MINUTIAE;

emma vanity. xxvi. operation auror. death eater. no i won't smile but i'll show you my ᴛᴇᴇᴛʜ.

[vanityemmas-blog]

signedskeeter‌:

emma truly had a way of making the most innocent comment sound so very BITING and passive aggressive. but this was the game the pair played with each other. who could be the most passive aggressive, all whilst keeping that innocuous smile on their face? “of COURSE. i completely understand. what is it you do again? barista? dish pig?” she said, patronisingly, even though she knew emma was a forensic scientist and a GOOD ONE at that. “take a seat, you look so very exhausted.” rita said, gesturing to the chair across from her and looking over at emma properly now. emma was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. but more than that- she was intelligent. maybe that’s part of why rita couldn’t stand her for the most part. “gosh, look at those BAGS and CIRCLES you’ve got under your eyes! they’re utterly terrible!” rita pointed out, a bit too gleefully.  she reels it back a little, pretending to sympathise now: “they must be really working you to the bone, you poor thing.”

Emma didn’t quite care how her comment came across. That’s how it worked, didn’t it? Rita misinterpreted her words, twisted them into something she could toy with, and Emma’s short fuse would be ignited by the sparks from Rita’s mouth. They were quite the volatile pair, with Rita knowing just how to strike the match that set Emma up in flames; then again, most people could set Emma off without ever really trying. It was no wonder Rita had the job she did, with her ability to twist and turn words and to poke and proud until she received the reaction she wanted. “You know exactly what I fucking do.” Emma snapped, sitting down. The lack of respect was something she could not handle, a thing that went beyond Rita. The Death Eaters held a lack of respect for her thanks to the lies she told. She knew some members of Operation Auror didn’t respect her because they didn’t understand how much her talents provided for them. She didn’t need the disrespect from Rita in a coffee shop – at least she couldn’t hide behind a screen. “Aren’t they? That’s because I work my ass off doing actual investigating, not typing up gossip.” It was funny, how two people could be digging for answers in such different ways. “What do you want? Seriously, because if you’re just going to make my day anymore fucking difficult than it already has to be, I’m not staying to have it.”

[vanityemmas-blog]

atted‌:

Her irritation at having to discuss work is immediately apparent, Ted having become reasonably good at reading Emma’s emotions. He understands why, but the topic remains poised on the tips of everyone’s tongues – albeit often spoken under hushed voices for the sake of staying respectful to the poor victim they’d gathered for ( or, perhaps more specifically, the poor victim’s brother ). “It’ll all work out,” he tries to reassure her, swerving around the topic despite the strong urge to discuss the strange coincidence of Dumbledore having known that the authorities were onto him and managed to evade capture. A glass already clasped in his hand, he regards her answer with a slow-forming smile. “Right.” With a quick wink that doesn’t look half a slick as it should, he fills the highball with ice and lime, subtly adding a few shots of gin before topping it up with tonic water. “Here’s your very non-alcoholic drink that definitely has no alcohol inside and will certainly not taste of alcohol.” 

He looks pleased with himself, leaning idly against the bar, scanning the various groups of people dotted around the pub. It was a bizarrely mixed bunch, made more so by the distinct lack of Sacred 28 members or grieving teenage friends – which he assumes Regulus must have had, surely? Not that he was suggesting the absence of rich youth was a bad thing. He highly doubts they’d be the sort to tip and would probably kick-off at the small selection of top-shelf liquors ( most of which were untouched and covered in a thin coat of dust ). “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Life is fucking short. You never know how much time you’ve got left.” The somewhat morbid thought is followed by one of Maya, uncertain as to how long he ought to wait before he reconsiders his attempts to have a serious relationship with her. Ted steals a sip of Emma’s drink only to remember how much he dislikes gin. “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do? Top of your bucket list. You should make it happen.”

It hurt much less to be close to Ted tonight. Not so long ago, Emma ached as she sobbed into his shoulder, knowing he could never know the truth. She was filled with so much anger and frustration and sadness and he could never truly know why. She cared about him and trusted him more than anyone – and yet, she couldn’t trust him with the deeper, darker veins that ran through her life. The rotted roots that lived too far beneath the ground to absorb the rainwater that soaked through the top of the soil. She couldn’t trust anyone with it, not without the consequences imposed upon her or those she told. It would put Ted at risk, as well as her own life should word slip to anyone in the Death Eaters that another had confirmation of their presence thanks to her. Ted could never know, part because she was selfish and valued her life not getting any shred worse, but part because she cared about him and didn’t think she could live with herself should anything happen to him because she selfishly spilled her problems as freely into his lap as her tears often did. She tried not to think of that tonight, surrounded by those who had no idea who they were mourning. Ted even managed to pull a slight grin from her despite the shit day she’d had as her hand wrapped around the glass, pulling it closer. “Thanks. I absolutely do not need a drink right now – nope, I’m perfectly fine being sober,” she answered sarcastically, raising the drink to her lips.

