Beautiful Darkness, for Hannah
Title: Beautiful Darkness
For: Hannah/h_vic
Characters/Pairings: Narcissa/Rodolphus
Rating: 3rd-5th Years
Warnings (if any): Sexual Situations & Strong Profanity
A/N: Happy Hallowe'en, Hannah! I hope you enjoy this! And thanks Elené for your super-fast, effective Beta-ing skills.
Narcissa Malfoy sat in front of her dressing table on the little stool, brushing her long blonde hair with swift, rhythmic strokes. She always brushed her hair with such careful consideration; a hundred strokes a night, just like her mother had told her to when she was a little girl. It was something of a ritual now, to sit alone in her room before sleeping, brushing her hair. It was soothing, comforting.
Giving her hair one final stroke, she brought the elaborate silver and pearl handled brush down through every lock, when suddenly she froze, and slowly lowered the brush onto the table, laying it down gently. She pinched two of her fingers together, and with an expression of horror, plucked one fine, silver strand of hair that had clung to the sleeve of her robe. Holding it up the to the light for a better look, she gasped. Her initial suspicions were correct. It was indeed a grey hair. Her stomach dropped. She was too young for grey hairs. She was only twenty years old, for Merlin's sake! This shouldn't be happening yet, she thought angrily, twiddling the offending item between her long fingers, especially considering the care and maintenance she put into her hair already. She briefly wondered if it could possibly be stress related, but unfortunately that thought had to be dismissed;her life so far had been remarkably stress free. Particularly recently, where she seemed to float in a haze of parties, presents and lustful clinches. No, however much she would have liked to blame it on stress, this solitary grey hair was a result of something else.
Leaning in, she examined her reflection in the mirror - really examined it, not just idly gazed at herself. She was undeniably good-looking; although remarkably different in colouring and features to her sisters, they all resembled each other. She had good skin - it was clear, ivory and never blemished with spots. Her icy blue eyes made a startling impression in her otherwise muted colouring. She was tall and slim, with long, lithe limbs and long, blonde hair. She also had a nice smile, though it rarely graced her face, instead vying with a cold, contemptuous expression. Attention from men had never been short in supply - she'd certainly been admired during her years at Hogwarts, along with Bella. Together, they were famed, pure-blood beauties. Whispers at dinner parties declared that they would be perfect pure-blood mistresses. And the attention hadn't stopped there. She'd seen the appreciative looks at parties, the stolen glances as she glided by, not all of them appropriate. She was never really sure how that level of attention made her feel, having never seen it as necessary to seek validation of her beauty from men.
Beautiful. That was the word that was used to describe her. Beautiful. She wasn't ignorant of the connotations attached to being a beautiful woman. She knew that her physical beauty far outweighed the beauty of her soul, thought that statement in itself sounded overly dramatic. Narcissa was knew that she couldn't have beauty, both inside and out. And the people in her social circle didn't care about inner beauty, whatever that was supposed to mean. She wasn't wholly bad, of course. She wasn't an empty shell, either. There was personality there - a spark, even. But she knew that her looks were her greatest strength, and her aesthetic beauty was a carefully crafted, thin mask; a mask for the darkness that seemed to consume her.
Darkness was the right word to use, inexplicable as her reasons for it was. She was the lightest of the Black women in colouring, but regarding herself as a person, the light was artificial, and most certainly did not come from the inside. She'd always been gripped my something darker, something sinister. Narcissa was possibly too introspective for her own good, but she knew there was something… ominous about herself that she couldn't explain. Something that prevented her from really becoming close to people, really allowing herself to be open and honest. What it was, she didn't know. This darkness aided her cold, calculating image; secretive, private, closed, mysterious. An enigma. She was restricted. But no-one had ever tried to open her up.
Until Rodolphus.
He pushes you into the wall with such force that for a moment, there's a brief, almost sickening pain darting down your spine - but it's quickly overridden by the intensity of the kisses trailing down the nape of your neck, along your collarbone, down your chest. Pinning your arms high above your head, he leans into you, every curvature of the supple shape of his body arching around yours as the sheer warmth of his skin almost seems to crackle with magnitude. His face is so close to yours that you can see the flare in his eyes as his gaze roams tauntingly over your figure, gleaming with a familiar, dangerous light. He breathes a hot, shallow, vaguely spice-hinted breath on the sensitive spot behind your ear, and your skin beings to quiver, craving this illicitly smouldering sensation. It's mind-blowing, this effect he has on you; how even the smallest of touches can create a surge of feeling spreading to every inch of your body - how he can suddenly make you feel alive.
