( i sleep in empty pools and vacant alleyways )
a n d w h a t i ' m g o i n g t h r o u g h ?
SHOT LIPGLOSS THROUGH MY VEINS
&& when i can't complain/withthefallingrain
lounging in dark alleyways again, smoking cigarettes through wan, tapered fingers like the villainess in some fifties film noir -
flickering in the light of a shop window's candle like a shadow on a summer day -
i'm always there, you know; because she was bellatrix lestrange, and that said it all. With a snort of indignation at the thought of anyone not recognizing her name the death eater dropped her cigarette to the ground, putting it out with one silent stamp of a black-heeled boot. Indeed, everything about Bellatrix seemed to be painted in shades of black; a floor-length black leather coat, a black fur hat, a thick, luxurious mass of dark hair. . .and, most importantly, the eyes. There seemed little difference between the iris and the pupil she was a sea of black & white, smothering all color in her grasp. a smile flickered on ruby-red lips, painted up like a hollywood star's. She was glamorous, to be sure - more so than a woman of her repute deserved to be. bellatrix black, you no-good bitch, you'll pay for this! all their petty little threats, whispered in the back of her mind like souls down the styx. All their pleadings and offers, all their famous last words, now sinking in the murky depths of her subconscious - she pitied the people she hurt only because she realized how much it must fucking suck to be killed by a witch like her. They just didn't stand a chance. Pulling black silk gloves over her pale hands, she twisted a lock of thick black hair around her middle finger, curling her lip at a passing house elf running errands. Didn't cousin Sirius's family have one of those overeager pieces of shit? kreacher. Yeah, that was the name. Not this one, though. She made a flicking motion in its direction and the thing quit its staring and scurried off, doubtless to bring its owner some dark arts porn or the beginner's guide to be being badass.
she, however, had come here for an actual reason. more or less. Besides scouting out the lazy poseurs skulking about Knockturn Alley. Casting vaguely annoyed glances at the shady passerby from beneath dark lashes, the lady moved steadily towards Burgin & Burke's. oh, yes, she was a girl on a mission - like a lioness on the prowl, but for the fact that she had nothing in common with those mangy beasts but their pride. Hunting for a male? As if. The only hunting for a male she did was searching for Rodolphus's anniversary present, but that certainly was not what she was after today. so what is it, then? why, the usual, of course - a few less-than-legal pick-me-up's, a few nice touches to equally not-quite-legal potions. She liked to keep a few in store, in the event that her assistance was needed urgently. ( if there was one thing she had learned as a death eater, it was that Voldemort did not enjoy being kept waiting. nor, it seemed, did any man in general. ) neither did she, but she never compared her own wants and needs to others'. because, in the end, what they wanted would always be eclipsed by what she wanted - inconsiderate? Perhaps; she considered it mere instinct. A necessity for survival, if you will. as if her survival was ever in question. She was quite confident of her ability to escape death: confident to a fault.
she entered the dimly-lit shop with a sigh, daintily removing her hat from her head and smoothing her hair out carefully. What a royal fucking mess; you would think they would have the dignity to cast a cleaning spell every now and again. Why so many wizards seemed to believe that 'dark' = 'shabby' was quite beyond her. Keeping a careful eye on her pockets ( though anyone who tried a hand at picking her pockets would lose that very same hand, and most likely their head besides ) she began to pick her way through the dingy aisles, oblivious to the shop owner's polite hello. She frequented the place often enough that its employees recognized her, though she rarely acknowledged them - only ever to inquire about a possibly mislabeled price, or bitch at them regarding the quality ( or lack thereof ) of their products. Ignoring the eyes of the hideous shrunken heads as they traced her movements, she picked up a glass bottle holding a liquid in a nauseating shade of green. Shaking it ( and smirking mirthlessly at the store worker as he winced ) she eventually placed it back on the shelf. Though the Lestranges had money to spare, Bella doubted that their house needed any more incriminating evidence than it already held; she moved on to collect the necessities, eyes occasionally flicking back to the bottle in curiosity.
to say that she could use a new challenge in her life would be no lie. While she supposed she had the life most witches could only dream of ( those sick&sorry bitches, all dolled up in last year's fashions, fucking this year's model boy toy and eying up the competition ) it wasn't satisfying her - what did? Not the mindless tasks Voldemort set out for her, when he remembered her existence at all; not Rodolphus's straying eyes; not the thick multitude of coins in her purse. Not her own pretty face. Maybe it was petty of her to be constantly grasping for more, maybe it made her dangerously similar to all of Hogwarts's petty little kittens - but since when did Bellatrix give a damn about being petty? She glanced down at the items in her hands, realizing she had almost dropped them in her fit of dissatisfaction. Hm. Mentally getting a grip, she shot a dirty look at a fellow customer who had been staring at her pile of to-be purchases skeptically and moved again towards the counter, setting them down gently and slamming the money down harshly, enjoying the discordant, metallic sound of its collision with the counter. "
Make it quick, shortie," she hummed beneath her breath, reveling in the manner in which he did not meet her eye as she withdrew her wand from the pocket ( yes, flinch, flinch now because the next time you do could be your last, y'know ) and tapped it impatiently against her thinly-drawn lips, wrinkling her nose to emphasize her hurry to leave. She just knew dust was accumulating on her coat as she stood her waiting. Rodolphus Ares Cassius Lestrange III leant against the wall in the staff courtyard at the back of St Mungo’s, which was fenced to separate it from the patients’ communal gardens. He leant his head back until he felt it connect with hard stone, and took a deep drag from his cigarette, his muscles relaxing slightly as the chemicals poured into his body, entering his bloodstream and making him feel slightly better than he had since his last one. His sapphire eyes bored a hole in the fence he was looking at, wishing the few patients on the other side, in the garden, nothing but ill. He hated the hospital, but it was a good job and ensured he maintained a high level of respect in the wizarding world. Some people had gone as far as to assume that finally a Lestrange had arrived who actually possessed a conscience and wanted to make the world a better place. He snorted with incredulity at the very thought.
