Tiles alternate, one after the other, beneath her feet as she rushes towards the Hall, through a cold manor. Torches on the walls dimly illuminate her path, and as she walks deeper in, a lively buzz fills the corridor. She must be late. It must've begun. But as she gets closer, she doesn't hesitate to come in. The Hall is sumptuously decorated and exudes luxury and wealth. In a large fireplace, green flames are crackling under the hum of like-minded people as they sit at a U-shaped dining table. She feels at ease when her gaze falls upon the central seat of the head table - the one facing the entrance and intended for the most important guest. Another piece of expensive furniture. Worthy for its master only, but so inconsequential without him, still hopelessly waiting. Her seat is on the right, and before she sits comfortably, the murmur subsides. The only sound now is the sound of the chairs scraping against the floor. Without looking, she knows. His presence cuts through the air like a knife. Strong and consuming, it's writhing everyone else into oblivion. She has never been around someone who wields so much power. For a split second, she unconsciously allows herself to wonder how they even function around him. Her bare knees rub together, and she rises from her chair, taking a napkin from her lap. Her heart is like a wild horse that finally eludes its captors and runs freely towards freedom. Except hers is not free and will never be until the day it ceases to beat. It's in someone else's hands, and he can squeeze it, crash it, and leave her blood behind, soaked in his fingertips forever - a little evidence she was once alive. Unfortunately, her blood won't be the only one on those hands. It's been a few days- weeks since their meeting. And Merlin, how it ended... She shoves the thought away, she shouldn't be thinking about that. Not now.
She doesn't look at him. Dares not. Or doesn't want to. It is hard to tell. Except her stomach is tingling with excitement, her knees weak. But it's not just her. No one seems to dare to suck in a breath or let a voice escape from their throats before he allows them. So many years in his ranks, but it feels like it's everybody's first time. Ah. Do they all wear their masks around him, but once he turns his back, do the masks slip away, revealing their true faces? He stands there for a moment, though it seems like an eternity, and it necessitates self-mastery not to look. But oh, how she wants to look! To look at him, gaze into his fierce eyes, and fall into that hell-fire all over again. To look, and be burned, be reminded that she is, indeed, alive, and everything is real - real, like the sin it is. And to finally be looked at, to finally be seen by the right person - her master. But her head is low, her eyes fixed on the floor.
With bated breath, they all wait for him to walk past them and claim his place.
And as the celebration and dinner begin, she doesn't look at him. Not even once. As if his gaze were a poisonous arrow, and she had to dodge it to keep herself in life. Will he notice?
She would not look at him. The young woman has not dared meet his gaze since the day he Marked her, the day she gave herself to him in her entirety - and it amused him. How long, he wondered, would she carry on like this, shying away from his glance?
The dinner was small; just three or so pureblood families, leveraging their way up the social ladder, putting on the obligatory performance.
Lord Voldemort hated these occasions. He hated being obligated to make remarks, to make conversation, to pretend he liked them as individuals. But he enjoyed the way they clamored over one another to please him, or the way some held their breaths as he walked by, at a mere glance.
And every so often, he glanced back at her. One of these times, he would catch her off guard, his eyes would meet hers - and her reaction? It would very likely be worth the wait.
Her younger brother was there too; a lanky, pretentious sixth year who spent a good portion of dinner glaring at his schoolmate Alton Nott with reproach. Nott had been returning the gesture in spades, and Voldemort did not need to look far to discern the source of the conflict: the third teenager at the table, Ariadne Selywn, had been blushing furiously into her soup for the better part of an hour now.
Indeed, these three young people were the only ones who had not mastered the cool facade of the dinner party, and watching this silent drama was almost a welcome break from the carefully measured words and gestures of the rest of them.
The dinner wore on, people moved about, chatted, sipped an after dinner drink. The atmosphere had relaxed somewhat - ah, but that stubborn girl had not yet met his gaze. Perhaps he would approach her. A house elf passed then, a single glass remaining on it's tray, and Voldemort reached for it at the same moment as the Selywn girl. The teenager jumped back as if electrocuted, disclaiming all ownership of the glass at once. Voldemort smirked at the child's reaction and accepted, his eyes already wandering back to the woman across the room. He watched her carefully as he sipped his drink.
Two things happened then - one of which Lord Voldemort noticed, and one he did not.
What he did notice was a warm sensation creeping up under his skin; had he had too much wine? He did not know, but - but he did know that now seemed like a perfectly good time to go approach the woman who would not meet his gaze.
What he did not notice was the fact that a particular teenage boy had just gone incredibly pale.