Challenge #012 - Roses
Title: Insulation
Rating/Warnings: G?
Characters: Luna, Fenrir, Ollivander
Summary: Odd dinner guests and peculiar decor
Word Count: 1029
Purchases: Both
It was easier when they ignored her. On her own she was of little consequence so there was no need to pay her any special attention. Solitude could be comforting; insulating. Isolation provided a buffer. Her mind could wander and she could be anywhere else. Hardly anyone ever paid her any mind when she was locked in the cellar; even when the house elf that delivered a bit of food seemed not to notice her. If no one was looking at her, if no one was seeing her, then maybe she wasn't really there. Maybe she really was somewhere else. She could vanish from the cellar and be outside, or in her room, or enfolded by the blue curtains of her bed at Hogwarts. By and by, however, Mr. Ollivander would wake, and he'd speak to her, and she'd remember she really was there. The realization of this was not nearly as disappointing as contemplating just how long they might be there. And it was better, she knew, having company than not.
But like this, it was the worst. Hungry eyes from across the small table, relentlessly focused on her: she lost her ability to disappear. It made her feel concrete and solid. He always made sure she was securely bound to the chair, as if she might attempt escape or rebellion at any moment. When he'd lean close to check the knot, pausing to inhale sharply near her hair, her eyes would close for a moment and she'd remind herself of how to behave around kappas: to make no sudden movements and attempt to avoid showing signs of fear. Her heart would beat a little harder but the angles of her face seemed to curve instead of sharpen, her tranquil features more sad than frightened. The notion of death wasn't so terribly intimidating. Her captors had threatened death frequently enough that she'd supposed she'd be best served by amending herself to likelihood that she would die there. She had no desire to die, and feared the pain of a prolonged transition to the afterlife, but at least it would be nice to see her mother again - though she did still worry after her father.
It was the roses that were strange. What little she had seen of the Malfoy residence was certainly beautiful and opulent, and so on the one hand she supposed it could just be habit to provide a vase of flowers with a dinner setting. On the other hand, it seemed like it would have been a waste on someone like her. Than again, the entire table was set a bit too elegantly for feeding a prisoner. It wasn't lavish, so maybe it was simply that even the Malfoy's most casual trappings hardly strayed from formality. Perhaps they were present simply because Fenrir enjoyed them, in his own fashion. He'd snap the blossom from its stem, holding the rose in his hand while he watched her eat. He never ate with her. He just watched as the charmed fork performed the service her bound hands could not. He would grate his thumb against its petals until he hand nothing left but its sweet fragrance and a handful of velvety red shreds. It made the air thick with perfume and his gaze.
Sometimes he spoke at great length, though not tonight. When he did it was difficult to discern his intent. Sometimes he seemed to want to scare her, would watch carefully and smile as colour drained from her face when he described some of the things he'd done that night. Sometimes he seemed to want her to respond, though she never did. She literally never said a word to him. The whys of his words and actions were never questioned aloud.
He was a brutish sort of man, and why he brought her out of the cellar for her to have a proper sort of meal remained ambiguous. For a time, Luna had thought he perhaps just desired company. But after the third dinner in two weeks, his predatory gaze hadn't abated. The possibilities she entertained became more gruesome the more frequently he spoke. It became easier to simply think of his as an animal, fueled and driven by wants and needs with little cognitive assessment of 'good' and 'bad.' While this did nothing to increase her sense of safety, it made his presence and proximity less alarming. Sometimes she thought she pitied him. Dining with Fenrir became an exercise in doing whatever would least excite a beast. So she never spoke. Though her reactions were minute, she made occasional eye contact, lest he think she was outright ignoring him.
Luna simply waited. She ate when the tines of the silver fork neared her lips. She sat silently as he watched her and talked at her. She did nothing when he came close to her, when his hand touched her shoulder or her hair. That seemed to irritate him, when she didn't flinch away, but she was somehow certain that reacting would provoke a more intense response from him. He'd just snarl out a few words, shove her, the chair would tip, and she'd wind up on the floor until the house elf appeared to return her to the cellar.
Once safely out of sight again, she'd take a deep breath and close her eyes. It was dark, but she didn't mind. She settled back down onto the floor, turning over patterns of aggressive behaviour in kelpies and heliopaths and-
Mr. Ollivander commented that she smelled nice, though Luna would have preferred he not mention it. To his credit, Mr. Ollivander was rather talented at quickly changing the subject.
"You know, I've been thinking about these wrackspurts," Mr. Ollivander said musingly. "Mrs. Fritz, who had a shop next to mine for a time, she had a son who I am now convinced was positively infested with them."
Luna opened her eyes and tilted her head to the side, thinking that Mr. Ollivander really was looking much too thin.
"From what I understand, they are in fact most commonly found to be plaguing young boys, though some reports include accounts of being tormented well into adulthood," she replied with a sympathetic shake of her head.
