This was not the first time that Antonin Dolohov found himself in an unfamiliar home, awaiting a potential engagement. Gathered in the parlour, his mother and her friends examined and shared their jewellery. He could not care less. Each of the women looked almost indistinguishable to Antonin. They could have been replicas of his mother and, in his mind, they may as well have been. He kept his distance and had not moved from standing tall and solitary against the French windows. Gazing out at the fields blanketed in snow, he caught his reflection in the glass. A hollow glare stared back at him, lazily sweeping his glance to notice the rest of his face echoed in the reflection. A hand moves up, across his face, to caress his newly smooth cheeks and neck perfectly before noticing his finely tailored sleeves praised his muscular, cruel arms. Antonin sighed with restlessness. Years and years of traditions like these had made him apathetic. He was hungry for the excitement of leaving this prison, almost growling at the thought of what he could be doing had he not come here today.
Nervous rustling and shifting in the parlour preceded the sound of doors clicking open, distracting Antonin. Shifting on the spot, his cold gaze fixed now on this younger girl carefully making her entrance into the room. Prompted by her mother, the girlâs thin little body carried itself gracefully past the older women now ushering out. Her silvery hair gleamed against the soft white fields visible outside. Antonin swallowed, his throat dry. Now alone, she seemed at once nervous and yet, almost assured in herself by the way she welcomed him.
âMiss Selwyn, isnât it?â he bows slightly as his deep timbre interrupts the silence following her introduction. âI have been looking forward to this for, well, quite some time nowâ he lies âI must admit, you are more beautiful than even my mother has said.â Antoninâs lips curl to form a slight smile, the longer he examines the waif-like girl before him, the more his intrigue begins to grow.Â
It is her duty to host, to charm and entertain. But she hesitates. Her eyes wide and ear's peaked to his assessment. It's a much more difficult task than she had anticipated  with her nerves cruelly speeding through her limbs and brain. Hands flutter to her hair under his praise and she brushes thick strands in a movement she hopes appears coy rather than anxious. "Of course, but maybe," she smiles shyly, now slightly embarrassed by her pre-rehearsed suggestion although she continues to plow ahead, "Ariadne would be suitable? Given the situation." Her voice trails off, the confidence seeping out of the words as she finishes. She had been proud of her own little addition to her mother's prepped speeches, a small olive branch and prayer for familiarity. Surely he could understand the need for a small modicum of loosened formality? If all the days of her life were spent in complete polite detachment, she would be... disappointed. Her girlish fantasies had never been wild, but there had always been the small hope that marriage contained... something.
Her eyes flick to to his expression and she allows her gaze to roam over his features. He is impossibly handsome. A relief, and yet frightening in and of itself. He looks nothing like her brother or the boys in his circle. Maturity seems to ooze from him. His presence speaks of confidence and experience. It makes her feel smaller, somehow. "Would you like a drink?" She takes lithe steps of a dancer towards him, brushing past on her way to the antique cabinet on the far wall. He smells clean, she notices, with an underlying note of musk that tightens her stomach. But Ariadne makes the mistake of meeting his gaze as she passes and instant heat flushes her cheeks under his scrutiny.
As she sets him a glass and pours from the decanter, she's grateful her straight back faces the room and her now... fiance. She focuses instead on the minimal shaking of her hands, the simple and methodical movements of pouring a man a drink. A familiar task with both her father and brother around. By the time  she turns back to return to his side, her nerves have calmed and heart returned to a normal pace. "Here you are," she murmurs politely while proffering the glass, although her eyes remain lowered and concentrated on the crispness of his lapel.Â
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