FIC: "Such is the Flare Through" for miramiraficfic
Recipient: miramiraficfic
Author: injustice_worth
Title: Such is the Flare Through
Rating: PG
Pairings: Rufus Scrimgeour/Rita Skeeter. sort of?
Word Count: 2620
Warnings: Not much. Rufus does a bit of cursing but, well, that's Rufus, and it really isn't terribly excessive.
Summary: The press has been at it again, revealing Ministry secrets. Auror Rufus Scrimgeour has just about had it with the whole lot of them, particularly with the harpy known as Rita Skeeter. Unfortunately for Rufus, Or, in which Rufus has further issues with women.
Author's Notes: First war and all that, where Crouch is Barty Crouch Sr., Rufus and Moody are doing their Auror-ly duties, and so on. PROBABLY ought to say that no small part of the image of Rita held in mind comes from a mix of the Rita-ones o' skeeter_green, who portrays Rita far more aptly than I ever could, and featherxquill, who writes both Rita and Rufus far more skillfully than I've a prayer at chancing. Not to place any blame on them for the stilted/whatnot Rita produced here so much as to say that if anything about her is even vaguely Rita, they'd probably be why. Much of the gracias, then, to both of them. The title is from the same poem as the beginning bit, the line being as follows: "such / is the flare through memory or desire." At any rate. My apologies if this lacks in plot and such; the initial idea had a bit more of that, not to mention more characters and a McGonagall/Robards focus, bu-ut it kind of got out of control. So, er, hope this is acceptable annnnd je ne sais pas. LOVELY. DAY.
***
"Enforcer! What will you have? What can I
freely give you? The usual twist
perfected with some pain."
-Geoffrey Hill, Speech! Speech!-
Cheap. The entire room smells cheap. And stale. He downs his whiskey, orders another. Head still throbbing.
What a day. What a godforsaken day.
The press conference had been a debacle. Crouch holding his own as best he could, damned admirably, but that hadn't kept the reporters from their uproar or the indignants outside furious that these curses had been used in secret, that the Ministry had dared allow their Aurors to use the Unforgivables (who had set to using that term in the first place, for the love of fuck) without first alerting the public. Never mind about secrecy and the element of surprise, never mind about the fact that these people need never see the curses in use. Of course the information had been withheld, it only made bloody sense, but they had reacted as children upon discovering. Demanding apologies. Shouting tantrums. Scrambling over themselves to show just how the Ministry had erred, even how all of this was some twisted conspiracy or other. Of course, brilliant. Silly to think that the notion of public defense had ever crossed the Ministry's collective mind.
Sometimes, Rufus thinks he might as well start despairing in humanity. Thank all that was and ever would be that it was Crouch and not Scrimgeour who had been speaking. After seeing the hysterics of the poor, tearful masses, he might have been just slightly unpleasant.
And what, exactly, did these people - do these people, because Merlin knows they're still cursing out there and will be so long as they have lungs to breath against the air - have to protest against? They aren't going to be using the curses. The curses are not to be used against them. They, all of them have enough to worry about over the Death Eaters without deciding that the curses were the work of some demon incarnate.
There was no need for them to know. Never any need. And they might not have known, ever, had it not been for that blasted paper. He can see it now, the headline (`Unforgivable Ministry Secret Uncovered: Aurors Using Banned Curses`) and the print to follow (`beastly,' `inhumane,' `without public consent,' `previously banned for good reason,' `where will they stop, what is to keep them from turning these curses on their own citizens'), never mind what it says, it's all damned trash and nonsense designed to stir up the public needlessly. Those bloody journalists. That bloody Skeeter woman. It had been her work, all right, had her signature all over it.
Another drink. The whiskey is good, at least. Helps a little bit.
Still. He wants to strangle her. Perhaps show her just what the Unforgivables can do. Anything at all to silence her interfering, presumptuous fabrications. He's been on edge all day, smoothing corners, patrolling through streets positively saturated in anti-Ministry outcries. Nearly pummeled Moody for his damned `well, what did I say?' expression; as if that was of any help. Too many loose ends to chase and it wasn't as if they didn't have enough work to be doing otherwise. Hell, he wouldn't have left had he not been told he'd damned well better not try to work through the night. Apparently, his edginess had not gone unnoticed.