He’s right, life is short. Emma knew, because hers seemed to end the moment she tried to obtain a new one for herself. Her mother’s ended when she took that risk; Emma’s ended the same way, with a stupid risk. She truly was like her mother in every fiber of her being, and nothing she could do would shake that. It made her want to scream, sometimes. Usually, she did, but she can’t scream here. Her wails of frustration were not to drown out the sobs of others. The one thing she had wanted to do, she did, and it sent her life hurdling from the good path it had been on. “I dunno, I never really had the means or time to think of shit like that.” Top of her bucket list had been to live among the Sacred 28 again – be careful what you wish for. She thought for a moment longer. “I’d go bungee jumping,” Emma decided. “Feel the rush of falling knowing I can get back up.” She’d never gotten back up from a fall before. Plus she’d probably curse the whole way down. “But somewhere warm. Not here. Not that I have the time to get away or anything. What would you do, then?”

[vanityemmas-blog]

atted‌:

— * | TED & EMMA. THE LEAKY BUCKET. 25TH JUNE. [ @vanityemmas]

He hears Emma before he sees her, busy serving a customer as she approaches. Waiting for the person in front of him to search through their change for the right coins, Ted studies her from afar. She looks drained, although less so than the last time he saw her, cheeks red from crying into his t-shirt. He’s surprised she made it, if he’s honest, her last text message having mentioned a flight to Scotland for work – which, having stared at the headline in horror a few hours ago, now made sense. Money dropped into his palm, he deposits it in the till and steps over a crate of back-up beers ( Marlene wasn’t wrong to expect that people were going to need a drink tonight, that was for certain ). “I’m going to need to see your ID please,” he says, gesturing for Emma to hand it over. His charade soon slips, uttering a warm “Hey,” stretching across the bar to give her a one-armed hug. 

The soles of his shoes hit the beer-sticky ground as he settles back and attempts to gauge how she’s feeling now that she’s stood closer. He’d heard the news, of course. Felt the ripples of shock and surprise spread across social media, Hogwarts alumni all suitably shaken. “I–” Ted breathes out a speechless exhale. “I don’t even know what to say other than fuck. But hey, at least he’s been identified now, right? How hard can it be to track him down?” Very hard, he imagines, given that Dumbledore had clearly been given some sort of tip-off to know that the police had figured out the murderer was him and was now likely on a train, or a plane, or a boat, or a– he stops himself, returning to his efforts of making Emma feel better about what had happened. “At least you now have a lead on the Order of the Phoenix, too.” Offering a lopsided smile, he gestures grandly at the various bottles shelved behind him. “What would you like? If you order a spirit and mixer I can throw in an extra shot.” 

As if a flight to Scotland and a mostly fruitless scene search (with the exception of random observations she noted to tell Tom should he ask if there was anything of note) weren’t tiring enough, Emma was sent to join in the mourning of a person she’d witnessed the death of, and now diverted justice away from. Already physically exhausted, she wasn’t excited to add emotional exhaustion to her already tired demeanor, but she never much had a choice in the matter when it came to her feelings. At least here she could claim to be moved by the heavy energy in the room if she got a little teary-eyed when she was unable to stop thinking about the last moments of Regulus’s life and the role she played in it. She kept to the back of the crowds and sat herself down at the end of the bar, not trying to place herself in the midst of the suffering, part to keep herself away from the suspicion and part because she wasn’t even supposed to know Regulus personally, except for brief meetings with the then-infant when she was a child. She was here out of respect, but especially out of obligation.

A voice surprised her as she sat down, and relief washed over her to know she’d have at least a few moments to chat with Ted alone. Emma couldn’t quite say this was the most relieved she’d been to see Ted, as she often felt this way when he was around. She was relieved to have someone to listen to her. She was relieved to have someone who cared. She was relieved to have a distraction from the sheer stress of her life. Ted was everything and more in a friend. “Hey,” she greeted back with a sad smile, reaching to hug Ted over the bar. But it was work talk as usual, causing Emma to sigh in response. She couldn’t blame Ted for talking about it – it was monumental, right now. “I dunno, my job was just to identify him, not to figure out where he’s at. I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she shrugged. Finding a man who didn’t want to be found sounded impossible – at least, if you’re hiding from Tom Riddle, you hope it very well should be, lest you want to face the deadly consequences of being found. Yes, there was that lead, she thought, but it was a lead she created. While yes, she didn’t agree with the Order, this wasn’t how things should be done. Her conscious knew this well. Emma tried to shake it off with a shake of the head in response to him. “I can’t drink tonight – technically, I’m working.”

[vanityemmas-blog]

ofamycus‌:

She says she didn’t miss him. The quick fuse ignites, and Amycus bristles instantly. The fire in his eyes beginning to flicker, the once softness of his features beginning to harden as he took offense. But there’s something about the way that her grin catches at her mouth. Something sly, something secret, something she knows that clearly he doesn’t. Emma didn’t kinda miss him; she missed him a lot. That confession alone blooms something warm and not entirely unpleasant within his chest. More importantly, the feeling is not unfamiliar, likening it to the ones he’d felt in her presence long before, feelings that would come to the surface when he’d see her name slide across his phone screen in the middle of a boardroom meeting or when her face would light up when presented with a Cartier box. “Don’t do that,” Amycus scolds, sucking his teeth, but it doesn’t do too much to chase off the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He has a reputation to uphold, and he couldn’t allow himself to jump the gun after one night with Emma, even if his mind already was in the process of it, “I was this close to kicking you off the fucking bed.”

