rodolphus and bellatrix.
where: lestrange manor.
when: mid-charity ball.
with: @bxcktoyou
She is bored. These kind of events have never appealed to her much, her soul too restless for the civilised conversation and champagne flutes. Even before Bellatrix had broadened her horizon with bloodshed and cruelty, evenings like this had been dull. As a child, she’d preferred to run through the gardens or explore on upper, forbidden floors, or maliciously pointing out the imperfections of her mother’s guests. But that childish restlessness is nothing compared to the restlessness she feels now: this is more like a barely contained storm. The only thing that placates her is the promise of later tonight, when everything has gone according to plan and she can let the beast she keeps leashed loose.
But for now, she plays nice. She smiles and praises the cause they are raising money for, does not reign her tongue completely as sardonic comments fall from her lips and eyebrows raise. Her husband is the approachable one, darling politician, and it is halfway through proving that she is not approachable that she finds her way to him, hooking an arm with his own as they walk, “Darling husband,” she says, squeezing his upper arm, “I’m going to set something on fire soon.” It’s a comment made in jest, though there’s some truth to it. She lets her free hand fall into her pocket curl around her wand, “Or make a waiter trip, so I can fire him.” Her eyes flick to Rodolphus, then, “Any news?” On the mission, she means, quite agitated that she is missing on the action, that she is playing queen of the castle, though hardly the kind of queen she’d like to be. Tonight she is not a queen like Bloody Mary, but a queen of the people in stead. How nauseating.