looked at her with envy and hatred behind vapid smiles, their faces half-hidden behind flimsy lace fans and delicate porcelain teacups. Worship and enmity were laced together like the sweet and the bitter of absinthe, and Rodolphus watched as she called out a sardonically sugary congratulation to Miss Wilkes, and sipped her coffee black, reveling in the way that no one could possibly be indifferent to her.
There was something deliciously magnetic about that, something deeper than beauty or majesty or wealth.
More so than that, there was a heady lure about the idea of having that. Her.
Rodolphus had been roommates with the groom-to-be, and sat at Avery's table, listening with half an ear to the polite conversation and somewhat strained, insipid jokes that Avery and Edmund Mulciber cracked. He knew that Avery was no more interested in marrying Desdemona Wilkes than Avery might have courting a House Elf. He knew of the isolated moments where Mulciber and Avery would spend way more time than necessary after Quidditch practices in the locker rooms. It was almost ironically, laughably pathetic. Mulciber would be the Best Man at the wedding.
Bellatrix would be the maid of honour. That arrangement came from a long-ago agreement between Aria Black and Annabella Wilkes, since Annabella didn't have any other daughters. The groom's younger sister Morwenna, but ten years of age, would be the flower girl.
"A toast," the loud, forcefully jubilant voice of Winston Avery cut through the streams of bland conversation. "To my son and heir, Bartholemew Gordon Avery, and his lovely fiancee Desdemona Jeanne Wilkes, may they have a most prosperous and agreeable marriage!"
A few weak clinks of glass sounded after this declaration, and Rodolphus glanced at the table where the bride-to-be sat. Bellatrix still wore that sardonic smile, eyes glinting through long, smoky lashes.
Mulciber clinked his glass against Avery's, a bit too hard, and Avery gave a sharp little exclamation of surprise as both their glasses broke, champagne dripping down with a hint of blood over their nicked fingers. The House Elves appeared within moments to clean up the mess, and Winston Avery immediately initiated another conversation to distract the guests.
Bellatrix had lifted her own glass demurely up to her lips, her face turned away from the rest of them. Rodolphus watched the light play on the shimmer of red fabric over her shoulders, and fancied that he could see them shaking almost imperceptibly with mirth.
Much later, after the meal had been finished and the wine glasses were empty, Rodolphus found her in the ballroom, a splash of crimson and jet against a white column. Standing in front of her was a man with lank, dark hair flecked with gray.
"It is a pity that your family did not send you to study in Durmstrang, Miss Black," Rodolphus heard the distinct, accented voice of Antonin Dolohov as he approached. "I would haff appreciated such a fine... mind..." Dolohov's eyes roved over the seductive figure in the crimson gown for a brief moment before rising once again to her face, "In my school."
Bellatrix smiled faintly, ruby lips parting to reveal pristine white teeth. "I'm sure that some aspects of my education will have benefited from going to your school, Mr. Dolohov," she drawled, "but it is a bit too late to rectify the error, is it not?"
"That remains to be seen," Dolohov replied silkily, taking a step forward. "We should discuss it sometime... not here with all the people, though."
"Is that so?" Bellatrix's smile widened, and Rodolphus felt his fingers clench around the wand in his pocket. With narrowed eyes he watched as the young woman took a step forward, towards the significantly older man. "I'll..." Suddenly, Dolohov gave a sharp gasp of pain, and Rodolphus heard the rustling sound of shifting skirts. Looking down, Rodolphus' expression changed into a smirk, seeing the thin, sharp point of Bellatrix's high heel digging into the calfskin toe of the other man's shoe. Almost coquettishly, she twisted her ankle, grinding down the heel even more. "Think about it," she finished in a voice as silky and smooth as Dolohov's, before stepping back, eyes snapping savagely. "Good evening, Mr. Dolohov," she snipped out in an unmistakable tone.
Dolohov backed away, his face red and pinched with humiliation, and Bellatrix smiled almost dreamily. To anyone passing, she was but another one of the beautiful girls of the Black family, leaning demurely against a column as she watched the proceedings.
"Good evening, Bellatrix," Rodolphus greeted her, inclining his head in a mocking half-bow.
"Mr. Lestrange," she returned coolly. "What brings you here?" The smile vanished now, replaced by a look of hauteur. "And... it's Miss Black, NOT Bellatrix, to you."
"Come now," he said softly, seizing her hand before she could snatch it away. "We know each other better than that."