And maybe this is tolerable. Here, he is able to feel somewhat calmer. Not relaxed, but less on edge. None of the dim figures here hold any regard for the press or its news. From the looks of the place, it is entirely possible that no one here is even aware of the war's existence, and at present there is something almost comforting about that. Nothing to look at, but nothing to cause alarm, either. This is musty cheapness, a gathering of dust and alcohol-soaked driftings, and it is this distance only that has calmed him somewhat, soothing his nerves. If he can keep this up, if he can relax, he might be able to gather his thoughts, come up with some useful solutions. Easier to see when calm, easier--
Suddenly, however, an intrusion. The scent of something vivid, scent of some undeniable life. For a moment he stiffens, an automatic response that he cannot comprehend the whole of: something alert, intrigued, annoyed, and almost, almost. As if something beckoning, but that's ridiculous. Something different, but nothing more than general interest, and he scans the room, glances toward the entrance--
Flash of green. Flash of bright green, ostentatious and out of place here and no question about it, that is what he had sensed. That. Her. He steels himself, does not look toward her though he keeps her in his peripheral vision; no good in letting her slip out of sight, no telling what she might do. She is a lurking threat, is what she is, and why she had to come here or all places, he couldn't fathom. Had it not been a poor enough day already?
"Auror Scrimgeour? Fancy meeting you here."
He can hear the smirk in her voice. Oh, no. No.
"Ms. Skeeter."
Do not, do not let her sit--Damn. Damn and curses and curse her, she is sitting there, perching herself next to him - so close to him, she seems to be leaning in as close as she can - and watching intently. As if she belongs there, stately, on display and so damned sure of herself. As if she wants something. Of course she wants something. She wants his soul, if she can reach it. She wants anything and everything she can grab. Well, he's not about to let her have it. She won't get past--
Oh. She. She probably wants a drink.
To hell with that. She can damn well buy her own drink. He doesn't buy drinks for the enemy. He doesn't buy drinks for anyone willing to tear so easily into another's soul. He doesn't--
"Mr. Scrimgeour, are you going to keep me waiting much longer? It's a bit rude of you, isn't it?"
Mockery. She's mocking him. What gives her the right, what gives her the right to parade in here and drop herself down just where he's trying to forget the bloody press ever existed and demand that he buy her a drink? After what she did? He won't humor her. He won't bribe her into speaking more kindly in the future. He won't play her little game.
Finally, she gives a little shrug and orders a drink of her own. Then, in a voice that seems to him dripping with over-indulgent sympathy. "I suppose I can forgive you this once. I'm sure you've had a long day."
He had been looking at his own glass, hoping she might just leave, but now he looks up sharply, a warning in his eyes. Her eyes are elsewhere now, though she is paying attention, he knows she is. "Oh? I'll have you know my day has been distinctly average, Ms. Skeeter."
"Well, I'm quite surprised. I would have thought there might be those who were disturbed to find that the Ministry is using Unforgiveable curses. I was surprised. I knew you could be ruthless. And I certainly knew you could be foolish. What I hadn't realized was that you had already gone so far." She had received her drink while speaking, and now she raises it, sipping slowly. Watching. Testing. That intent gaze of her unwavering, unavoidable.
"There is nothing foolish--"
Merlin, what is he doing? Giving her fuel for fodder? Feeding her quotes for a follow-up article? Damn. Damn. Stop speaking to her. Stop looking at her. He wishes he could retract the words already spoken, but no matter; he will simply say no more. Give her nothing. He cannot keep her from creating quotes out of nothing, of course. save wringing her neck, and oh, he would hardly be opposed to that. It couldn't be terribly difficult; there is hardly much to her neck, after all. Slender, arched. Ah, no, it couldn't be difficult, no. And it would certainly end several problems, even if it would leave him with one very large problem. Pity murder was frowned upon. Ought to be allowed when dealing with the press.