"Are you okay?" he breathes huskily in your ear, and before you can even think of a suitable response, he brushes her lips so very gently across your jaw, peppering the skin with a series of long, slow kisses. A deep sigh of longing unknowingly escapes from your lips, and your brain struggles to process the question asked amongst the range of high-strung emotions. He waits for your reply, the confirmation that every fleeting touch is having the desired effect on your already fragile mind, that you are in fact just as consumed as he believes you to be.
With some vague sense of regret - you know regret should be the emotion you're feeling - you can feel your voice catching in your chest, and you know that any sound you make will betray the acuteness of your physical reaction to him. For some inexplicable reason, you don't want to give him that satisfaction just yet - so you can only trust yourself to nod, desperately, assuredly, wordlessly.
He smiles.
He knows he's irresistible to you. He knows how to work you; how to wind you up so tightly that you almost collapse by merely being in his presence, hearing his lilting voice murmur bitter nothings in your ear. And you're fully aware that when his piercing gaze roams freely over your body, and focuses with gut-wrenching consideration on the limbs his fingers and tongue have previously teased, it's pure and utter manipulation. Yet you are powerless to stop it. Powerless, and strangely unwilling.
Even if this isn't real, it's the most real you've felt in a long time. In your world of deceit, decay, betrayal, obsession, supplication and facade, this is real. This is true. This is honest. Honest, no-strings attached lust.
"Look at me."
Grasping your face in his rough hands, he forces your eyes to look into his.
"Do you see it?"
You're puzzled. What are you supposed to see? Desire? Longing? Cunning? Manipulation? Love? You shake your head slowly, wary of his reaction. He's switched again. He switches so many times that you can never really keep up with him, never really understand where he's coming from, where you stand. Some days, you feel of little more importance than an object, a toy. Others, it's as if you're his entire world, his universe, even. Perplexing, as always. And maybe that was part of it. Maybe you needed the excitement, the spontaneity, the adventure. Maybe you needed to feel loose. Maybe you needed to feel dangerous - like you were standing at a cliff-edge, swaying against a sudden gust of wind threatening to hurtle you down into the messy waves.
"You don't see it," he says heavily, dropping his arms by his side so suddenly, it's as if your touch electrocuted him.
"Rod…"
"What?" he challenges you, a hint of danger in his voice.
"I…" You don't know how to continue. You don't know what he wants you to say. He's suddenly become very serious, and the aroused light in his eyes has dulled to a flickering glare.
"You don't see it," he repeats. "You really don't see it?"
"See… see what?"
The silence is deafening as you wait for his reply, the answer that will enlighten you to this whole affair. He visibly wilts at your response.
"I can't do this anymore," he whispers angushedly.
"Can't do what? Rodolphus, what's wrong with you?"
"It's not a game anymore," he says bitterly. "Is it? Is it?"
"I… I don't know." You're not quite sure what he's getting at.
"I know it was at the start," he says, continuing as if you never spoke. "I was always good at playing games. Winning them, too." He stops, sighing. "Do you understand?"
"Not really."
"I love you."
Those three words - the enormity of those three words - fail to connect with you. You thought you wanted to hear them, wanted to feel them. You were sure that you needed those words, that verbal confirmation. But now that they've been dropped so reluctantly from his lips, you feel as if your whole world is crashing around you.
"You can't love me," you say wildly, running your fingers through your hair as you try to understand what is happening, try to process what he's said, that it's real, and not a figment of your imagination, not a twisted nightmare.
"I didn't fucking expect to, did I?" he shouts, throwing his hands in the hair with an air of angry defeat. "Do you honestly think I would have got into this with you if I thought that… this was going to happen?"
"But… what about Bella?"
"Bella doesn't love me, and you know that as well as I do, Cissy."
"Surely… surely there's something there? Something more?" you ask desperately.
He doesn't reply immediately, but examines your face, your wringing hands, a sad expression in his eyes. "Why are you so opposed to the thought of me loving you?" he asks you slowly.
You don't know how to justify your answer, how to explain it in a way that will make him understand.
