Noëlle Zabini; murder twat (widowed) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-01-16 14:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | noëlle zabini, rabastan lestrange |
WHO: Rabastan Lestrange & Noëlle Zabini
WHEN: Various points over the last however long they've been seeing each other
WHERE: Various locations
WHAT: Romantic discussions of murder and marriage
WARNINGS: Talk of murder?
Noëlle hid her yawn behind the Tornados scarf she’d purchased just for today, eyes glazed over as the players zoomed around on the pitch in front of her. Why was it that people loved sports so much? “I don’t understand,” she admitted, “Why does this whole part of the game exist when only the snitch really matters? They could so easily cut down the length of games.” “It’s not just about finding the snitch,” Rabastan explained, tearing his eyes away from the match in order to focus on Noëlle. It didn’t seem likely that the day would end with Noëlle discovering a passion for Quidditch, but he had to try. “This back-and-forth is part of what makes the game so great. Short games aren’t very much fun at all. And—” His words broke off as the crowd erupted into screams. The Arrows’ beater had sent a bludger careening into the stands, though it hadn’t come anywhere near Rabastan and Noëlle. “And there’s no danger,” he added, a tiny smile curving the corners of his mouth. Noëlle winced as the bludger hit the stands, relieved it was not near them. The risk of a bludger to the face made the game seem even more impractical. Who wanted hobbies that could result in disfigurement? Comics had a leg-up on Quidditch in that regard. Still, when she looked away from the accident and back at Rabastan, she couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m getting the impression that you like danger.” A full-blown smile spread across Rabastan’s face, one with a provocative edge to it. “Really? Now, what in Salazar’s name could give you that idea?” Noëlle smirked, bringing a hand to rest on his thigh and leaning into him slightly. Quidditch may have been boring, but at least the company wasn’t all bad. “Oh, you know, it’s just a feeling that I have.” “Well, you’d be right,” Rabastan replied, glancing down at the hand on his thigh. He reached up to capture her chin in his hand, stroking along the outline of her jaw with his thumb. “Being with you is very dangerous, yet here I am. Except I believe we’re at an impasse.” “For now,” she replied with confidence, giving him her prettiest smile. “I can be very convincing. Besides, if you really like danger you should at least try an engagement.” He arched an eyebrow. “Do you still intend to murder me?” She laughed, giving his thigh a gentle pat. “One answer would incriminate me and the other would remove all danger and mystery. You’ll just have to wait and see.” His smile faded a little. “It’s still all about the gold?” Noëlle sighed, removing her hand. Rabastan wasn’t meant to care about that, it was part of his appeal. Along with the gold. “It’s also about the company,” she offered as consolation. The crowd around them erupted into cheers — the Tornadoes had scored. But Rabastan was focused on Noëlle, and he leaned in and kissed her soundly. Then, pulling back a few degrees, he smiled. “I’ll make you forget the gold.” “I don’t really understand this,” Rabastan admitted, eyeing the enthusiastic Swivenhodge players with unease. Flying backwards seemed uncomfortable and cumbersome, for one. But his main complaint was that the game lacked the excitement of Quidditch — one could only muster up so much energy about a ball going back and forth over a hedge. But at least they were using a ball. He had braced himself for a bracing afternoon with a pig’s bladder. Leaning back in his chair, he slipped an arm around Noëlle’s shoulder as he tilted his head toward her. “Now, remind me: which one of your husbands turned you on to this?” “Clifford. The third,” she answered, leaning into him. This was much more civilised than Quidditch. “It grows on you, I promise. Just like marriage will.” “I didn’t realize you were such an optimist,” was Rabastan’s uneasy reply. His mouth curled in annoyance at the suggestion. “Haven’t you picked up on the fact that I’m not really the marrying type?” “Why?” Her attention now fully on him instead of the game. She smiled at him, running a finger gently down his cheek, continuing down until her palm rested on his chest. “I think you would make a good husband, you’ve just never had the opportunity.” His immediate response was an undignified snort of amusement. Skepticism crept over his features as he leaned into Noëlle’s touch. “You should let our friends hear you say that. I imagine they would get a real kick out of it.” “Lucius may agree, he seems rather invested in the idea of you getting married.” Not that she wanted them to be like Narcissa and Lucius. That kind of marriage was completely foreign to her. “You’re not doing too terribly at this, and your compliments are improving. Why wouldn’t you be?” Rabastan raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was anything wrong with my compliments.” Noëlle’s laugh rang out loudly compared to the mostly silent crowd of spectators (much like tennis, the crowd was expected to keep quiet until a point was won, as to not break the player’s focus). “No, but you also think you’re charming,” she teased. “Hm.” Rabastan angled himself