"None of your business," he finishes brusquely, hoping she'll take her opportunity and leave. Oh, if only. Why won't she just leave him alone?
But she's still sitting there, quite, taking another drink. Irritating, irritating. But also. Damn that woman, damn her. Something he can't seem to help watching, something he notices unavoidably. She's quiet now, but she's there, that force of hers is there, and when he can no longer ignore it and ventures a glance. Sly, smooth. How anything so corrupt as Rita Skeeter could appear so pure--
It occurs to Rufus that he could reach out and touch her now, now, feel fire of the skin he has so often decried. It is possible. There, there. Only he is angry, and he is clumsy, and somehow this aberration of a woman is both alabaster and glass, and he is clumsy, his grasp inept. There would be a shattering only. Reality, glass. There is no touching her.
There is no touching any of them, there is no goddamned reason for any of this, and he frowns with sudden vehemence, disguising his agitation by tossing back the rest of his drink. Barely feels it going down. He isn't nearly drunk enough, not drunk at all and there isn't any excuse for these thoughts. Where are these thoughts coming from, why`s he allowing them to, to.? These goddamn thoughts, these goddamn women, who smirked and smirked and in the end were nothing at all save would-be predators, waiting, waiting for blood. Give them the slightest indication, and....
Ah, god, like that, just like that, and she's running her viper's tongue over lips that might well be covered in blood, who can say?
"Rufus Scrimgeour."
He stares at her. He can't help it; he stares. It's her voice, the reverberations, that utterly revolting utterly enticing sensuous undertone and the way those lips are made for life. It is something. Flashes of pulse, of red, of violence and desire and desire for violence, lust, to grasp and act, finally act, and here is a promise, a surety of force to contend with, push against. A promise of some other struggle, and he is overwhelmed by the images, the pulse and for a moment cannot speak.
It is a moment too long. No control; he is berating himself internally already, and the lips curl into devilish understanding, a grin. Oh, she knows what effect she has had.
And it occurs to Rufus: the woman is in control. She is playing out of her own hand, and he has fallen into it.
Enraged, he smashes his fist onto the bar - the pain of it shatters her spell, earns him a few glances across the room - and brandishes a finger, doing his damnedest to keep down a snarl. "Skeeter. I'll have you know I'm not in the mood for your tricks."
"Tricks, Rufus?"
He lowers his hand, though he retains stiffness of posture. No need to let her sense his embarrassment over losing control, there. "I came for a drink. I am having a drink. And I came to drink alone."
"Heavens, I'm not bothering you, am I? Am I disrupting your very important thoughts?" She runs a finger over her glass; he refuses to look. She smirks again, that instantaneous curve of the lips. "Would you prefer to share your thoughts? Talk through your troubles, Mr. Scrimgeour; I'll be your enraptured audience."
"You'll pardon me, Ms. Skeeter, if I say that you are the last person on earth I should wish to drink with."
"Oh, I don't believe that, Mr. Scrimgeour. I'm sure you could find worse."
He responds slowly, teeth gritted, "I would be hard-pressed."
A laugh, and it sounds to him as a steel echo against glass. "You really are too kind."
Why, why will the woman not just leave? She is still watching him, and the intense scrutiny discomforts him. He came here to bloody well relax, not to be hounded by this harpy. Just one look at her is enough to tell that she would willingly rip him to pieces (not that she could, of course) and smear his insides across the pages of her damned paper. The woman is grasping, desire. The woman wants to know. She is not to be trusted.
Enough of this. He doesn't need this. Better to be away.
"Right, well. Well. I've had quite enough for the night."
"I should think so. We can't have our Aurors drinking themselves silly now, can we? Where would we be? I daresay it would make a most interesting story, but...."
Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. He hastily figures the money for his drinks, slaps it on the counter and stands, avoiding her, avoiding her eyes. Be. be courteous. Don't let her think she has won (because she hasn't won, no way on this blasted earth has she won, he knows that, but he can't let her think otherwise), don't let her play cutesy like this. "Do have a pleasant evening, Miss Skeeter." Biting his tongue before he can add anything else, anything that might betray his agitation. She has not riled him. She has not disturbed him.
And he thinks himself free, for a moment he thinks that he has broken from her, taken the final step and now may leave.
But there's a tug, and he turns to find a hand (nails fit to kill, nails to fight against, and Merlin, nails also red, red, red) on his arm. Her hand, and before he can speak the other hand is reaching for him, on his face, his cheek. And it's true, it burns. Touch of her skin on his not hard but somehow painful anyway. Searing. He catches a glimpse of her eyes and recognizes calculation, the hardness that he has been so sure of and now aimed at him, and there is something else, though he cannot or dare not name it. Eyes to capture, entrap, and already he finds the thought of looking away to be a dim one. Too much to see there, to much told in himself by looking--
But she shakes him from this, moves, and there is an instant - an instant, or two, three, all melding together into some time-forsaken occurrence that simultaneously strikes all senses into an alertness and disarms him completely - in which he doesn't understand but only feels (her lips on his, her hand now through his hair, on his neck ), senses (running hot and cold, a burn as of ice, desirous of this pressure and more), and there is vigor, something alive, dangerous cold with an edge to cut, but not only that, something underneath, some buried....
Oh, good lord.
He tears himself away, eyes wide, but she only shakes her head and steps back as if she had brought the end, as if all had been in accordance with her will. "Are you mad, woman?"
And the smirk again. Those lips crueler still, now, razor poison and she had dared to--to-- With a final assault, a fingernail trailing down the side of his face, she tosses her head. "Good evening, Mister Scrimgeour." And so it is she who leaves him behind.
Later the shadows will whisper an unfulfilled promise of one who watches, a tossing of blond hair, glint of red, and he will not sleep, will not find quiet. He will only curse her and curse himself and stare into the fierce, unquiet night.
For the moment, however, all thoughts are vanquished, and he only stares in her wake, aghast.
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Author: injustice_worth
Title: Such is the Flare Through
Rating: PG
Pairings: Rufus Scrimgeour/Rita Skeeter. sort of?
Word Count: 2620
Warnings: Not much. Rufus does a bit of cursing but, well, that's Rufus, and it really isn't terribly excessive.
Summary: The press has been at it again, revealing Ministry secrets. Auror Rufus Scrimgeour has just about had it with the whole lot of them, particularly with the harpy known as Rita Skeeter. Unfortunately for Rufus, Or, in which Rufus has further issues with women.
Author's Notes: First war and all that, where Crouch is Barty Crouch Sr., Rufus and Moody are doing their Auror-ly duties, and so on. PROBABLY ought to say that no small part of the image of Rita held in mind comes from a mix of the Rita-ones o' skeeter_green, who portrays Rita far more aptly than I ever could, and featherxquill, who writes both Rita and Rufus far more skillfully than I've a prayer at chancing. Not to place any blame on them for the stilted/whatnot Rita produced here so much as to say that if anything about her is even vaguely Rita, they'd probably be why. Much of the gracias, then, to both of them. The title is from the same poem as the beginning bit, the line being as follows: "such / is the flare through memory or desire." At any rate. My apologies if this lacks in plot and such; the initial idea had a bit more of that, not to mention more characters and a McGonagall/Robards focus, bu-ut it kind of got out of control. So, er, hope this is acceptable annnnd je ne sais pas. LOVELY. DAY.
***
"Enforcer! What will you have? What can I
freely give you? The usual twist
perfected with some pain."
-Geoffrey Hill, Speech! Speech!-
Cheap. The entire room smells cheap. And stale. He downs his whiskey, orders another. Head still throbbing.
What a day. What a godforsaken day.