Her lips trail along his jaw, and Amycus tips his head back against his pillow, giving her all the room to lavish him if she wants. “I’m starving,” the confession comes on the tail end of a low rumble from his emptied stomach. “And so are they,” he mutters in annoyance, hearing Santo and Diosa pitifully whining in unison on the opposite side of the door. “Okay! Papá’s coming to feed you,” Amycus calls to them, an irritated growl to his voice as he reaches down to the floor for his discarded boxers, pulling them up to sit low on his hips. Slipping regretfully from Emma’s warmth, from her touch, he rifles quick through a drawer and yanks out a pair of sweatpants, shoving his legs through and pads out to the kitchen, but not before he reaches over the bed to smack her ass loudly over the sheets, recoiling quick to evade her wrath. “They act like I never feed them,” he tells her as he rations out dry food into bowls, keen ears picking up on another set of light steps entering the room. Excitedly, his dogs sniff at Emma’s ankles before knocking into each other to get closer to him and more importantly, their food. “Cut it out. Don’t act up now because we have a guest.” He holds up a hand, his Dobermans obedient, as they wait for their bowls to go down, and wait for their commands. “Eat,” Amycus says, and the sounds of munching and crunching begin. “They’re very good, these two. Listen to everything I say.” Making his way to the fridge, he had breakfast on the brain, “Ooh — I got eggs left. Hope you want an omelet because that’s the only thing on the menu.”

Emma knows not to play with fire. Every child learns that touching a stove, no matter if it’s just been used or not, carries the risk of getting burned. Often, they do it once, get harmed, and learn to never do it again. And yet Emma still told Amycus she didn’t miss him, knowing how easy it was to burn herself this way. It was because she missed him more than the small amount he hoped she had, but still, the first sentence was like dangling fuel before the heat he gave off. She had ignited him in the past and gotten burned, and of course, he had done the same with her. They should have learned by now, that the other was too hot to the touch, too easy to burn yourself on, and yet, they found themselves here, tangled in sheets and limbs and the bliss of the morning. It was so easy for them to burn themselves on one another, but it was just as easy to melt. “You know I would’ve killed you if you did that,” she warns, a reminder that her wrath could burn as hot as her skin felt against his right now. That still didn’t stop her from craving more of the contact they had as she continued to kiss the skin he gave her more access to.

She didn’t quite respond to his comments, only groaned once in agreement at the hunger he felt and another time in protest as he left the bed. Not ready to get up, Emma instead rests on her stomach in the warm spot Amycus left behind, the blankets lazily draped around the lower half of her body. Thankfully, it provides a slight barrier as the forceful smack provides a much harsher jolt of energy than what might have come to her naturally. Instead of a slow oncoming energy at the desire to follow a sweatpants-clad Amycus into the kitchen, there was an immediate burst after he smacked her ass, rising her from bed as she began to shout. “Seriously?” Emma called, digging around for a shirt of his she could throw on before storming her way into the kitchen. “Did you really have to smack my ass that hard? What the hell?!” she shouts, her rage unable to be contained even at this hour. Luckily for him, the dogs ease her anger enough for her to pet their heads before they listen to his commands, her tone quieting as she speaks once more. “Hope you know I’m not like that,” she replies, arms folded over her chest. And yet, she was still here, listening to much of what he had said the night before. Actions spoke louder than words, and hers definitely did as she found herself leaning against him as he spoke. “Sounds great. What do you need me to do?”

[vanityemmas-blog]

caputserpentis‌:

Time as a concept was regularly something lost on Rabastan. He didn’t pay attention to clocks, calendars or what day of the week it was. As a master of excuses, he’d readily say it was his way of living in the moment, when the, in reality, he was clearly disorganised. That evening, for the first in a long while, it was peculiar how he could observe each minute passing by. Seconds felt as though they had been hours when mixed with the very real notion that he’d murdered someone. Not only that, he did it with Emma watching. Rabastan wasn’t sure if it were to do with time or exhaustion, but the upset and overwhelming emotion of previous events evaporated and left a numb sensation to engulf his body. The lack of emotion, concerned him more than he’d liked to admit. So it’s only for reason for Rabastan to flip his entire attention over to Emma. An analytical gaze peering at her as she sat motionless and empty on his sofa. It’s then that he could imagine it being equally, if not even more difficult for her to digest. It was one thing squeezing the trigger and watching the living person who once stood in front of you fall lifeless to the floor. It was another thing entirely, watching both parts of a domino effect and then having to keep that secret yourself. Perhaps that’s why it was easier to emphasise with Emma now than it had been prior, an assisted murder building a bridge between dissimilar personalities and different walks of life. 

