RP Log - Rodolphus, Darlene Who: Rodolphus; Darlene Widderwink (played by the lovely Ash) Where: The reporter's house in Tinworth What: Vengeance When: 20 January, not long after this
Status: Complete Rating: PG-13
Rodolphus returned quite late that night - he'd spent some time with one of the foreign ministers (loyal to their cause) and then some time with Walden to drink away his woes. It was time well spent, and as he stepped across the dark threshold of his house and toward the glint of firelight in his library, there was no great tremor in the universe to warn him of the rage he would soon be feeling. An house elf had placed the Daily Prophet evening addition upon one of his tables, and he palmed it idly as he passed, content to laze in his fireside chair before retiring for the night. He knew Bellatrix would be well worn and cheered by her knife practices, but a few minutes alone had never done him harm.
... and minutes later the shock of an exploding vase would be heard throughout the house as his anger rent the room, the Daily Prophet left to burn upon a cheery fire as Rodolphus Lestrange ripped himself out of existence and into it elsewhere.
The wizarding world was a small one, and Rodolphus had a long memory for names and faces and addresses; he didn't stop to wonder in amazement that in his blind fury he'd managed not to splinch himself, but stormed down the black streets of Tinworth, searching for a very particular house.
Darlene had hardly been expecting the attention she'd received from this newest article; it would put her on the map! She'd be hotter than Rita Skeeter in no time! To celebrate her success, she had chosen to spend some time with a certain nameless male admirer, and the evening had been fantastic. Dancing and drinks had improved upon what was already the best mood she'd been in for weeks. Darlene still sashayed around the room in her rumpled cocktail dress, glass of red wine spilling traces over her manicured fingers. It was her philosophy that no good wine should go undrank, so, switching hands, she lapped at the red stain on her fingers before taking another sip, humming along to the wireless.
And then she heard the boom of heavy footsteps at the door.
Rodolphus didn't bother to cast protective spells or any other kind of spells, for that matter; his wand remained safely tucked within his heavy coat and when the door blasted open before him, it wasn't by magical means - but by his boot. A face so dark with rage had never graced the door of Darlene Widderwink's, nor would it again, for the husband she'd wronged did not have justice gleaming in his eyes but murder.
His eye was drawn to the wine upon her fingers, macabrely tinted in the low light of tired romance. He had no interest in her excuses, her pleas, or her screams, and so did not hesitate to stride forward, kicking chair and table out of his way; he seemed enormous in the firelight, casting shadows across every wall even as his face hid in a shadow of its own. He was livid. He was dangerous. He was eerily silent.
Darlene's eyes widened at the sudden intrusion, and the wineglass dropped from nerveless fingers to spill upon her white shag carpet. She took several steps backwards for the kitchen, before turning and running through the downstairs of her tiny house in a dead flight. Her wand, her wand, it was laying beside the wine bottle... scrabbling for it, she dropped it on the floor.
RodolphusLestrangeisrightbehindyouandheishackedthefuckoff! her mind screamed at her, and she forgot about her wand, turning around to throw up her hands in a gesture of surrender, tears streaming from her eyes. "I'm sorry about the article!" she pleaded. "Please, please, let's just talk about this, we can talk, I'll recant the article, just don't hurt me!"
Rodolphus followed, boots pounding out a heavy staccato in her wake, and when she fell, when she turned, he reached for her, wide palms curling around her neck and wrenching her up, up away from the floor. She was soft, painfully soft, and vulnerable; it should have garnered something like pity in him, but his insides were seared with a cold rage, and any emotion resembling pity, guilt, compassion, had long been burned away.
"Recant? Can you remove the public shame upon my name?" His breath was hot across her face, and he held her, crushingly, intimately, close. "Can you erase the damage you have done to my parents?" His fingers drew tighter around her throat, and she was left with air enough for a last breath, a last word only - for he did not intend to draw this out.
Oh god, she couldn't breathe, she was going to die. Wasn't it ridiculous, though, to kill someone over an article? She couldn't die in her own kitchen, it was too safe - she was a reporter, she was supposed to die in some back alley getting information, not while listening to the wireless after a date.
It was hard to think with brutish hands choking the life out of you, and Darlene's mind cleared itself for one more vain push at survival. Spots swimming in front of her eyes, Darlene gasped and panted, clawed at his huge hands with a desperate, furious last burst of strength. "Stop," she begged, looking up at his dark, looming face and knowing it futile, knowing there would be no mercy for her. She would be famous tomorrow, but not for her articles.
And then everything went black.
Rodolphus held her several seconds longer than he needed to, fingers still painfully tight around now-lax flesh. The pulse had stopped, the breath and the struggling were gone, and with a sharp breath, he thrust the girl to the side, where she collapsed like a rag-doll, broken and lifeless. He didn't feel better by any conventional meaning of the word - but there was something of relief in his rage-wearied expression.
When he finally pulled himself up to full height - when he finally disapparated out of this miserably empty place - his crack would echo into the dregs of a crackling fire and the mournful melody of the abandoned wireless.