The press conference had been a debacle. Crouch holding his own as best he could, damned admirably, but that hadn't kept the reporters from their uproar or the indignants outside furious that these curses had been used in secret, that the Ministry had dared allow their Aurors to use the Unforgivables (who had set to using that term in the first place, for the love of fuck) without first alerting the public. Never mind about secrecy and the element of surprise, never mind about the fact that these people need never see the curses in use. Of course the information had been withheld, it only made bloody sense, but they had reacted as children upon discovering. Demanding apologies. Shouting tantrums. Scrambling over themselves to show just how the Ministry had erred, even how all of this was some twisted conspiracy or other. Of course, brilliant. Silly to think that the notion of public defense had ever crossed the Ministry's collective mind.
Sometimes, Rufus thinks he might as well start despairing in humanity. Thank all that was and ever would be that it was Crouch and not Scrimgeour who had been speaking. After seeing the hysterics of the poor, tearful masses, he might have been just slightly unpleasant.
And what, exactly, did these people - do these people, because Merlin knows they're still cursing out there and will be so long as they have lungs to breath against the air - have to protest against? They aren't going to be using the curses. The curses are not to be used against them. They, all of them have enough to worry about over the Death Eaters without deciding that the curses were the work of some demon incarnate.
There was no need for them to know. Never any need. And they might not have known, ever, had it not been for that blasted paper. He can see it now, the headline (`Unforgivable Ministry Secret Uncovered: Aurors Using Banned Curses`) and the print to follow (`beastly,' `inhumane,' `without public consent,' `previously banned for good reason,' `where will they stop, what is to keep them from turning these curses on their own citizens'), never mind what it says, it's all damned trash and nonsense designed to stir up the public needlessly. Those bloody journalists. That bloody Skeeter woman. It had been her work, all right, had her signature all over it.
Another drink. The whiskey is good, at least. Helps a little bit.
Still. He wants to strangle her. Perhaps show her just what the Unforgivables can do. Anything at all to silence her interfering, presumptuous fabrications. He's been on edge all day, smoothing corners, patrolling through streets positively saturated in anti-Ministry outcries. Nearly pummeled Moody for his damned `well, what did I say?' expression; as if that was of any help. Too many loose ends to chase and it wasn't as if they didn't have enough work to be doing otherwise. Hell, he wouldn't have left had he not been told he'd damned well better not try to work through the night. Apparently, his edginess had not gone unnoticed.
And maybe this is tolerable. Here, he is able to feel somewhat calmer. Not relaxed, but less on edge. None of the dim figures here hold any regard for the press or its news. From the looks of the place, it is entirely possible that no one here is even aware of the war's existence, and at present there is something almost comforting about that. Nothing to look at, but nothing to cause alarm, either. This is musty cheapness, a gathering of dust and alcohol-soaked driftings, and it is this distance only that has calmed him somewhat, soothing his nerves. If he can keep this up, if he can relax, he might be able to gather his thoughts, come up with some useful solutions. Easier to see when calm, easier--
Suddenly, however, an intrusion. The scent of something vivid, scent of some undeniable life. For a moment he stiffens, an automatic response that he cannot comprehend the whole of: something alert, intrigued, annoyed, and almost, almost. As if something beckoning, but that's ridiculous. Something different, but nothing more than general interest, and he scans the room, glances toward the entrance--
Flash of green. Flash of bright green, ostentatious and out of place here and no question about it, that is what he had sensed. That. Her. He steels himself, does not look toward her though he keeps her in his peripheral vision; no good in letting her slip out of sight, no telling what she might do. She is a lurking threat, is what she is, and why she had to come here or all places, he couldn't fathom. Had it not been a poor enough day already?
"Auror Scrimgeour? Fancy meeting you here."
He can hear the smirk in her voice. Oh, no. No.
"Ms. Skeeter."
Do not, do not let her sit--Damn. Damn and curses and curse her, she is sitting there, perching herself next to him - so close to him, she seems to be leaning in as close as she can - and watching intently. As if she belongs there, stately, on display and so damned sure of herself. As if she wants something. Of course she wants something. She wants his soul, if she can reach it. She wants anything and everything she can grab. Well, he's not about to let her have it. She won't get past--
Oh. She. She probably wants a drink.