"I suppose YOU have no sense of propriety," she retorted in a soft, sharp hiss.
"As much as you do, Bellatrix," he replied, tugging on her hand and pulling her away from the column. "And what did Dolohov want from you?"
"Something that he will never have," Bellatrix replied, narrowing her eyes. "Nothing of import to you, of course."
"And THAT, my dear, is where you are wrong," he whispered, sharply pulling her into his arms and onto the dance floor. Even as she aimed a vicious kick at his ankle, he twirled her, watching the skirts flare out around her legs. "Everything about you is of great importance to me."
"I suggest you limit your impertinence around ME," she said haughtily. Her cheeks were starting to flush from both the quick pace of the dance, and the anger rising in her chest. "You do not want to cross me."
"Oh no," Rodolphus pulled her close enough to smell the fragrance of the blood-red rose pinned behind her ear. She stiffened as his breath ruffled her hair. "Contrary to your opinion, I'd like to... as much and often as possible."
"I'll kill you," she threatened. It was certainly not a ladylike sentiment to express, and his lips parted in a smile over her temple.
"I'll HAVE you," he replied in an almost-sweet voice. She was untamed, proud and beautiful-- a princess in looks and bearing with the strength of a warrior. There was no one more worthy, and he smiled as he felt her fingers clenching painfully around his, nails digging into his skin.
The song drew to a close, and she wrenched herself out of his grasp, her gaze icy and venomous. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange."
"Take care until next time... Bellatrix," he returned, moving his fingertips to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss upon them before blowing it towards her.
His eyes moved from the arrogant, angry set of her shoulders to the swaying of her hips as she whirled almost violently on her heel and stalked away. Looking down, he saw something small and red on the ground, and smiled to himself as he stooped and picked it up.
It was the rose she'd worn in her hair.
Disclaimer: Get a clue unless you want Bellatrix to curse one into you.
She knew just how to get the attention of all and hold it as her due. A Black in her imperious elegance: fire in her veins and ice in her eyes, and heads turned as she entered a room, satin dress robes the colour of blood rustling as she walked past with a cool, determined stride.
Bellatrix's eyes didn't linger upon any face as she moved to her table; this was but a ball in honour of Desdemona Wilkes' engagement to Bartholemew Avery, and a Black simply didn't deign to associate with such mere mortals.
There were some ties because of... things, of course. Aria Black had been Miss Wilkes' godmother, but in Bella's eyes, the only redeeming grace of the insipid, white-clad bride-to-be, with her plain face and the frilly muslin robes that her pathetic family must have scrounged up to buy, was her purity of blood.
Bellatrix felt no compunction, obviously, in the unspoken courtesy not to outshine her.
The other girls looked at her with envy and hatred behind vapid smiles, their faces half-hidden behind flimsy lace fans and delicate porcelain teacups. Worship and enmity were laced together like the sweet and the bitter of absinthe, and Rodolphus watched as she called out a sardonically sugary congratulation to Miss Wilkes, and sipped her coffee black, reveling in the way that no one could possibly be indifferent to her.
There was something deliciously magnetic about that, something deeper than beauty or majesty or wealth.
More so than that, there was a heady lure about the idea of having that. Her.
Rodolphus had been roommates with the groom-to-be, and sat at Avery's table, listening with half an ear to the polite conversation and somewhat strained, insipid jokes that Avery and Edmund Mulciber cracked. He knew that Avery was no more interested in marrying Desdemona Wilkes than Avery might have courting a House Elf. He knew of the isolated moments where Mulciber and Avery would spend way more time than necessary after Quidditch practices in the locker rooms. It was almost ironically, laughably pathetic. Mulciber would be the Best Man at the wedding.
Bellatrix would be the maid of honour. That arrangement came from a long-ago agreement between Aria Black and Annabella Wilkes, since Annabella didn't have any other daughters. The groom's younger sister Morwenna, but ten years of age, would be the flower girl.
"A toast," the loud, forcefully jubilant voice of Winston Avery cut through the streams of bland conversation. "To my son and heir, Bartholemew Gordon Avery, and his lovely fiancee Desdemona Jeanne Wilkes, may they have a most prosperous and agreeable marriage!"
A few weak clinks of glass sounded after this declaration, and Rodolphus glanced at the table where the bride-to-be sat. Bellatrix still wore that sardonic smile, eyes glinting through long, smoky lashes.