“Good choice,” he approved, walking back over to the record player. Rabastan took a moment to return the other records back to their respective homes on the shelf before sliding out the vinyl and placing it on the turntable. With a small crackle from a couple scratches or dust particles that had embedded in the grooves of the record, music gently began to fill the empty atmosphere of the flat. Peaceful and melodic, with an informal and not at all arrogant beat. It’s not long before he takes his seat back next to Emma on the sofa, passing her a mug full of hot tea. “Here, I left the tea bag in, I like mine strong so I just did the same for yours,” he takes a sip from his own mug, placing it onto the coffee table, where the lack of any drink coasters displayed more about his personality than the minimalist approach of the interior design for the apartment. Digging into his jeans pocket, Rab pulled out a lighter and a somewhat crushed pack of cigarettes. On a regular basis, he’d limit himself to two cigarettes per day, in some fools attempt at looking after his vocal cords. One day he’d quit completely, but not today. He lets one sit neatly between his lips before offering one to Emma. “Cooking?” he challenged, lighting his own, he takes a deep inhalation. “No way. I mean I’ve helped other people make stuff but actively making food for myself is too much effort. It’s what microwaves are for.” Exhaling a smooth line of smoke from his lungs, a curious smirk washes over his appearance, “Is this where you tell me you’re the next Gordon Ramsay? Because you know, with the temper, I could see it.”

Everything was supposed to heal with time, right? That’s what people said. Forgiveness and trust and acceptance and relief all came after hours and days and months and years passed. Emma believed it to be bullshit. If it were true, why was she still so angry over the things she couldn’t have controlled as a child? Why did her mother rant almost daily about what happened to her years ago? Why did Emma find herself filled with envy and a yearning desire to have what once could have been hers? Why did she find herself plagued by so many of her bad decisions? All of these things should have been behind her, according to these people, and yet everything stewed within Emma, a pot always filled to the edge, always on the verge of boiling over. So she wasn’t confident in the thought that time would heal everything welling up inside her, waves violently crashing against her insides, unable to allow her to forget that she watched Regulus die. That she cleaned up his blood. That she planted the evidence on his corpse. Time dissolving her guilt and grief and fear and whatever the hell else tangled itself in knots within her stomach was too slow of a reaction for her liking.

While Rabastan vacated the space beside her once more, Emma kicked her shoes free from her feet so that she might plant them on the couch, tucking her knees to her chest. Maybe feeling smaller would make her feel better. She felt so giant in that fatal moment they both participated in, as if the sound of the gunshot was louder than it was and they were much larger than the lives they lead, but not in a good way. Anything that made them more noticeable was bad to Emma. Now, she just felt small, something so insignificant in this universe, seeing how fleeting a life truly was. Maybe that was better. Maybe it meant the things she did didn’t matter as much, though they certainly felt the opposite. “Thanks,” she mumbled as she felt the mug pressed into her hands. The heat from it was a good distraction from her own thoughts. The ceramic mug was nearly too hot for the hand that held it, but she didn’t mind. The pain was distracting. Nothing could be as bad as what they had done. “Same here,” she agreed before taking a sip. Emma was a bit surprised to see she and Rabastan had a bit more in common than she ever would have known, though she didn’t know much about him at all. The shared experience, though, definitely gave them more in common than she ever imagined she would have with another person. It reminded her that she was not the one who pulled the trigger. He must have been going through it, as well. Perhaps this conversation was a good distraction. “Why not? You live on your own. You have to eat sometime. Eating out a microwave’s no way to live.” She knew, she’d done it before. “It’s not that much effort. Pasta’s pretty minimal involvement.” That one nearly got a laugh from her. “Absolutely not; I do know how to cook decently enough that I don’t poison myself, though.”

[vanityemmas-blog]

ofandromedas‌:

“Nah, it’s okay,” Andromeda dismisses. Yes, it’s all she’s been hearing about it and yes, she’s selfishly tired of talking about her young cousin’s disappearance but Emma’s questions grate on her much less than others asking purely out of obligation. The edge of prescribed small talk hovering over them is far preferable to the overly gushy condolences she’s fallen victim to. “At least you get it. And you’re not going to offer up some obligatory casserole because you feel like you have to be worried about my well-being. Unless you were planning on doing that, in which case…I have to go.” She offers a small, tight smile, making it clear she’s joking. “There haven’t been any new developments, have there? Not that you can tell me if there were, I’m sure, but I have to ask anyway.”

A small chuckle slips out before she can stifle it. Emma doesn’t mean anything by it - most people would find comfort surrounded by family. It isn’t Emma’s fault the Blacks are highly dysfunctional at best. “It can be. I haven’t spent a ton of time with my family recently, so it’s been nice to catch up even though the circumstances are shit. But, I have to admit, I think the house might implode with all of us under one roof for more than a week. Bella and I in particular tend to grate on everyone’s nerves, or each other’s nerves, so…” Sipping from the paper cup, she finds more solace in the hot coffee than she did in her mother’s terse embrace earlier that morning. “Honestly, great. I’m in orthopedics now which is basically bone and muscle stuff. Means I get to do all kinds of things, keeps it exciting. And it’s nice to finally not have someone hovering over your shoulder, breathing down your neck to make sure you don’t nick an artery or something by accident. I take it you’re enjoying what you’re doing, too? I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re brilliant.”