To hell with that. She can damn well buy her own drink. He doesn't buy drinks for the enemy. He doesn't buy drinks for anyone willing to tear so easily into another's soul. He doesn't--
"Mr. Scrimgeour, are you going to keep me waiting much longer? It's a bit rude of you, isn't it?"
Mockery. She's mocking him. What gives her the right, what gives her the right to parade in here and drop herself down just where he's trying to forget the bloody press ever existed and demand that he buy her a drink? After what she did? He won't humor her. He won't bribe her into speaking more kindly in the future. He won't play her little game.
Finally, she gives a little shrug and orders a drink of her own. Then, in a voice that seems to him dripping with over-indulgent sympathy. "I suppose I can forgive you this once. I'm sure you've had a long day."
He had been looking at his own glass, hoping she might just leave, but now he looks up sharply, a warning in his eyes. Her eyes are elsewhere now, though she is paying attention, he knows she is. "Oh? I'll have you know my day has been distinctly average, Ms. Skeeter."
"Well, I'm quite surprised. I would have thought there might be those who were disturbed to find that the Ministry is using Unforgiveable curses. I was surprised. I knew you could be ruthless. And I certainly knew you could be foolish. What I hadn't realized was that you had already gone so far." She had received her drink while speaking, and now she raises it, sipping slowly. Watching. Testing. That intent gaze of her unwavering, unavoidable.
"There is nothing foolish--"
Merlin, what is he doing? Giving her fuel for fodder? Feeding her quotes for a follow-up article? Damn. Damn. Stop speaking to her. Stop looking at her. He wishes he could retract the words already spoken, but no matter; he will simply say no more. Give her nothing. He cannot keep her from creating quotes out of nothing, of course. save wringing her neck, and oh, he would hardly be opposed to that. It couldn't be terribly difficult; there is hardly much to her neck, after all. Slender, arched. Ah, no, it couldn't be difficult, no. And it would certainly end several problems, even if it would leave him with one very large problem. Pity murder was frowned upon. Ought to be allowed when dealing with the press.
"None of your business," he finishes brusquely, hoping she'll take her opportunity and leave. Oh, if only. Why won't she just leave him alone?
But she's still sitting there, quite, taking another drink. Irritating, irritating. But also. Damn that woman, damn her. Something he can't seem to help watching, something he notices unavoidably. She's quiet now, but she's there, that force of hers is there, and when he can no longer ignore it and ventures a glance. Sly, smooth. How anything so corrupt as Rita Skeeter could appear so pure--
It occurs to Rufus that he could reach out and touch her now, now, feel fire of the skin he has so often decried. It is possible. There, there. Only he is angry, and he is clumsy, and somehow this aberration of a woman is both alabaster and glass, and he is clumsy, his grasp inept. There would be a shattering only. Reality, glass. There is no touching her.
There is no touching any of them, there is no goddamned reason for any of this, and he frowns with sudden vehemence, disguising his agitation by tossing back the rest of his drink. Barely feels it going down. He isn't nearly drunk enough, not drunk at all and there isn't any excuse for these thoughts. Where are these thoughts coming from, why`s he allowing them to, to.? These goddamn thoughts, these goddamn women, who smirked and smirked and in the end were nothing at all save would-be predators, waiting, waiting for blood. Give them the slightest indication, and....
Ah, god, like that, just like that, and she's running her viper's tongue over lips that might well be covered in blood, who can say?
"Rufus Scrimgeour."
He stares at her. He can't help it; he stares. It's her voice, the reverberations, that utterly revolting utterly enticing sensuous undertone and the way those lips are made for life. It is something. Flashes of pulse, of red, of violence and desire and desire for violence, lust, to grasp and act, finally act, and here is a promise, a surety of force to contend with, push against. A promise of some other struggle, and he is overwhelmed by the images, the pulse and for a moment cannot speak.
It is a moment too long. No control; he is berating himself internally already, and the lips curl into devilish understanding, a grin. Oh, she knows what effect she has had.
