Who: Rodolphus & Bellatrix What: A realisation When: 16th May Where: Lestrange Manor
Rating: PG Status: Almost complete
The last two weeks had been long ones, and Rodolphus Lestrange had caught mere glimpses of his wife except at breakfast (during which he was usually more interested in a book than casual conversation) or at bedtime, (and she was frequently asleep before he joined her, these days). He barely noticed the lack of communication, as he was both oblivious to whatever changes she'd suffered, except to see that she was not ailing, and well aware that the weeks following a major battle were often distracted ones.
However, today he made an effort to retire earlier, so he could join his wife in bed while she was still awake. He didn't make efforts frequently, to be fair, but two weeks was a long time to put his attentions elsewhere. Tonight, he was the first one in their chambers and so curled up beneath the sheets, a pair of narrow glasses perched on the edge of his nose (because of the low light only, he insisted) and a book in his hand, waiting.
Bellatrix was relieved that, for the most part, with her memory still shaky, she had managed to give Rodolphus the slip (for he, above anyone else, would notice something amiss). The exhaustion of dealing with people, compounded with evading the questions she found most probing, had made her especially solitary and she was often asleep before her head hit the pillow.
But it was not to be so tonight. Slipping into their bedroom chamber, she hardly noticed Rodolphus's silent presence as she walked to the dressing table and began to remove the pins from her hair. She was aching for rest, a chance to stretch her body and some mere hours in which to let her guard down.
Bellatrix's arrival tore his attentions from his book, and he lowered it, a finger serving as the placeholder. "Evening," he said, as congenially as someone of Rodolphus's sensibilities was able to. It was difficult to gauge Bellatrix's temperament at the best of times, and she'd been unusually uncommunicative of late -- not that Rodolphus noticed, especially, as he was oblivious to most change that didn't directly inconvenience him -- but that didn't stop him from wanting to spend time with her. Particularly bedtime.
Pulling himself from beneath the covers and laying the book down on the bedside table, he padded across the floor to stand behind his wife, one hand wrapping warmly about her shoulder and the other removing a pin or two from her long black hair.
Though some rather distinct specifics of their marriage was lost to her memory, she knew Rodolphus's temperament from the long years she spent in training with his moods to navigate as mentor and mentee. This warm creature with his large hands and quiet, almost cat-like nature, left her slightly stymied. She would have been much more comfortable if he had tried to hex her ...
But keeping the facts in the forefront of her mind, she lifted one finely sculpted brow as the final inky curl shook out over her back. "You're keeping early hours," she remarked, intensely aware of the minute tremor in her hands. This would be her first test: if she could fool him, then no one would ever have to know of her particularly strange ailment.
A noise of admission was his only response at first, and Rodolphus leaned in to press his lips against the top of her head. His hand slid lower, across her collarbone now, possessive, consuming, and he paused to move his glasses from the bridge of his nose to the smooth, finely carved surface of Bellatrix's vanity before speaking.
"I have scarcely seen you in a week," he pointed out. "My schedule can suffer a minor inconvenience."
She was still beneath him, hands splayed within the folds of her trousers as she bowed her head to refrain from meeting his gaze (for if he looked at her closely, perhaps he would gauge the tenuous anxiety that hung about the corners of her mouth) ...
"How noble," she murmured, one cold palm slowly arcing upward to lay against his forearm.
Rodolphus smoothed his lips across silken strands of hair, pausing at her ear before glancing into the mirror, upon which Bellatrix's eyes were not. A shiver of discomfort spread across his spine in that moment, and he was unsure how to proceed. Bellatrix was not aggressive in the bedroom, by any means, but she was not what any sane person could describe as shy, either.
"Are you tired?" he asked vaguely, well aware that 'tired' was a rather quaint purist euphemism for any number of ailments, none of which he particularly wanted to know specifics about.
Her lips trembled for an instant as she thought over the most prodigious ways to react: this was obviously not her typical bedroom m.o. What was appropriate behaviour? For all of her blusterings, she was a virgin when she married Rodolphus. This was new territory.
Swinging her leg over the side of the bench, she faced him and leant her elbows back upon the vanity. Her mind begged him to take this in stride, as nothing amiss. She smirked, albeit crookedly. "Have I ever been tired? Hmm?"