Lara||Slytherin
Rating/Warnings: G?
Characters: Luna, Fenrir, Ollivander
Summary: Odd dinner guests and peculiar decor
Word Count: 1029
Purchases: Both
It was easier when they ignored her. On her own she was of little consequence so there was no need to pay her any special attention. Solitude could be comforting; insulating. Isolation provided a buffer. Her mind could wander and she could be anywhere else. Hardly anyone ever paid her any mind when she was locked in the cellar; even when the house elf that delivered a bit of food seemed not to notice her. If no one was looking at her, if no one was seeing her, then maybe she wasn't really there. Maybe she really was somewhere else. She could vanish from the cellar and be outside, or in her room, or enfolded by the blue curtains of her bed at Hogwarts. By and by, however, Mr. Ollivander would wake, and he'd speak to her, and she'd remember she really was there. The realization of this was not nearly as disappointing as contemplating just how long they might be there. And it was better, she knew, having company than not.
But like this, it was the worst. Hungry eyes from across the small table, relentlessly focused on her: she lost her ability to disappear. It made her feel concrete and solid. He always made sure she was securely bound to the chair, as if she might attempt escape or rebellion at any moment. When he'd lean close to check the knot, pausing to inhale sharply near her hair, her eyes would close for a moment and she'd remind herself of how to behave around kappas: to make no sudden movements and attempt to avoid showing signs of fear. Her heart would beat a little harder but the angles of her face seemed to curve instead of sharpen, her tranquil features more sad than frightened. The notion of death wasn't so terribly intimidating. Her captors had threatened death frequently enough that she'd supposed she'd be best served by amending herself to likelihood that she would die there. She had no desire to die, and feared the pain of a prolonged transition to the afterlife, but at least it would be nice to see her mother again - though she did still worry after her father.
It was the roses that were strange. What little she had seen of the Malfoy residence was certainly beautiful and opulent, and so on the one hand she supposed it could just be habit to provide a vase of flowers with a dinner setting. On the other hand, it seemed like it would have been a waste on someone like her. Than again, the entire table was set a bit too elegantly for feeding a prisoner. It wasn't lavish, so maybe it was simply that even the Malfoy's most casual trappings hardly strayed from formality. Perhaps they were present simply because Fenrir enjoyed them, in his own fashion. He'd snap the blossom from its stem, holding the rose in his hand while he watched her eat. He never ate with her. He just watched as the charmed fork performed the service her bound hands could not. He would grate his thumb against its petals until he hand nothing left but its sweet fragrance and a handful of velvety red shreds. It made the air thick with perfume and his gaze.
Sometimes he spoke at great length, though not tonight. When he did it was difficult to discern his intent. Sometimes he seemed to want to scare her, would watch carefully and smile as colour drained from her face when he described some of the things he'd done that night. Sometimes he seemed to want her to respond, though she never did. She literally never said a word to him. The whys of his words and actions were never questioned aloud.
He was a brutish sort of man, and why he brought her out of the cellar for her to have a proper sort of meal remained ambiguous. For a time, Luna had thought he perhaps just desired company. But after the third dinner in two weeks, his predatory gaze hadn't abated. The possibilities she entertained became more gruesome the more frequently he spoke. It became easier to simply think of his as an animal, fueled and driven by wants and needs with little cognitive assessment of 'good' and 'bad.' While this did nothing to increase her sense of safety, it made his presence and proximity less alarming. Sometimes she thought she pitied him. Dining with Fenrir became an exercise in doing whatever would least excite a beast. So she never spoke. Though her reactions were minute, she made occasional eye contact, lest he think she was outright ignoring him.
Luna simply waited. She ate when the tines of the silver fork neared her lips. She sat silently as he watched her and talked at her. She did nothing when he came close to her, when his hand touched her shoulder or her hair. That seemed to irritate him, when she didn't flinch away, but she was somehow certain that reacting would provoke a more intense response from him. He'd just snarl out a few words, shove her, the chair would tip, and she'd wind up on the floor until the house elf appeared to return her to the cellar.
Once safely out of sight again, she'd take a deep breath and close her eyes. It was dark, but she didn't mind. She settled back down onto the floor, turning over patterns of aggressive behaviour in kelpies and heliopaths and-
Mr. Ollivander commented that she smelled nice, though Luna would have preferred he not mention it. To his credit, Mr. Ollivander was rather talented at quickly changing the subject.
"You know, I've been thinking about these wrackspurts," Mr. Ollivander said musingly. "Mrs. Fritz, who had a shop next to mine for a time, she had a son who I am now convinced was positively infested with them."
Luna opened her eyes and tilted her head to the side, thinking that Mr. Ollivander really was looking much too thin.
"From what I understand, they are in fact most commonly found to be plaguing young boys, though some reports include accounts of being tormented well into adulthood," she replied with a sympathetic shake of her head.
Lara||Slytherin