JADIS (knifed) wrote in raveled, @ 2016-11-10 13:10:00 |
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"Chateau Puddleglum-Lafoot '62." The sound of wine pouring only exaggerated the silence across the table, but Rodolphus—quite comfortable with long periods of silence—took his glass and turned it. The Lafoot vineyards produced grapes with an unusual luster; through the glass and behind candlelight, Bellatrix glowed a luminous red, her dark hair a sharp knife of charcoal over vermilion. She looked beautiful and cruel with savage eyes and a haughty mouth. He should have told her so. He didn't. Bellatrix, unaware of the interesting internal monologue across the table, swirled her wine and wondered how much time had passed. Nearby, a couple was holding hands and giggling over dessert—her eyes flickered towards them with malice before returning to rest on Rodolphus. By all accounts, he should have begun a conversation by now. He was a mystery, and Bellatrix couldn’t stand mysteries. Clearly, Druella Black’s guide to etiquette didn’t cover everything. "So," she drummed bright red nails on the table, impatience obvious. "What do you do in your spare time?" "I read." He had a book in his back pocket presently and thought he might pull it out for her. They could discuss the author's mysterious death and the secret messages he'd left entwined in the otherwise dry text. Rodolphus spent the better part of a week deciphering volume one. Or—he thought of the plans he was drawing up for a magical library. A place to store new texts and restore ancient ones; a sanctuary for centuries of pure thought—or the study of dark texts in a private room. Instead: "Do you read?" This was followed by another long silence as Bellatrix, fidgeting, gave him the chance to elaborate—maybe they'd been reading the same recently restored history of the Dark Arts in Morocco. But no elaboration followed. "Yes," she said a little scornfully, wondering if this was a test. "Of course I do." "Right." He swirled his wine, pulling the glass to his nose and thinking carefully about the bouquet rather than what to say next—not that thinking about what to say had yet served him well. It was nice. Stonefruit and dark chocolate notes. Probably something the server thought would improve the romantic mood. Rodolphus noticed she was still watching him. It's your turn. "Like what?" "Oh, you know, academic texts, history… some poetry and fiction," Bellatrix set down the wine and crossed her arms. He was clearly very bored of her. She was called a lot of things, but boring wasn't usually one of them. "I'm sure you'd term it a dilettante approach." "I see." By all the people intent on meddling in his affairs, Bellatrix had been described in terms both glowing and unflattering—but never had she been described to him as taking a dilettante approach. To anything. It was entirely possible this was a joke he didn't get—but Bellatrix didn't take a dilettante approach to expression and even Rodolphus could see she was irritated. Maybe the joke was on him. "So you have broad interests," he offered blandly. "You could say that," Bellatrix agreed. She wanted desperately to know what power could make Rodolphus Lestrange himself continue to sit here, in dress robes, drinking hundred Galleon-wine at this farce of a date. Was it his mother? Was it a bet? Maybe it was worth asking, so at least she could be assured of one laugh tonight. She exhaled slowly. "Do you hunt? Follow Quidditch?" He shifted. Bellatrix had (in)advertently wandered into a briar patch. "Yes." In his briskness was a kind of finality. These were the hobbies he had because he should. Much like his genetic hatred of potions, his parents' monochromatic view of life infected everything; along with a silver spoon he'd been born with a list of likes, pre-checked. He couldn't help himself: dryly, he asked "Do you sew?" "What?!" Bellatrix's yelp attracted curious glances from the tables around them—though upon seeing the source, people quickly turned back to their own food. As the saying went, let Bellatrix be Bellatrix. If she had realized, as she would eventually, that buried deep within Rodolphus's stoicism was a sense of humor, she might have laughed. But it was too late now. "No," she said instead, making a concentrated effort to lower her voice. She was now leaning across the table towards him, eyes narrowed. "Nor can I manage to keep a self-watering plant alive." Her yelp drew something like surprise from his stony features: lifted eyebrows. Around some imaginary speck on the tablecloth, the wineglass continued its orbit. If the wine were any more aerated it might soon take flight. At another point in this tragic date, the plant story could have been a welcome point of empathy. But it was already going so badly he thought (and then said): "I'm not surprised." "Well, I didn't think you would be," she replied, sitting back and staring into her wineglass with something close to resignation. Discreetly, the waiter approached to bring them the first course. |