With a second of hesitation, during which Rodolphus tried to reconcile logic with desire -- and logic failing in one of those rare moments, he leaned in more heavily, supporting himself with one hand upon the vanity. Their faces were close, his breath hot across her lips, his palm pushing back strands of hair across her shoulder. He wanted to believe it -- oh, how he wanted to believe it.
But as he dipped down to press a kiss against her neck, he could not quite commit himself. Not without certainty.
"You are certain you are well?" he asked, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye.
And within her gaze was - not revulsion - for he was certainly fit (far fitter than the impression the layers upon layers of clothing he had worn gave) - but trepidation. Something near fear. And within that fear, a grand concoction of self-hatred. Her hand met his cheek firmly. Insistent upon this thing, she drew her lips to his and opened her mouth for what was sure to be a wet, clumsy kiss.
His hands were immediately about her wrists, a firm, though not painful, grasp enough to push her away from him so that she could not distract his attentions with affection, feigned or otherwise. His expression tightened and he was fully ill at ease now, aware, unwillingly, that something was wrong.
"That is not an answer," he said sternly. "Something is not right and I should like to know what it is."
There was a flare of anger. How dare he not accept her when she was trying so hard ...? With her lips pursed, she twisted her wrists out of his grasp and leaned back to exist wholly without touching him.
Well, let him know.
"When I woke up - after the battle - there was a great deal I didn't remember. There's still a great deal I don't remember. Marrying you, among the chiefest.
Rodolphus took a step backwards, stunned. "What?" How hadn't he noticed? Worse, he'd just been touching, kissing a woman who saw him as little more than an acquaintance. He'd been sleeping alongside her for a week now. He'd had meals with her. Mixed feelings of betrayal and embarrassment swept over him, and he grabbed a jacket from the foot of the bed, as if being seen in his pyjamas was indecent.
"You should have said something," he growled, mortification translating into anger and accusations.
A deep furrow marked her brow as she rose, staking the ground he gave up with a long stride. Here was Bellatrix, then. And if he were somehow still interested, perhaps he could see something to love in the twist of her lips and the proud arch of her shoulders as she poked her finger into his chest.
"You sound like my mother," she growled back, her usually velvet-rich voice taking on its rocky underpining. "And you're not a stranger. I just -- no one is to know.
An ugly flush was creeping its way across the edges of Rodolphus's temples, and he shoved her pointing finger away, tugging on his jacket roughly to cover his thinly veiled chest. This couldn't be happening. This was preposterous.
"I am going to stay in another wing," he said lowly, trying to shove aside memories of touching her, of wanting her. She was just a girl, in her mind. Some twenty one year old girl who was pretending to love him. His insides twisted.
She would not let him, however. Sliding to block his hasty exit, she grasped his wrist and pulled. Hard. "You're not going to bloody well walk away from me, Rodolphus Lestrange, because you're disgusted. You stay right here. I can't have anyone knowing ..."
Another step back, and he tugged himself out of her grasp. He couldn't bear the touch of her, knowing that she didn't remember. "The Dark Lord will know," he replied scathingly, embarrassment welling up harder and faster, morphing into irritation in some ridiculous, almost childish defence mechanism. "And so our peers will know. And so it hardly makes a damned difference if I go elsewhere in my own bloody house."
" ... and the Dark Lord is intelligent enough to see no difference," she fired back, twisting her hands in the crook of her elbows. She wanted something to throw. "And don't bother, Lestrange. I'm leaving. I disgust you so."
"No difference?" Was she insane? "Seven years had impact on even the proud Bellatrix Black; you are a fool to think you are the same woman." Disgust? No, he would not call the myriad emotions fighting within him disgust. "Go where you will, but these rooms are open to you." What more could he say? He would not force her to stay or leave; he knew she could not escape the house lest she shame both their families.
"You are an unbending fool, Rodolphus Lestrange, and a ninny, if you do not recognise that while this is ... " heartbreaking -- "The Dark Lord will not forsake me," she effused, "as you are. If you had any love for me, why recoil? Why not see this as opportunity -- why not?"
His insides twisted, and he wanted to hold her close and be comforting in some way -- even if it went against everything that was in his nature. He knew the Dark Lord would be better accepting of the situation, but he did not have the fortitude of his master, he did not have the strength. But still, he was sorry.
