bella burns at fahrenheit 451 (mslestrange) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2009-09-02 01:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | bellatrix lestrange, rodolphus lestrange |
RP Log: Rodolphus and Bellatrix
who. Rodolphus and Bellatrix
where. Their house
when. After the attack on King's Cross
what. Bella requires some patching up. Rodolphus does not count to three.
rating. pg
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It wasn't until he reached the bedchamber that he wrenched off his mask. The thing was flung towards the vanity, where it skidded to a halt, smacking the mirror and rattling as its battered surface touched its reflection in the frame. Later it would be transfigured into a stone and tucked back into a circle of similar rocks in the garden, but for now its owner's focus was on the unconscious woman in his arms, a woman whose mask he didn't remove but whose body he rather unceremoniously hefted and deposited on the bed.
The room was cheerfully oblivious to the exploits of its wayward masters -- sunlight streamed through the windows, gently shifting as the boughs of the trees outside bobbed in the mid-morning breeze, and a gentle quiet accompanied the stillness. It was a severe change from the chaos the pair had so recently traded it for, a place where the air had been wracked by screams and tears, fury and motion. Rodolphus' heart still rang with it, creating a thudding in his ears that didn't seem to abate even as he anxiously pulled open the top buttons of his collar. It was as he yanked these open that he lifted his wand, aimed it at the woman on the bed, and spoke a flat, "Rennervate."
After crumpling beneath the blunt force of the metal bench, Bellatrix saw nothing and knew nothing of the world. The usual hook through the belly for Apparition, the quiet so disparate from the melee she had Rodolphus had just left, the sunlight dappled across the bedspread. That is, until Rodolphus spoke and the spell brought her gasping bolt upright as if she were a marionette caught in its own strings.
Instinct plucked at her nerves, begged her to take out her wand and start shooting, but with her free arm (the arm that would move), she clawed the metal mask from her face and flung it to the side. Her hair, a tangled mess of sweaty curls and her red face did nothing for the wildness in her eyes even as she recognised her own room, her own husband.
Though Rodolphus' face held a similar ruddiness (even moreso with the smear of blood on his cheek, where a portion of his mask had splintered inward) his own eyes were dull. They met Bellatrix's long enough for him to be sure she was somewhat in control of her faculties, to be sure she wasn't about to begin firing at him.
When he spoke his voice was gruff and his hands were already occupied in neatly unfastening his dusty cuffs, even as his gaze stayed on her. "You were hit," he added. "With a bench."
"Are you sure," she said, carefully moving her fingertips over the shoulder that was surely dislocated, "that it wasn't a truck?" Individuals so seldom caught her off her guard or managed to get a spell through that such a physical remnant of the violence that ensued was both shocking and maddening. One swift, practised gaze swooped over his face. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
The verdict was delivered with a swift push of either sleeve until the fabric bunched up at his elbows. He too was ill-at-ease with the notion of her being so abused -- though he supposed the earth exploding beneath her feet and a large object being hurled her way would be enough to waylay anyone. Rodolphus set his jaw. "Potions. What do you need? Where are you," a rough exhale, "Hurt?"
"No. Nothing beyond what will make me look least like I've done much more than fall off a horse in the last two days." Her teeth laid into the inside of her cheek as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and cradled her arm against her chest. "I think my shoulder is dislocated. You have to put it back in."
Finally his eyes dropped from her face, fixing directly on the wounded arm, and he gave a silent, steady nod. There was a brief churning in his stomach, something which burnt for a moment like guilt, before it was quelled. Rodolphus reached out to place one firm hand on his wife's front, sparing her delicate collarbone little regard with his grip, while his other hand moved to grasp her upper arm. Now his eyes shifted back to hers. "Count to three."
Though the severity of his grip promised to leave bruises afresh, she would later admit to herself that she found the touch comforting, that his virtually silent presence was appreciated. That it was relied upon. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes tight and nodded. "One ... two ..."
On two his hold tightened fiercely, one hand pinning her in place while the other swiftly shoved her arm back into its socket. Despite the brutality of the motion there was a clean precision to it, one that spoke of practice with such controlled movements. Even his face didn't change its expression, at least not beyond a sudden clenching of his jaw.
On two her stomach rolled with nausea, beads of sweat glimmering on her brow as hunched forward, her forehead resting in the hollow of his neck. It took a full half-minute to regain enough motor control to breathe out slowly, open her eyes and murmur " ... three."
In contrast to the roughness he'd treated her with a moment earlier, Rodolphus' arm was almost delicate as it was slowly removed from her shoulder and wrapped around her back instead. It wasn't gentle so much as it was calculating, as with the same even measure he leaned forward, obviously intending to make her lay back down against the bed. He could feel the slickness of her sweat against his skin, smell it as it mingled with the dust and grit left over from the battle at the station.
"I'm getting potions," he muttered with some finality. His brow was furrowed.
She was in no shape to argue, though the desire tasted alkaline upon her tongue, and so laid back against the bed, loosening the collar of her robes with her good hand. "Call for them," she said quietly, "don't leave." And quick upon that, "I didn't recognise any of our opponents."
Before he could reply to what she was saying, he reared back in order to deliver a suitably loud, suitably angry roar. "Gort!"
He'd barely managed to get the name past his lips before a greying, trembling creature was peering around the distant doorframe. Rodolphus didn't need to even make eye contact with the house elf in order to make demands however, and his requirements -- the chest of healing potions, something to drink, a cloth, ice -- were barked as he kept one eye on Bellatrix. He had no doubt she'd be good as new in a day or so.
"One at a time," he intoned with a heavy sigh, the one and only betrayal that he was exhausted at all by the morning's activities. "For next time then."
Rodolphus lapsed into silence. He couldn't help his mind from leaping to concerns about Rabastan. Even though he had a great confidence in his brother's abilities, he had a greater confidence when he could actually lay eyes on the other man. With his younger sibling out of sight it was all too easy too imagine the worst -- perhaps Rabastan had become carried away, maybe he'd grown cocky -- and soon there was no end to the possibilities on where he could have ended up. These were concerns unique to the other man, for they hadn't once crossed Rodolphus' mind when thinking of Bellatrix. Her skill he didn't doubt. I should have been by his side instead.
The rattle of glass bought him out of his reverie. The house elf was hauling the wooden potions case into the room, and Rodolphus relieved him of it with one smooth motion. It was dropped on the bedside table and opened up.
She cut her gaze to the potion cabinet before turning back to him with naked appraisal. They had been married long enough that she knew when he was tired. She could only imagine the amount to which his mind was not with her, though he remained by her side. It was a loyalty she knew she relied upon too assiduously; but there was so little left to her own family; she blew out a sigh. "Leave them. Check on Rabastan. See to yourself."
Even if he'd wanted to, he didn't have the patience to muster up a refusal. A bottle or two was deftly removed from its shelving and set gingerly on the nightstand -- just so that he might feel one last fleeting sense of usefulness -- before he turned towards her and furrowed his brow. "When would you like me to wake you?"
"If I haven't gotten up by supper ... " Well, then that would mean she would probably require a trip to St. Mungo's for her bump on the head. "Wake me up then. But I suspect you won't have to." Eyes already closed, arm gathered still upon her chest, she let herself fade into thoughts of comfort. She had done her utmost for the Dark Lord. She had recognised her opponent. She would fight again.