away from Noëlle, staring straight ahead at the match as if it was utterly captivating (it wasn’t). Still, the corners of his mouth jerked up into a smile as he said, “Perhaps I’m not as charming I used to be. Another one of Azkaban’s cheerful side effects.” His tone was light and airy, but there was a slight trace of bitterness in his voice, too. There was an easy joke (half joke) to be made about how his gold more than made up for his lack of charm, but she could recognise that now was not the time. Especially if she ever really wanted a shot at that gold. Instead she crossed her arm over her body so her hand could find the arm around her shoulders, interlacing their fingers. “I’m more charmed by you now than I ever was.” Rabastan was silent for a moment, his expression somewhat pained. He still struggled with this sort of intimacy — it was completely foreign to him, and the sort of thing he used to mock Narcissa and Lucius over. But he opted to give Noëlle’s hand a little squeeze in lieu of a verbal response. They watched the match in silence for another minute or two until he made the (half-)joke himself. “You’re really just charmed by the Lestrange vault.” “Perhaps,” she smiled, eyes focused on the match. There was something nice about the honesty she was afforded in this relationship. “But the man who owns it isn’t all bad either.” It was hard to gauge Noëlle’s sincerity, but Rabastan decided to lean into it. “You’re not too bad yourself.” “I’m a catch,” Noëlle agreed. “You really should consider locking this down.” Rabastan waved off her suggestion with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Marriage doesn’t make anyone happy. You obviously haven’t been thrilled with your husbands.” “Your brother and Bellatrix seem happy. Narcissa and Lucius. Eleanor and Merrick,” she listed. “I wouldn’t hold my bad luck with husbands against marriage as a whole.” His shoulders rose and fell in a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see.” “Mmm,” Noëlle agreed, letting go of his hand. “I suppose we will.” While Noëlle was always relieved when her marriages finally ended, then excited when the will was paid out, she had to admit there were parts of relationships she did always miss. Mostly the having company. Her house was much too large for just one (two, if you counted Blaise) but she refused to downsize. Large houses indicated wealth, it didn’t matter how many rooms went unused. She loved her house (more than she did her husbands) but it was nice, to not be alone again. She sighed in contentment as she rolled over, propping herself up on her elbow and reaching out to idly trace patterns on Rabastan’s skin. Her fingers found his mark, following the outline of the skull, down the snake and then back again. “How many have you killed?” she asked, curious and without judgement. The smile on Rabastan’s face faded and his gaze turned reflective as it flickered from the brand on his forearm to Noëlle’s eyes. In Azkaban, he had relived each kill dozens of times to help stave off the encroaching insanity. He shifted, careful not to disturb Noëlle too much, until he was leaning against the head of the bed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Dozens. I used to keep count when I was younger, when I was keen on competing with Rodolphus. I wanted to double his number, but I don’t see the need in that sort of thing now.” There was a thoughtful pause before he added, “How many have you killed?” “Zero, legally,” Noëlle replied, pleased with her lack of convictions. “But,” she paused, realising she’d never admitted this before. It was hardly a secret, even without evidence many suspected it, but who had she had to tell before? Certainly not her new husband-slash-victims. “Off the record, only five of them. Two died naturally, though in hindsight I would have liked to speed that process up.” When Rabstan spoke again, his voice was wry. “Oh, only five.” Still, the tone was mitigated somewhat by the lopsided and amused smile on his face. “Always poison?” “It’s the cleanest way.” Metaphorical blood on hands was fine, in reality it was likely to ruin expensive clothing. “Always different ones though, I wouldn’t want to have a pattern.” “It’s smart.” Rabastan never bothered with poison — he wanted to relish his kills — but at least poison couldn’t be traced with a reverse spell. He reached for her face, sweeping back a long strand of black hair drifting too close to her eyes. “You realize, of course, this means I can never accept a drink from you.” She laughed, catching his hand in hers and bringing it down to her mouth to kiss it gently. “That’s a shame because I have a nice wine cellar and no one else to share it with. Besides, poisoning drinks is so obvious. I’d be much more creative if I poisoned you.” “If you poisoned me?” Rabastan cocked an eyebrow, gentle skepticism seeping through. “You’re counting down the days until you can try.” “You don’t seem pleased if I say ‘when’, you correct me when I say ‘if’. There’s no way to make you happy here.” “You could always not kill me,” he suggested, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “We can make a pros and cons list. Top of the cons list: Rodolphus and Bellatrix would be very upset with you.” Noëlle sighed mournfully. “I’d have to flee the country or poison them both first. Pro: If they were both dead too you would have even more gold.” “I have all