"I am willing to reacquaint us, each to the other," -- a difficult enough statement on its own as all he wanted now was to get away and mourn the loss of his wife -- "but I will not sleep in the same bed as a woman who is not my wife. Surely even you see the utter impropriety of it."
What in the hell would it take to make him sit down, stop overreacting and plan this out? "I am still Bellatrix," she emphasized, suddenly high and haughty, "and if you cannot see that, then perhaps you are not Rodolphus. Don't worry about sleeping elsewhere. I wouldn't want to impugn your honour."
Pausing, she gathered up a light cardigan from a bedside stand and raised her shoulders in a shrug as she slipped into it. It was up to him, for she was simply going to soldier on. The Dark Lord needed warriors, not shy violets, and Rodolphus's behaviour stuck at her in the most irritating of places.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said sharply, reaching out to pull the cardigan away from her. "These are your quarters. This is my house. It would be illogical for you to go elsewhere." He had no idea how to react to this situation. It was not the sort of thing one expected to happen -- or even imagined could happen. Seven years gone. His marriage. Gone. He could do nothing about it, and her attempts to pretend nothing was wrong made it even worse.
"You are Bellatrix, but you are not my wife. There is a difference." He was reminded of his mentee -- stubborn, thick-headed. It was like talking to a wall. "You will stay here and I will go to the North wing."
"If I am not your wife, I hardly think I have to listen to you," she responded, crossing her arms over her chest. His insistence - his thickheaded, boorish, stubborn attitude - made her teeth grind. She hated men who made concessions for their wives, who felt as though they had to self-sacrificingly provide to assuage their masculinity. "Tell everyone I've taken a small holiday. I don't care what you tell them. I won't stay and be ordered around by a man who is my husband who insists that I am not his wife."
"You didn't listen to me even when you were my wife," Rodolphus replied flatly, and he stepped in front of the door, his own arms crossing before he slumped back against it, a rather effective blockade. "If you would like everyone to know that there is a problem with our marriage, feel free to leave this room, but I sincerely doubt your sister will appreciate the societal implication. I will force you to do nothing, but I will not share a bed with a woman who does not remember seven years of marriage." He sighed, and in a short moment looked weary, melancholic, old. It seemed the Dark Lord truly was all he had left on this earth. Father gone, now books, now his wife. He was tired of loss.
For a moment, Bellatrix was of a dual mind. The drop from their windows was a high one, though she was sure with a cushioning charm, she could more than amply break her fall. Alternately, she was rather certain that she could simply blast him out of the way. Neither option, though, in the face of such a tired face seemed fitting ...
She turned back to her dressing table and sat abruptly, recommencing the taking down of her hair. With lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line, she cast her gaze through the mirror to him briefly, before speaking. "You give up --" on me -- "too quickly."
A hand spread out over Rodolphus's face and he rubbed his eyes. This Bellatrix... he remembered her well. Stubborn and untempered by his ever constant presence. Quick to draw conclusions. Easy to offend. While he'd found it charming in his forties, after seeing the woman Bellatrix had grown into, her childish tendencies were less appealing. He wanted his wife back. Desperately. Perhaps he ought to play along -- to help her learn in the span of a few days what it had taken her seven years to accomplish. It seemed impossible.
Crossing the room, he stood behind her, face stoic as ever, though a lingering unrest hovered at the corners of his mouth. One hand to each of her shoulders, then, and he looked at her in the mirror, wondering what it was he could do with this proud creature. "What would you have me do, Bellatrix?"
Her arms fell to her lap as she gazed at him in the mirror's reflection, lips slowly curving into a guileless smile. "Fight. For me, with me ... " Her hand came up to cover his. "Fight."
He squeezed, and wordlessly nodded. "I will fight at your side."
A moment's hesitation before he spoke again, the first three syllables clumsy on his stoic tongue. "I love you and I know that space will not change my resolve to reacquaint us -- but I need that space."
To confess his love audibly, Bellatrix knew (even the Bellatrix who could not remember standing with him at any altar), took a great deal of gusto and she appreciated it. Her hackles thus smoothed, she smiled vaguely ... "Indeed."
He released her after a moment and stepped backwards again, still watching her in the mirror. "I shall find quarters elsewhere, then, for the time being. You may utilise whatever area of the house is to your liking, but I would prefer you remain at home." Inwardly, he acknowledged that this wasn't her home in her memory -- but if she desired the appearance of normalcy, it was his best offer.