Of Fire and Ice | Rodolphus and Bellatrix | December 14, 1978
Wind whipped the dark witch’s hair around almost violently before she shoved it back behind her ears, her smile not diminishing even for a moment in the presence of her husband; normally her lips would twist into an almost sour expression, hellbent on physically showing just how badly she didn’t want to be in his presence, and her brows would furrow to show her annoyance.
From a very young age, Bellatrix had been taught time and again to keep her voice pleasant, to be pleasant, especially to her husband - if the girl ever got one, her mother would murmur - and Bellatrix Black Lestrange now went out of her way to make sure that her voice and her words were hardly pleasant, which would make the upwards spike in her mood that much more apparent. It was true that in social settings, where it was required of her to be proper, that she could contain her foul mouth for at least the duration of that, but there was no one around now.
While Rodolphus had stopped a few feet away, Bellatrix didn’t and continued forward a couple more steps, her fingers reaching up to tweak the collar of his shirt, smudging a faint reddish brown color there before she nodded with satisfaction at the words that dripped from his lips. She’d been having the time of her life out there; it wasn’t often that she was truly allowed to let loose, to let her insanity out so she could rain down punishment on those with inferior blood and those that would defend them. “Very satisfied, my love,” the words spilled from her lips easily, the pet name more mocking than showing any actual affection she held for the man. “A couple were real fighters, though,” she added almost thoughtfully, her eyes darting upwards to recall the memory, though there was still that faint smile on her lips. Bellatrix did love a challenge.
Rodolphus had often wondered why his marriage refused to work despite his best efforts. He was handsome, intelligent, and gentlemanly, so it couldn’t be who he was. Had to be something he was doing -- or not. But he was attentive to Bellatrix’s every wish, patient with her tantrums, rarely started any arguments... After mulling over the matter for years, the man had concluded that it had to be her fault. Far from easing his mind, however, the thought had only aggravated him further.
There was a world of pureblood women dying to be Mrs Lestrange, and out of these he’d married the one who’d rather kill him. And he’d been told it was more than an arranged marriage. No doubt another strategy of the Blacks to get rid of the problematic daughter. If only he’d gotten Narcissa instead, how easy everything would have been. She was the perfect wife for a man of his standing, and instead that maggot Malfoy had gotten her. He was nowhere near what she deserved.
But here was his own ball and chain, good old Bella in the flesh, and she was acting suspiciously like a normal person. Something was off.
Had she really reached up to fix his collar? His impeccable collar? With her bloody hands? The man had to stop himself from shuddering with disgust.
“That doesn’t sound like a complaint, pet.” One corner of his lips twitched into a wry grimace that could have been a smile under different circumstances. “Is that you done for the night, then? Or are there more names on your list?”
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was asking, it wasn’t as if he was interested in spending the rest of the night with her. They would either not exchange a word and go to bed, or an argument would break out that would leave him worse off. After a day at the battleground, he was done fighting. No, he would much rather seek more affable company, be it a friend, a full glass, or a willing woman.