Emma doesn’t entirely understand Andromeda’s worry, and she supposes she never could. She did not grow up with Regulus like she did, despite the age difference between the two cousins. She did not see him grow or help him with homework or all things someone worth looking up to may have done (she didn’t even know if Andromeda had done anything like that, but she seemed like the type who might have). She had spent her life wondering why the Black family lived on an untouchable pedestal but Tom Riddle allowed the one she and her mother stood upon to crumble. She envied their life even as they turned their backs on her. She could not understand the sort of loss this was to a family with so much power. Though, the biggest reason she couldn’t fully understand Andromeda’s worry is because she had a hand in causing it. The sight of the middle Black would not allow her to forget it. “No, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve barely had the time to cook for myself these past few days,” she admitted with a shrug. “Sorry, I can’t tell you. I’m sure you’ll be among the first to know if there are, but for now I’m not allowed to talk about my active cases.” At least that removed the pressure of accidentally allowing her actions to slip to someone who could be so genuinely hurt by them.

Leaving the influential circles she had once grown up within meant Emma had missed out on a lot that went on with the families that most people did not see. She did not know just how dysfunctional the Black family could be, mostly Andromeda’s relationship with them. Emma, of course, knew she was not like her sisters, and had career ambitions other than fashion, but didn’t truly know the extent of the disagreements behind wrought-iron fences and marble columns. “I didn’t realize you two were truly that tense, nowadays,” Emma stated. It was obvious the personalities of the sisters weren’t going to mesh, but there was a bit of surprise in hearing how disastrous it could become. Did Andromeda not see the world her family controlled? Did she not take comfort in it? “It sounds interesting. Must be a pretty rewarding job.” There was once a time where Emma found her career rewarding; now, it brought on more guilt by the day. “What I’d give to not have someone breathing down my neck...” she mused. What she would give to not have that breath belong to Tom Riddle, she did not admit. “I love my job. As much as it stresses me out, I like what I do. Have you? I’m not quite sure who’s saying it.”

[vanityemmas-blog]

caputserpentis‌:

It’s one of the various reasons, he’s noticed, that he detests returning to London. Every time he stepped foot back in the city, he’d be dragged into some form of trouble even he didn’t care for. Be it overhearing one of Rodolphus’s sketchy business transactions among weaponry supply or another one of Riddle’s orders, he couldn’t avoid it. Anarchy devoured him wholly and so for Rabastan, London governed more morose connotations than it did its perks. It makes him yearn for his tour bus. Life on the road, working day in and day out, it was an existence he much favoured. The adoring fans that chant his songs outside the venue before a show, insignificant conversations at the early hours of the morning with bandmates and the way his body clock was never up to the local time of whatever city he was performing in. It’s all a distant memory when he returned to his flat, existing stagnantly in a city he felt no real attachment towards other than his family and friends. Now, with the weight of the world laying wearily on his shoulders and building guilt suffocating his lungs, he craves for those long months touring, where he could disregard reality and be consumed in a self-constructed existence as a rock star.

“Thanks” he counters, gratitude coating the tender tone of his voice as Emma granted him the ‘ok’. Stepping over to the record player, Rabastan lets himself hit the floor, legs crossing beneath him as he hauls out a box of albums and long fingers work to flick analytically through the sleeves. After a few moments, he takes a seat next to Emma on the sofa with the records he selected resting on his lap. “Ok, so I have a couple to choose from,” music is the only thing Rabastan knows, the one element that could heal any wound, be it plucking away at his guitar or listening to other artists he cherished. “I thought maybe Radiohead, but they could be slightly saddening. Bon Iver’s good too… if not those there’s Iron & Wine- yes, a lot of these musicians are heavily featured on the first Twilight soundtrack, but whoever put that together seriously needs a pay rise or something.” It’s evident in his words that he cares, that he’s registered the way Emma’s body language slumped into the sofa and the unsettled glaze in her eyes. It’s something most don’t expect of the younger Lestrange. Especially those who have only ever experienced the media’s portrayal of Rabastan as a typical arrogant singer, another self-indulged and thoughtless fragment of a sacred 28 bloodline. But he’s an empath, you had to be when you were an artist. Rab absorbed other peoples feelings without even realising and examines the best way to sooth their despair. It’s why he’s the class clown, why he makes jokes and covers his own sorrows behind layers and layers of sarcastic jargon. Now, he’s centring on her wellbeing to ensure the distraction from his actions, “Hey, I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Do you want anything? I’m not much of a cook, but I can handle toast and not to completely brag, I make really good cereal too. My milk to cereal ratio is spot on.”

There’s no way out of this, Emma believes. There’s no turning back from what she’d just witnessed and what she’d just done and there had been no turning back for a while. From the day she decided to continue lying so she could be the person she felt she deserved to be, there had been no turning back. It shouldn’t have mattered that she had been accepted as one of them or if Amycus would have never spared her a second glance had he known her net worth, but then, it mattered more than anything. Maya’s words of warning should have mattered, but then, they were weapons to a defensive Emma, who imagined Maya was jealous and angry that Emma had taken the spotlight she had ignored her childhood friend to gain in the first place. She should have never lied. She should have accepted her fate, that the world is often cruel to those who don’t deserve it – well, those like Tom Riddle were often cruel to those who didn’t deserve it, but considering people like him practically ran the world, the statement still stood. Emma couldn’t accept her fate, and in trying to even get a glimpse of the one she thought she deserved to have, in trying to take hold of the reigns, she lost more control than she ever knew she had.