"It's not me personally though, is it, Cissy? You just can't cope with the idea of anyone loving you, and at that, loving you for you. Not as a Black. Not as a beautiful pure-blood. But as Narcissa - the person you are. You can't handle the idea that someone is going deeper than your appearance. You're confident with your appearance. Your good-looks are safe - indisputable. But you - your personality, your soul is so ignored, so worthless in these circles, that no-one's ever really paid any due attention to it - they've never had to. You've never had to rely on your personality. I know how you feel, Cissy. You're looking at me now as if I'm mad, and maybe I am, but I know that what I'm saying is making sense, and you know it too, so you're trying to block me out so you don't have to think about it," he finishes, almost breathless. "I know there's a lot more going on in your head than you'd like to let on, Narcissa."
Slowly, you sink to the floor, resting your back against the wall. He's right. You've never had anyone pay that much attention to you before.
"This… thing we've been doing this past year isn't as meaningless as you'd like to think, Cissy. I know you. You think that I couldn't possibly, but I do. I know you're terrified of rejection, though the image you project is emotionless. I know you have opinions on everything, regardless of whether or not I agree with them. You're clever. You're ambitious. You're stubborn. You're judgemental. You think too much. You say too little. Affection seems to be an emotion you can't comprehend. You fear commitment. You're independent. You like reading. You hate drawing. You're a powerful witch." Rodolphus stops, and grasps your hand. "Isn't that enough?"
Sighing, Narcissa rested her forehead on the cool wood of the dressing table for a few moments, in an attempt to alleviate the sudden chronic headache. The sound of voices drifted upstairs, and as she looked out through her open door, she saw Bella and Rodolphus walking hand in hand upstairs, murmuring in each other's ears. He catches her eyes for the briefest of moments, and with a significant look, turns away, and purposefully gives Bella a full-on kiss.
"If you don't want this, just say it. Say it and I will never bother you again. Say you don't want me and I'll go back to Bella without a word. Say you don't love me and we can pretend this never happened, we never existed."
"I don't love you."
They continued upstairs, the sound of Bella's laughter ringing in her ears. Picking up the grey hair, Narcissa twirled it between her fingers, before sighing and throwing it in the bin. No-one had ever tried to open her up before. Until Rodolphus.
For: Hannah/h_vic
Characters/Pairings: Narcissa/Rodolphus
Rating: 3rd-5th Years
Warnings (if any): Sexual Situations & Strong Profanity
A/N: Happy Hallowe'en, Hannah! I hope you enjoy this! And thanks Elené for your super-fast, effective Beta-ing skills.
Narcissa Malfoy sat in front of her dressing table on the little stool, brushing her long blonde hair with swift, rhythmic strokes. She always brushed her hair with such careful consideration; a hundred strokes a night, just like her mother had told her to when she was a little girl. It was something of a ritual now, to sit alone in her room before sleeping, brushing her hair. It was soothing, comforting.
Giving her hair one final stroke, she brought the elaborate silver and pearl handled brush down through every lock, when suddenly she froze, and slowly lowered the brush onto the table, laying it down gently. She pinched two of her fingers together, and with an expression of horror, plucked one fine, silver strand of hair that had clung to the sleeve of her robe. Holding it up the to the light for a better look, she gasped. Her initial suspicions were correct. It was indeed a grey hair. Her stomach dropped. She was too young for grey hairs. She was only twenty years old, for Merlin's sake! This shouldn't be happening yet, she thought angrily, twiddling the offending item between her long fingers, especially considering the care and maintenance she put into her hair already. She briefly wondered if it could possibly be stress related, but unfortunately that thought had to be dismissed;her life so far had been remarkably stress free. Particularly recently, where she seemed to float in a haze of parties, presents and lustful clinches. No, however much she would have liked to blame it on stress, this solitary grey hair was a result of something else.
Leaning in, she examined her reflection in the mirror - really examined it, not just idly gazed at herself. She was undeniably good-looking; although remarkably different in colouring and features to her sisters, they all resembled each other. She had good skin - it was clear, ivory and never blemished with spots. Her icy blue eyes made a startling impression in her otherwise muted colouring. She was tall and slim, with long, lithe limbs and long, blonde hair. She also had a nice smile, though it rarely graced her face, instead vying with a cold, contemptuous expression. Attention from men had never been short in supply - she'd certainly been admired during her years at Hogwarts, along with Bella. Together, they were famed, pure-blood beauties. Whispers at dinner parties declared that they would be perfect pure-blood mistresses. And the attention hadn't stopped there. She'd seen the appreciative looks at parties, the stolen glances as she glided by, not all of them appropriate. She was never really sure how that level of attention made her feel, having never seen it as necessary to seek validation of her beauty from men.