The young man had just begun to take another drag when an urgent voice sounded behind him. “Healer Lestrange, I have terrible news. Mr Arnold has just died. His wife is with him. She’s not in a good state.” Rodolphus kept his face turned away from the other Healer, and a malicious smirk flickered onto his face, to be replaced by a convincing expression of dismay. This was his favourite part of the job – when the pathetic people here died. And it was even better when the deaths were caused by himself. He had had the pleasure of meeting Mr Arnold just before he was admitted to the Hospital. Put two and two together. And now the man was dead. Rodolphus couldn’t help but be amused.
Turning around, he looked at the other Healer, who was lower than him in superiority, and nodded. “I’ll be there straight away,” he said in a quiet, sombre voice. The other man inclined his head and hurried back into the building. Rodolphus dropped the cigarette on the floor, and stamped it out, before waving his wand over himself to get rid of the smell of smoke, and then returning back to the hospital.
He returned to his ward, to see two Healers recording the time of Mr Arnold’s death, and his wife crouched back his side, sobbing onto his bed. Apparently none of the other Healers had managed to get her away from the body of her dead husband, so the charming Head Healer was their last choice left. He subtlety rolled his eyes, and silently made his way behind Mrs Arnold, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, and assuring her that he knew what she was going through, having been through the death of a loved one himself. Within seconds, Mrs Arnold was sobbing into his shoulder, and Rodolphus, knowing that the woman was a Mudblood, had to restrain himself from shuddering and killing her on the spot. Trying not to screw his face up, he patted the woman on the shoulder, mentally reminding himself that a shower was in order when he finished his shift.
An hour later, Rodolphus stepped back into the staff courtyard, showered and dressed in his own clothes – faded jeans, black shirt and his favourite long coat. He shuddered at the thought of the Mudblood hugging him for dear life, and had made sure to scrub himself thoroughly when he had a shower. God, that was the bad bit of the job. Tearing it from his mind, he Disapparated, and appeared in the shabby narrow street known as Knockturn Alley. People turned to see him, and immediately either smiled cautiously, bowed their heads hastily or simply stepped out of the way. Although Rodolphus’ job ensured the good kind of respect in the wizarding world, he still held the intimidating kind of respect in places like Knockturn Alley.
He knew Bellatrix would be here somewhere – if she wasn’t at home, chances were she’d be here or some obscure alleyway causing pain to whoever made the mistake of walking down it. And he thought he’d better check here before hunting through London’s alleyways. He was used to looking for Bellatrix – she rarely told him where she would be when he came back from work, and usually, he didn’t mind that, unless he was tired, and expected her at home, waiting for him. Then he was not too happy to either have to wait, or to have to look for her.
He shook his hair out of his eyes, and took another cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He lit it with a tip of his wand, glowering at all the prissy purebloods who thought smoking was a disgusting habit, and took a drag, letting the smoke stream out in a thin line, and watching it dissipate into the air, as he looked around for his wife.
Rodolphus moved swiftly through the street, parting the crowd easily, as people scurried so they didn’t get in his way. He smirked, until his eyes lit upon Borgin & Burkes. Ah yes. This was one of Bellatrix’s favourite haunts, and one of his, come to think of it. Many of the sadistic items that littered the Lestrange abode had come from this shop, and the shop owner was well aware that they were perhaps his best customers. He paused outside the window, squinting past the vile dirt that had accumulated on the glass. He wasn’t the tidiest person in the world (in fact, he had a habit of throwing his clothes on the floor rather than hanging them up), but he was, at any rate, clean. And dirt disgusted him.
When he actually worked out what was behind the layer of grime, he was pleased to see a familiar impatient woman with dark hair. He knew immediately who she was, despite her having her back to the window, simply from her posture. That posture was hers, and hers only. He hadn’t seen any other woman ever stand the way she did. He smirked, and slipped into the shop, silently making his way behind her. He had never forgotten that sneaking up on Bellatrix was often an extremely dangerous thing to do, so he was always careful to speak before touching her, so she’d know who it was.
Standing behind her, he shot a poisonous glance at the shop keeper, before inclining his head slightly so his lips were next to Bellatrix’s ear. “Don’t you think we have enough of this shit in our house?” he said in an amused tone, eyeing the stuff she was buying. Of course, he wouldn’t say no to a few extra artefacts, which she knew, hence the amused tone he spoke with.
ooc |||
1. damn in hell. i forgot to switch accounts -headdesk-
2. i apologise for the un-rodolphus-ish-ness of this post ¬_¬