She sits in silence as he thumbs through his records, trying to focus on the soft sounds of shuffling instead of the fact that she had watched the same man with this tender voice pull the trigger to end another’s life. It was easier said than done, the white noise not doing much to silence the thoughts that screamed much louder inside her head, but Rabastan’s presence provided a bit of a better distraction as it filled the empty space next to her, spreading out the records for her to see. Emma peered at the album covers, allowing her eyes to lose themselves in the artwork, hoping focusing on something less bloody would help to calm her even the slightest bit. She couldn’t even bring herself to let out even the slightest breath of a chuckle at his comment about the music selection, dread filling every corner of her mind. He cared, though, and that was evident. That helped even the slightest bit. “That one sounds good,” she decided, pointing to the Iron & Wine record. “No, I don’t think I could stomach anything right now. But I’ll take some tea, if you’re already making it.” Emma tries desperately to focus on something else. To take her mind off of their actions. Rabastan’s description of his cooking abilities seemed like enough. “You seriously can’t cook?”

[vanityemmas-blog]

signedskeeter‌:

“ — IF you’ve got a problem with my latest article, you’ll have to talk to my editor.” rita said, not even looking up from her laptop where she was tapping away, furiously. “but you’ll have to join the line. we don’t offer retractions for HURT FEELINGS.” 

To say her relationship with Rita was complicated was an understatement. They would sooner snatch the rug out from underneath one another’s feet, and yet they still spent time together regularly enough for anyone who wasn’t paying attention to consider them friends. Emma had caught quite the habit of lying with snakes, it seemed. This time, however, she hadn’t intended on finding Rita, but still saw her in the cafe and chose to go over to her, cup in hand. “You’d know if I had a problem,” announced Emma, sitting across from Rita. “I’ve been too busy to even read my emails, let alone whatever your latest article’s on.” It wasn’t a testament to the things Rita wrote, but rather the pressure upon Emma’s shoulders. She’d sooner go back and try and sleep off the dread that followed her home than have the energy to pay attention to anything on her phone.

[vanityemmas-blog]

atted‌:

Her thanks is unnecessary, his arms tightening around her in response, more than happy to hold her for as long as it takes for her current state of distress to settle. “You don’t know that,” he counters patiently, having been down this road previously with others ( his youngest sister, most notably ), desperate to prove that neither she nor Emma, nor anyone else who might need a shoulder to lean on, was alone. “That’s why it’s so good to tell people how you feel. Because you might find someone who does understand. And then you can figure out a way to cope.” A soft smile plays across his lips, the advice passed on from his own parents who had made it clear to him and his siblings from a young age that they needed to learn to say how they felt, to speak up or else they wouldn’t get heard. “It doesn’t have to be me, though. But I am always here for you if you need me.” He wipes away another stray tear that threatens to escape the line of her jaw, wishing he could do the same with her emotions and absorb some of what she’s feeling for the sake of letting her rest. 

The weak sound of her attempt at laughter is reassuring, however quiet and choked. “Yeah, well, it was either that or a passionate High School Musical we’re all in this together, so–” Despite the humour that lines his voice, his expression turns hesitant and troubled. “Emma.” It takes a heartbeat of courage to continue, not wanting to upset her by continuing to rub salt into what was clearly a wound but simultaneously aware that the issue with Maya wouldn’t be resolved without some sort of intervention. “It doesn’t have to be soon. You can take as long as you need. Just– please consider talking to Maya.” Perhaps it’s selfish of him to want the two to get along ( or, at the very least, not end up sobbing and hurt every time he mentions one to the other ) – but the potential alternative of having to choose between the two of them fills him with dread. “I promise this is the only time I’ll ask. I won’t push it.” Ted holds her gaze as earnestly as he can before his attention slides to the bottles of beer he’d taken care to move. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

She wants to tell him no. She wants to tell him she does know that, for she knows what happens if she opens her mouth and more than just a stream of expletives comes out. Emma always told people how she felt – that was something she could not prevent – but lately, she has not been able to describe the reasons behind those feelings. She expresses to Ted that she’s upset, and doesn’t correct him when his assumptions are wrong. It’s easier to allow Maya to be the scapegoat for her heaving sobs than to explain she watched Regulus Black take his final breath and then stained her hands cleaning his blood that followed – and that wasn’t even 24 hours before she arrived here. It was easier to let him think she cried over a broken friendship than broken morals. That Maya’s upturned nose struck this fear in her and not Tom Riddle’s judging eyes. “It’s more complicated than that,” is all she mumbles, worried that if she raised her voice, her breath would get caught on a word and it would send her into those sobs that left her gasping once more. “Thank you. I know. I know you are.” She can’t help that tears still well up in her eyes, that the heat of them run down her skin every time she blinks. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Ted. I dunno why you’re here after it all, but thank you.”

Emma rolls reddened eyes at that, her head shaking slightly against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.” It was quite obvious that her tone was endearing despite the threat of sobbing if she raised her voice too much again. It became harder and harder to keep things contained as he continued to bring Maya up, for though she wasn’t the true reason for these emotions, it was one hell of a valid outlet for them, if Ted was going to keep bringing her up. “If she wants to talk to me, I’ll talk.” Maya knew how she felt – everyone knew how she felt. But Emma knew reaching out to someone so high up in the House of Black who wasn’t as deep into the darker side of things as Emma was wasn’t the best idea, not with all she’s been feeling lately. Maya was just another name on the list of people who could never understand. Besides, she didn’t need to put herself through all this only to have Maya turn her nose up at her again. If Maya wanted to please Ted, too, then she could make the first move. “Please,” she answered softly, looking up at him.