the gold I could ever want. And con: you would only get one attempt to kill Bellatrix Lestrange,” Rabastan cautioned. “I don’t think it would work out very well for you.” “And I think you are trying to make sure the cons win.” He had a point though; the likelihood that she would survive killing Rabastan was slim. It was just a matter of whether Rodolphus or Bellatrix would kill her first. Or perhaps even Lucius. “Do you have a better solution?” His hand slid up to curl around the back of Noëlle’s neck, a thumb behind her ear, grazing lightly. “Let’s keep things as they are now,” he replied, in a tone that approached earnest (not that Rabastan was ever earnest). She stretched her foot out to find his legs, hooking it around his ankle and drawing herself closer, affectionate despite her words. “There’s very little in that for me, though.” “See, I think you enjoy a lot of perks.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Unless you need a reminder…” She smiled back, laughing softly. “I think, to avoid either of us being murdered, that a reminder is definitely needed.” He closed the distance between them, silencing her laughter with a kiss. There was one thing Rabastan was always consistent about: gift giving. He rarely attached notes, for one, and on the rare occasion he did attach a note, he never signed it. He also didn’t strictly adhere to holidays and birthdays — there was something about surprising someone that he found appealing on some level. A surprising amount of thought and care went into the gift selection, too. He always considered the tastes and personal interests of the gift recipient when he chose a gift. In school, he had left little anonymous gifts for Narcissa. He had agonized over each gift — only for her to never realize they were from him. But with Noëlle, there was very little mystery to any of it. He knew exactly what she liked: money. When they arrived in her dining room to eat one evening, there was a gold goblet from the Lestrange vault sitting on the table. Rabastan ignored it, humming softly to himself as he took a seat. Noëlle’s eyes were drawn straight to the goblet as they entered the room, whether because it was new or because it was gold. She tried to push her excitement down, reaching for the goblet with a casual indifference ruined by the smile that spread across her face as her fingers wrapped around the goblet’s stem. Was there anything better than gold? “It’s beautiful.” A general comment, not directly aimed at Rabastan, who she’d almost forgotten in favour of admiring what she hoped was a gift. “You like it,” he said, a statement rather than a question because he could tell she liked it. That much was obvious by the smile blooming across her face. Talking about gifts made his skin crawl, but there was one thing he thought he should make clear: “It’s yours. We have several.” Some were more valuable than others. In comparison to the Hufflepuff cup, the goblet in Noëlle’s hands was merely a trinket. Of course he had several. Her own vault and house decor was nothing to scoff at, but the wealth of people who were born into it never failed to amaze her. To her almost every piece was still special, something she’d had to work for — and despite what other people might have thought, she did consider inheriting working for her money. It required a bigger commitment than many jobs did. Now assured that it was hers to keep, she released her grip on the goblet, pushing it back to the center of the table so they could continue to admire it while they ate. She moved to where Rabastan sat, bending to kiss him soundly before taking her own seat next to him. “You must have so many beautiful treasures,” she prompted, hoping to hear more about what could potentially become hers. Rabastan gave her a keen look before he sidestepped the question. “I’ve been in the vault several times in my life and I still couldn’t list everything that’s in there.” His tone was nonchalant and casual, as if everyone had a cavernous vault full of treasure accumulated over several generations. Her breath hitched at just the thought of such a vast vault. Why hadn’t she tried to marry Rabastan straight out of Hogwarts? “I believe,” she started, trying to match the nonchalance in his tone, “that you said you would show me some day.” Rabastan raised a brow. “Did I? Was I drunk?” “You were trying to distract me from the idea of a double date with Lucius and Narcissa, actually.” Which had worked, because as much as she liked the Malfoys, she liked the idea of a vault tour much more. Rabastan laughed as house elves poured into the room, each carrying a different yet equally elaborate of food. “A double date isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, eyes on the elf serving him food rather than Noëlle. “As long as Lucius and Narcissa don’t make eyes at each over the meal.” The vault tour wasn’t forgotten, but Noëlle knew to take what victories she could. If he could come around to the double date then perhaps it was only a matter of time before he came around to the vault tour, and then to marriage. “If they do, you can ignore them and make eyes at me instead.” “I’ve never made eyes at anyone in my life,” he laughed. “Then you’ll shock the Malfoys so much that they’ll stop making eyes at each other,” she smiled, picking up her cutlery. “All right,” Rabastan said with an air of finality, “We’ll go on a double date.” |