Beautiful. That was the word that was used to describe her. Beautiful. She wasn't ignorant of the connotations attached to being a beautiful woman. She knew that her physical beauty far outweighed the beauty of her soul, thought that statement in itself sounded overly dramatic. Narcissa was knew that she couldn't have beauty, both inside and out. And the people in her social circle didn't care about inner beauty, whatever that was supposed to mean. She wasn't wholly bad, of course. She wasn't an empty shell, either. There was personality there - a spark, even. But she knew that her looks were her greatest strength, and her aesthetic beauty was a carefully crafted, thin mask; a mask for the darkness that seemed to consume her.
Darkness was the right word to use, inexplicable as her reasons for it was. She was the lightest of the Black women in colouring, but regarding herself as a person, the light was artificial, and most certainly did not come from the inside. She'd always been gripped my something darker, something sinister. Narcissa was possibly too introspective for her own good, but she knew there was something… ominous about herself that she couldn't explain. Something that prevented her from really becoming close to people, really allowing herself to be open and honest. What it was, she didn't know. This darkness aided her cold, calculating image; secretive, private, closed, mysterious. An enigma. She was restricted. But no-one had ever tried to open her up.
Until Rodolphus.
He pushes you into the wall with such force that for a moment, there's a brief, almost sickening pain darting down your spine - but it's quickly overridden by the intensity of the kisses trailing down the nape of your neck, along your collarbone, down your chest. Pinning your arms high above your head, he leans into you, every curvature of the supple shape of his body arching around yours as the sheer warmth of his skin almost seems to crackle with magnitude. His face is so close to yours that you can see the flare in his eyes as his gaze roams tauntingly over your figure, gleaming with a familiar, dangerous light. He breathes a hot, shallow, vaguely spice-hinted breath on the sensitive spot behind your ear, and your skin beings to quiver, craving this illicitly smouldering sensation. It's mind-blowing, this effect he has on you; how even the smallest of touches can create a surge of feeling spreading to every inch of your body - how he can suddenly make you feel alive.
"Are you okay?" he breathes huskily in your ear, and before you can even think of a suitable response, he brushes her lips so very gently across your jaw, peppering the skin with a series of long, slow kisses. A deep sigh of longing unknowingly escapes from your lips, and your brain struggles to process the question asked amongst the range of high-strung emotions. He waits for your reply, the confirmation that every fleeting touch is having the desired effect on your already fragile mind, that you are in fact just as consumed as he believes you to be.
With some vague sense of regret - you know regret should be the emotion you're feeling - you can feel your voice catching in your chest, and you know that any sound you make will betray the acuteness of your physical reaction to him. For some inexplicable reason, you don't want to give him that satisfaction just yet - so you can only trust yourself to nod, desperately, assuredly, wordlessly.
He smiles.
He knows he's irresistible to you. He knows how to work you; how to wind you up so tightly that you almost collapse by merely being in his presence, hearing his lilting voice murmur bitter nothings in your ear. And you're fully aware that when his piercing gaze roams freely over your body, and focuses with gut-wrenching consideration on the limbs his fingers and tongue have previously teased, it's pure and utter manipulation. Yet you are powerless to stop it. Powerless, and strangely unwilling.
Even if this isn't real, it's the most real you've felt in a long time. In your world of deceit, decay, betrayal, obsession, supplication and facade, this is real. This is true. This is honest. Honest, no-strings attached lust.
"Look at me."
Grasping your face in his rough hands, he forces your eyes to look into his.
"Do you see it?"
You're puzzled. What are you supposed to see? Desire? Longing? Cunning? Manipulation? Love? You shake your head slowly, wary of his reaction. He's switched again. He switches so many times that you can never really keep up with him, never really understand where he's coming from, where you stand. Some days, you feel of little more importance than an object, a toy. Others, it's as if you're his entire world, his universe, even. Perplexing, as always. And maybe that was part of it. Maybe you needed the excitement, the spontaneity, the adventure. Maybe you needed to feel loose. Maybe you needed to feel dangerous - like you were standing at a cliff-edge, swaying against a sudden gust of wind threatening to hurtle you down into the messy waves.