[vanityemmas-blog]

ofamycus‌:

Clothes litter his hardwood floors. Her skirt in a pile pooled at his doorway, his belt in a snakelike coil where it landed by his bedside. Buttons, once haphazardly keeping his shirt together, scattered across the floor like little marbles. When he sees it, Amycus would confirm that those were all the identifiers of a damn good night. That, and the fact that he continued to snooze contentedly even as the beginnings of day began to break, the sun only half-risen and beginning to filter in through the blinds. The post-sex haze leave his eyelids heavy and his limbs listless. It’s why he feels her touch to his skin belatedly, not registering it as a kiss until a few moments after that. But when he does, something akin to a smile spreads slow along his mouth, less like a knife-curve and more genuine in it’s pleasure as she moves from shoulder to jaw with her affections. A deep hum rumbles from his chest — he’s awake, it says, before near-black eyes snap open.

“Morning.” With a yawn that turns into something like a growl, Amycus relaxes back against the mattress. He raises a hand to rub sleepily at his eye before draping it around Emma’s shoulders to pull her in tighter, keeping the warmth of her body close to him only to lift into her hair, twirling an inky-black strand around his finger. “I won’t lie — I’m surprised you’re still here,” he confesses through a chuckle, voice clawing at the sides of his throat as he rasped, sleep clinging still. But there is nothing in his tone portraying that he wanted her to leave. Quite the opposite, really. It’s been far too long since he — since they — had woken up together like this. His fingertips drop from her hair to grasp at her chin, tipping her mouth up towards him so he could press his lips to hers, kissing her languidly, slowly to savor the taste of her, as if they had all the time in the world to spare. “I kinda missed this.” Another kiss, the words murmured into the warmth of her mouth, “I…kinda missed you.” Amycus was never one to hide his feelings — spewing them from his mercurial mouth or displaying them blatantly upon his face for all to see — and he liked to think he especially couldn’t keep them from her. His fingers trace the gentle curve of her shoulder as he adds, “And I want to think you kinda missed me too.”

Emma can feel the vibrations in his chest as he hums, a low deep rumble she feels within her own as the waves travel from his skin hers. It feels right to feel him, to know him, to be intimate in this moment with him. The sun peeked through the blinds as it began to rise, and with its rays seemed to come permission, allowing Emma to feel something she hadn’t in so long. Happiness was a rarity these days, found in fleeting moments of praise from Daisy or brief periods during movie nights with Ted. But here, with Amycus, it felt as if it could last. Anything that sought to grab her and drag her to hell backed off, leaving her calm, leaving her with bliss. She didn’t realize the devils had stopped attempting to grasp at her because the King already had her in their clutches. If she had, she might not have even cared. A delighted hum of a noise escaped her throat as her body was pulled closer to his, as she felt it was meant to be. His skin was warm beneath hers as her fingers danced across his chest, digits exploring the terrain they knew better than anything they had ever traversed.

His lips find hers and Emma knows she has not changed from the person she was when they first met. She could say she became more honest, because there was no longer a reason to lie. But the slow, deliberate way in which he kissed her, as if every single point of contact between his lips and hers was a moment to be savored, reminded her of just why she kept it going for so long, if only to have more kisses like that, if only to have more moments like these. It only showed her she had never stopped being his, that she had never been released from his spell. She was the fish with the hook in her lip, thinking herself free of the fisherman until the moment that line began to tug. She swam towards the surface willingly. Take the air from me. He missed this. He missed her. Emma knew she wasn’t just hearing things when he repeated himself. Her dreams were only ever so kind to her to be cruel moments after; she could not be happier to be awake. “I didn’t,” she replied with a grin, her hand snaking up his chest to find his cheek, stubble scratching lightly at her skin. “I missed you a lot, actually,” she admits, lifting her chin to pepper his jaw in her kisses.

[vanityemmas-blog]

ofandromedas‌:

“You’re telling me,” Andromeda echoes grimly. The situation had scantly lasted a month, and it felt like it’d stretched on for years. “I mean, don’t get me wrong - you lot are the best of the best. Daisy’s my best friend, and I’m good friends with Alastor, and you’re brilliant, so it’s not like I don’t have faith in the department to end things swiftly. It’s more,” she explains with a wrinkle of her nose, “my lack of optimism in the situation itself. I err on the side of pessimism anyway, but with his kidnapping being meant as a ‘statement’…” She trails off, leaving the worst case scenarios that had been rolling endlessly in and out of her mind left unsaid, settling heavily on her own shoulders. Admitting it is partially because she’s tired of everyone telling her things will end up just fine, but partially because she knows Emma would perhaps empathize with Andromeda’s fears rather than dismissing them. Surely, Emma has worked on dozens of grim cases before. 