And it occurs to Rufus: the woman is in control. She is playing out of her own hand, and he has fallen into it.
Enraged, he smashes his fist onto the bar - the pain of it shatters her spell, earns him a few glances across the room - and brandishes a finger, doing his damnedest to keep down a snarl. "Skeeter. I'll have you know I'm not in the mood for your tricks."
"Tricks, Rufus?"
He lowers his hand, though he retains stiffness of posture. No need to let her sense his embarrassment over losing control, there. "I came for a drink. I am having a drink. And I came to drink alone."
"Heavens, I'm not bothering you, am I? Am I disrupting your very important thoughts?" She runs a finger over her glass; he refuses to look. She smirks again, that instantaneous curve of the lips. "Would you prefer to share your thoughts? Talk through your troubles, Mr. Scrimgeour; I'll be your enraptured audience."
"You'll pardon me, Ms. Skeeter, if I say that you are the last person on earth I should wish to drink with."
"Oh, I don't believe that, Mr. Scrimgeour. I'm sure you could find worse."
He responds slowly, teeth gritted, "I would be hard-pressed."
A laugh, and it sounds to him as a steel echo against glass. "You really are too kind."
Why, why will the woman not just leave? She is still watching him, and the intense scrutiny discomforts him. He came here to bloody well relax, not to be hounded by this harpy. Just one look at her is enough to tell that she would willingly rip him to pieces (not that she could, of course) and smear his insides across the pages of her damned paper. The woman is grasping, desire. The woman wants to know. She is not to be trusted.
Enough of this. He doesn't need this. Better to be away.
"Right, well. Well. I've had quite enough for the night."
"I should think so. We can't have our Aurors drinking themselves silly now, can we? Where would we be? I daresay it would make a most interesting story, but...."
Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. He hastily figures the money for his drinks, slaps it on the counter and stands, avoiding her, avoiding her eyes. Be. be courteous. Don't let her think she has won (because she hasn't won, no way on this blasted earth has she won, he knows that, but he can't let her think otherwise), don't let her play cutesy like this. "Do have a pleasant evening, Miss Skeeter." Biting his tongue before he can add anything else, anything that might betray his agitation. She has not riled him. She has not disturbed him.
And he thinks himself free, for a moment he thinks that he has broken from her, taken the final step and now may leave.
But there's a tug, and he turns to find a hand (nails fit to kill, nails to fight against, and Merlin, nails also red, red, red) on his arm. Her hand, and before he can speak the other hand is reaching for him, on his face, his cheek. And it's true, it burns. Touch of her skin on his not hard but somehow painful anyway. Searing. He catches a glimpse of her eyes and recognizes calculation, the hardness that he has been so sure of and now aimed at him, and there is something else, though he cannot or dare not name it. Eyes to capture, entrap, and already he finds the thought of looking away to be a dim one. Too much to see there, to much told in himself by looking--
But she shakes him from this, moves, and there is an instant - an instant, or two, three, all melding together into some time-forsaken occurrence that simultaneously strikes all senses into an alertness and disarms him completely - in which he doesn't understand but only feels (her lips on his, her hand now through his hair, on his neck ), senses (running hot and cold, a burn as of ice, desirous of this pressure and more), and there is vigor, something alive, dangerous cold with an edge to cut, but not only that, something underneath, some buried....
Oh, good lord.
He tears himself away, eyes wide, but she only shakes her head and steps back as if she had brought the end, as if all had been in accordance with her will. "Are you mad, woman?"
And the smirk again. Those lips crueler still, now, razor poison and she had dared to--to-- With a final assault, a fingernail trailing down the side of his face, she tosses her head. "Good evening, Mister Scrimgeour." And so it is she who leaves him behind.
Later the shadows will whisper an unfulfilled promise of one who watches, a tossing of blond hair, glint of red, and he will not sleep, will not find quiet. He will only curse her and curse himself and stare into the fierce, unquiet night.
For the moment, however, all thoughts are vanquished, and he only stares in her wake, aghast.
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