"You don't see it," he says heavily, dropping his arms by his side so suddenly, it's as if your touch electrocuted him.
"Rod…"
"What?" he challenges you, a hint of danger in his voice.
"I…" You don't know how to continue. You don't know what he wants you to say. He's suddenly become very serious, and the aroused light in his eyes has dulled to a flickering glare.
"You don't see it," he repeats. "You really don't see it?"
"See… see what?"
The silence is deafening as you wait for his reply, the answer that will enlighten you to this whole affair. He visibly wilts at your response.
"I can't do this anymore," he whispers angushedly.
"Can't do what? Rodolphus, what's wrong with you?"
"It's not a game anymore," he says bitterly. "Is it? Is it?"
"I… I don't know." You're not quite sure what he's getting at.
"I know it was at the start," he says, continuing as if you never spoke. "I was always good at playing games. Winning them, too." He stops, sighing. "Do you understand?"
"Not really."
"I love you."
Those three words - the enormity of those three words - fail to connect with you. You thought you wanted to hear them, wanted to feel them. You were sure that you needed those words, that verbal confirmation. But now that they've been dropped so reluctantly from his lips, you feel as if your whole world is crashing around you.
"You can't love me," you say wildly, running your fingers through your hair as you try to understand what is happening, try to process what he's said, that it's real, and not a figment of your imagination, not a twisted nightmare.
"I didn't fucking expect to, did I?" he shouts, throwing his hands in the hair with an air of angry defeat. "Do you honestly think I would have got into this with you if I thought that… this was going to happen?"
"But… what about Bella?"
"Bella doesn't love me, and you know that as well as I do, Cissy."
"Surely… surely there's something there? Something more?" you ask desperately.
He doesn't reply immediately, but examines your face, your wringing hands, a sad expression in his eyes. "Why are you so opposed to the thought of me loving you?" he asks you slowly.
You don't know how to justify your answer, how to explain it in a way that will make him understand.
"It's not me personally though, is it, Cissy? You just can't cope with the idea of anyone loving you, and at that, loving you for you. Not as a Black. Not as a beautiful pure-blood. But as Narcissa - the person you are. You can't handle the idea that someone is going deeper than your appearance. You're confident with your appearance. Your good-looks are safe - indisputable. But you - your personality, your soul is so ignored, so worthless in these circles, that no-one's ever really paid any due attention to it - they've never had to. You've never had to rely on your personality. I know how you feel, Cissy. You're looking at me now as if I'm mad, and maybe I am, but I know that what I'm saying is making sense, and you know it too, so you're trying to block me out so you don't have to think about it," he finishes, almost breathless. "I know there's a lot more going on in your head than you'd like to let on, Narcissa."
Slowly, you sink to the floor, resting your back against the wall. He's right. You've never had anyone pay that much attention to you before.
"This… thing we've been doing this past year isn't as meaningless as you'd like to think, Cissy. I know you. You think that I couldn't possibly, but I do. I know you're terrified of rejection, though the image you project is emotionless. I know you have opinions on everything, regardless of whether or not I agree with them. You're clever. You're ambitious. You're stubborn. You're judgemental. You think too much. You say too little. Affection seems to be an emotion you can't comprehend. You fear commitment. You're independent. You like reading. You hate drawing. You're a powerful witch." Rodolphus stops, and grasps your hand. "Isn't that enough?"
Sighing, Narcissa rested her forehead on the cool wood of the dressing table for a few moments, in an attempt to alleviate the sudden chronic headache. The sound of voices drifted upstairs, and as she looked out through her open door, she saw Bella and Rodolphus walking hand in hand upstairs, murmuring in each other's ears. He catches her eyes for the briefest of moments, and with a significant look, turns away, and purposefully gives Bella a full-on kiss.
"If you don't want this, just say it. Say it and I will never bother you again. Say you don't want me and I'll go back to Bella without a word. Say you don't love me and we can pretend this never happened, we never existed."
"I don't love you."
They continued upstairs, the sound of Bella's laughter ringing in her ears. Picking up the grey hair, Narcissa twirled it between her fingers, before sighing and throwing it in the bin. No-one had ever tried to open her up before. Until Rodolphus.