#alice flint

[oldsardens]

Alice Flint - Female Portrait

[bys-graphics]

THIS COULD BE THE END OF EVERYTHING SO WHY DON'T WE GO SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW?

[said-alice-to-the-queen]

And the way you move I won't close my eyes It takes a man to live It takes a woman to make him compromise

[said-alice-to-the-queen]

This is what makes us girls We all look for heaven and we put our love first Somethin' that we'd die for, it's our curse Don't cry about it, don't cry about it This is what makes us girls We don't stick together 'cause we put our love first Don't cry about him, don't cry about him It's all gonna happen

[said-alice-to-the-queen]

She's a lady and ladies shouldn't be messed with.

[said-alice-to-the-queen]

Rowle Manor is an intimidating Gothic structure. Events held in the marble room only accept those Twenty-Eight who had their families cemented in Pureblood aristocracy so many years before. Even those boasting blood which supposedly ran pure can not enter without the ancient documentation certifying that they are, indeed, untainted. Blood so notoriously runs clean also ironically (and somewhat stereotypically) runs cold. These are all contributing to the factors that galas held in the structure are almost always chilly, and very seldom are they quiet. There is a competition among those who share such small company in a world so vast, causing wizards to speak loudly over brandy and witches to titter while showcasing their robes on the dance floor. Young wizards puff their chests and attempt to look as worldly as their fathers and young witches froth at the mouth over the boys.

Alice finds Bellatrix at these events. Normally they speak quietly to each other, laughing into each other's hair at the way Lady Rowle seemed to throw herself at any boy of age who looked her way. They work their way into the conversations of men, holding their ground against rolling eyes and patronizing remarks. Alice does not look forward to the bone-piercing cold but she bounds happily to the gala in search of time spent on a common ground with her friend. 

Tonight the ballroom is silent save for one voice.

She can see his reflection in her parents' wary gaze before her orbs, rimmed with fire, fall to him. 

Alice has heard stories about the man before her. Voldemort, once upon a time Tom Marvolo Riddle. One would think that company who took such pride in their names would scoff at anyone who discarded his own - they do not. God-like or a god she has heard uttered from the lips. The mere mention of his name sends the likes of Cygnus Black (who has always reminded her of the hounds on the Black family crest) to act as a submissive dog. Lady Rowle stares at him hungrily, as if he is more beautiful than all of the youth she had ever chased. 

He is not beautiful. 

His wax-like, white as snow, skin surpasses those who have tried to do away with wrinkles in potions. His hair is jet black, styled. His eyes are red. While some can not seem to look away, Alice is unable to look at him for very long. He isn't beautiful, she asserts once more to herself, he is horrifying. Those who claim him to be a god, a savior, see the power that went behind such distortions on the physical appearance. Only the strongest magic leaves such an imprint on the caster. While he obviously possesses power, it is dark. As only the darkest magic would ever render someone to looking so warped.

Not god-like but a creature who is nearly inhuman at first glance.

She keeps her gaze away, searching instead through the crowd which has formed in a crescent to cradle his presence. She keeps her arm linked with Bellatrix and it is from this stance she is able to at least appreciate one aspect so praised. His manner of speaking is something of warm honey. Quiet in tone, gripping in annunciation. His very breath sends the small group swaying back and forth in a lull, he charms them with words. 

It is only his voice she can hear, his voice and the bated breath of those entranced. His voice and then one other.

Is he even one of us?

Mamilius and Rosalind's eyes snap to her. Had she not known better, Alice would have guessed the words tumbled from her cherry lips as well. But her teeth are gritted shut, an attempt to keep them from inexplicable chattering his presence incites. The words are not her own - they are spoken by the Burke girl. The dead girl, Alice thinks. She can see those red eyes flash, almost hear him say the incantation to end her life in that intoxicating voice, she physically sees his hand extend but it is not with a wand. It is open, long pale fingers outstretched towards the young woman.

"Would you care to dance?"

It isn't a request - Alice isn't sure any of the others realize this. 

When the pair glide onto the dance floor, parents snap out of their daze and into a frenzy of social climbing. The eldest daughters of each noble house are lined up along the edge of the floor, positioned like prized ponies waiting for the highest bidder, told to keep their hands looking inviting for him to spin them on the dance floor, eager to gain favor of the man with pale thin skin and a thick, heady voice. 

Alice and Bellatrix act accordingly here - they turn away. 

Ever unwilling to partake in a beauty pageant, the girls move together. Air nearly enters back into her lungs as she takes those strides but it traps itself back inside her chest when she realizes the inhuman has broken his waltz and is making his way to them. She is content (desperate) to move forward, it is Bellatrix who halts them. She sees those terrible red eyes, studies the ghostly pale skin and sees that outstretch white hand. "Bellatrix Black and Alice Flint," his smooth voice trickles out, enveloping the two with the attention of the many. "I was so looking forward to making both of your acquaintance. Might you accompany me for a stroll?"

It isn't a request.

Bellatrix is just as clever as she, she knows this just as Alice does.

The difference is noted by Alice with a creeping sense of terror - Bella doesn't seem to mind.