Mulciber clinked his glass against Avery's, a bit too hard, and Avery gave a sharp little exclamation of surprise as both their glasses broke, champagne dripping down with a hint of blood over their nicked fingers. The House Elves appeared within moments to clean up the mess, and Winston Avery immediately initiated another conversation to distract the guests.
Bellatrix had lifted her own glass demurely up to her lips, her face turned away from the rest of them. Rodolphus watched the light play on the shimmer of red fabric over her shoulders, and fancied that he could see them shaking almost imperceptibly with mirth.
Much later, after the meal had been finished and the wine glasses were empty, Rodolphus found her in the ballroom, a splash of crimson and jet against a white column. Standing in front of her was a man with lank, dark hair flecked with gray.
"It is a pity that your family did not send you to study in Durmstrang, Miss Black," Rodolphus heard the distinct, accented voice of Antonin Dolohov as he approached. "I would haff appreciated such a fine... mind..." Dolohov's eyes roved over the seductive figure in the crimson gown for a brief moment before rising once again to her face, "In my school."
Bellatrix smiled faintly, ruby lips parting to reveal pristine white teeth. "I'm sure that some aspects of my education will have benefited from going to your school, Mr. Dolohov," she drawled, "but it is a bit too late to rectify the error, is it not?"
"That remains to be seen," Dolohov replied silkily, taking a step forward. "We should discuss it sometime... not here with all the people, though."
"Is that so?" Bellatrix's smile widened, and Rodolphus felt his fingers clench around the wand in his pocket. With narrowed eyes he watched as the young woman took a step forward, towards the significantly older man. "I'll..." Suddenly, Dolohov gave a sharp gasp of pain, and Rodolphus heard the rustling sound of shifting skirts. Looking down, Rodolphus' expression changed into a smirk, seeing the thin, sharp point of Bellatrix's high heel digging into the calfskin toe of the other man's shoe. Almost coquettishly, she twisted her ankle, grinding down the heel even more. "Think about it," she finished in a voice as silky and smooth as Dolohov's, before stepping back, eyes snapping savagely. "Good evening, Mr. Dolohov," she snipped out in an unmistakable tone.
Dolohov backed away, his face red and pinched with humiliation, and Bellatrix smiled almost dreamily. To anyone passing, she was but another one of the beautiful girls of the Black family, leaning demurely against a column as she watched the proceedings.
"Good evening, Bellatrix," Rodolphus greeted her, inclining his head in a mocking half-bow.
"Mr. Lestrange," she returned coolly. "What brings you here?" The smile vanished now, replaced by a look of hauteur. "And... it's Miss Black, NOT Bellatrix, to you."
"Come now," he said softly, seizing her hand before she could snatch it away. "We know each other better than that."
"I suppose YOU have no sense of propriety," she retorted in a soft, sharp hiss.
"As much as you do, Bellatrix," he replied, tugging on her hand and pulling her away from the column. "And what did Dolohov want from you?"
"Something that he will never have," Bellatrix replied, narrowing her eyes. "Nothing of import to you, of course."
"And THAT, my dear, is where you are wrong," he whispered, sharply pulling her into his arms and onto the dance floor. Even as she aimed a vicious kick at his ankle, he twirled her, watching the skirts flare out around her legs. "Everything about you is of great importance to me."
"I suggest you limit your impertinence around ME," she said haughtily. Her cheeks were starting to flush from both the quick pace of the dance, and the anger rising in her chest. "You do not want to cross me."
"Oh no," Rodolphus pulled her close enough to smell the fragrance of the blood-red rose pinned behind her ear. She stiffened as his breath ruffled her hair. "Contrary to your opinion, I'd like to... as much and often as possible."
"I'll kill you," she threatened. It was certainly not a ladylike sentiment to express, and his lips parted in a smile over her temple.
"I'll HAVE you," he replied in an almost-sweet voice. She was untamed, proud and beautiful-- a princess in looks and bearing with the strength of a warrior. There was no one more worthy, and he smiled as he felt her fingers clenching painfully around his, nails digging into his skin.
The song drew to a close, and she wrenched herself out of his grasp, her gaze icy and venomous. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange."
"Take care until next time... Bellatrix," he returned, moving his fingertips to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss upon them before blowing it towards her.
His eyes moved from the arrogant, angry set of her shoulders to the swaying of her hips as she whirled almost violently on her heel and stalked away. Looking down, he saw something small and red on the ground, and smiled to himself as he stooped and picked it up.
It was the rose she'd worn in her hair.