Are You a Gambling Man, Mr. Lestrange? | R&V
She’d been summoned. For what, Valerian didn’t yet know. If she had to guess... well, she wasn’t so self absorbed as to think it had everything to do with the delight of her company. Though it was delightful.
No. If she were going to venture a guess, Val suspected that her summons had something to do with the Daily Prophet’s most litigious front page article. A little girl was dead, murdered, slaughtered like a psychopath’s plaything. An example was made and now was the time to evaluate the fallout. Drawn in blood instead of sand, the time had come to learn who fell on which side of the line?
Valerian didn’t see why she had to chose sides. As far as she was concerned the skull and snake decorating her arm symbolised her having already chosen the winning side. Why make it any more complicated than that? She was a pureblood and a Death Eater, obedient to her Master. One would assume that it was enough. Clearly, after a tapping beak on her window pane and a delivered summons for “tea,” one had assumed incorrectly.
Before the attack on the Travers family, Valerian wouldn’t have thought herself afraid of anyone. The Dark Lord took care of his followers and Lucius was His trusted ally. She and Narcissa had been best friends since childhood, surely that granted Val a certain amount of additional protection. Her confidence wavered.
The Travers were also purebloods and Death Eaters. They were an old and respected family. If something like this could happen to them... Val needed to reevaluate her position within the ranks. If there was surer footing to be found then she needed to be standing on it. If this meeting with Rodolphus Lestrange was to be a peer evaluation, Valerian had her own appraising to do.
Dressed to the nines in cherry red pumps that accentuated the well defined musculature of her toned legs, a daytime appropriate Greengrass Original clung modestly to her curves. Lacy and black, the two piece was respectable in its snug fit. The cropped halter top exposed only about an inch or so of midriff before the high waisted skirt pinched her middle and flared out in flowy pleats that hemmed off about mid-thigh.
Long, dark hair toppled over her shoulders in silken waves, not a strand out of place. Her makeup was subtle save for the bold, winged eyeliner and bright red lipstick that matched her heels and sharply manicured nails. Valerian’s appearance was that of effortless vogue and resplendent seduction.
Upon her arrival to the Lestrange estate she was escorted to the stately drawing room and assured that the Master of the house would be with her shortly. Valerian didn’t sit. Instead she walked the room, casually perusing the ornaments and design. Stopping at the grand piano near the window, she lifted the fall board to expose the ivory keys. Pointed nails tapped a simple melody.
She was familiar with this part of The Game. Being made to wait was an easy reminder of one’s importance. The longer the wait, the less important. The classic tune filled the drawing room in absent strokes as Valerian mused how long she’d be made to wait.