A small exhale leaves Andromeda’s lips, and she’s briefly distracted from Emma’s next question by  her name being called at the counter. “Hang on,” she says, and she briefly turns away to snag her warm cardboard cup; her gaze catches Emma’s name on the one that follows, and she grabs it too before the barista can call her name, capping them both and wiggling on paper sleeves. “They almost spelled my name right,” she says conversationally as she turns back to offer Emma her coffee. “Anyway…yeah, mostly work. I’ve been at my parent’s house, too.” Andromeda knows Emma means the Black mansion when she says ‘home’, but it feels mismatched and she purposefully evades the label. “It makes sense, I guess, to have us in somewhat of the same place in case there’s any news.” Her slim shoulders lift into a tiny shrug, not mentioning that it’s mostly been Narcissa and their mother that has been insistently pulling them together. And that Andromeda’s presence seems to be creating more contention than comfort. “But I’m lucky that work kind of takes all of my brain power. There’s no room to think about what’s going on when I’m in surgery, so it’s been helpful. Healthy coping mechanisms one-oh-one,” she adds as a half-hearted joke.

It’s interesting to hear that Andromeda is friends with some of Auror’s members, when Daisy herself worked to protect her, her sisters, and those associated with them. It makes her wonder if Andromeda knows what’s going on behind the scenes on Emma’s part, or if Daisy was involved in similar efforts to Emma without the Death Eater title the latter donned. She ruled out the former option, for Andromeda was always a smart one, and seemingly wouldn’t shy away from confronting Emma on her involvement with the families she had left behind so many years ago, especially given her own reputation for not being so involved in their business ventures. As for the latter, Emma wasn’t quite sure. Daisy was a driven woman, and it’s why she respected her so much, but she had always believed her drive for justice was genuine due to how relentless it could be. Perhaps that was just good acting, and she, like Emma, wanted to keep order in balance over the scales of justice. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about that if you’re not comfortable. It’s all I’ve been hearing the past few days, and I’m sure it’s not been to different for you, too.” It felt wrong to suggest a break from the trauma her family must have been going through, for while Emma could technically take off her lab coat and go home, the Blacks could not enter their own without feeling the absence of the boy Emma took. Maybe she was the one who needed that break.

“Not your fault your mum stuck you with a name that’s hard to spell,” Emma tried to tease as she took her own coffee. Her name, of course, was spelled correctly, as it was pretty difficult to mess up four letters (though people still managed to do that). “Thanks.” The coffee was a slight distraction from her feelings, the warmth in her hand pulling her thoughts away very briefly from the corrosive heat bubbling in her stomach, worry and guilt threatening to eat at her until nothing remained. “Yeah, that’s pretty smart,” she replies, knowing Andromeda was thinking about this in only the most practical of senses. “It must be good having other people around, too, I guess.” Emma took a long sip of her drink following that, knowing Andromeda didn’t often enjoy the company of her own family. She didn’t quite know why she said it; maybe it was a projection of her own feelings, the thought that she might be less worried if she didn’t go home to an empty flat where her only companions were her own vile thoughts that fed off of her most volatile emotions of the moment, with the current one being paranoia. “It’s nice to have a distraction, especially when it’s something you’re real passionate about. How’s that been going, by the way? The whole surgeon thing?”

[vanityemmas-blog]

📱 👚 📓

📱 What was the last text you sent and who was it to?

answered here

👚 What is your favourite confidence-boosting outfit?

“I don’t get to wear anything too confidence-boosting too often,” she admits, “not when work’s got a strict dress code. It’s hard to feel confident when you can barely breathe through your face mask and the hairnet’s making impressions in your forehead.” Emma thinks about what she would wear if she wanted her chin to raise higher, her shoulders to straighten as if such a harsh amount of weight was on top of them. It was hard to really imagine such a time when that was all she knew. “I’ve got these perfectly tight black jeans with a couple rips in ‘em. They work well with this dark red blouse - the kind with the choker attached - and my leather jacket.” Nothing seemed to command power the way Emma believed some leather did. “No. I’ve changed my mind. That’s just my favorite outfit. Nothing’s more confidence-boosting than my suit.” Her all-black pantsuit was one of the only things she liked about going to court, for nothing was more commanding than all eyes turning towards her as she stepped to the witness stand and knowing exactly what she was about without her even having to make a sound, save for the click of her heels against the floors.

📓 How did your high school teachers describe you?

“Fuck if I remember,” Emma shrugged. “All I know is my mum yelled at me for whatever evaluations I had to bring home to her. I’m pretty sure they used the words ‘bright’ and ‘potential’ somewhere, but she wouldn’t have focused on that shit, not when she wanted an excuse to go off.”

Dear Ms. Dupree,I’m writing you because I’m concerned for your daughter, Emma. Emma is a bright student and always does well on assignments. However, Emma can sometimes have trouble getting along with other students, and has difficulty controlling her anger or frustration. I believe this causes an issue that impedes upon her learning abilities, as well as disrupts the learning of others. Emma shows so much potential. I hope that you can talk to Emma, or encourage her to talk to someone, to help handle these issues. Please call the school if you have any questionsSincerely,Mrs. Walsh

[vanityemmas-blog]

📱📷💢

📱 What was the last text you sent and who was it to?

[To Teddy] → I’m outside… hurry up it’s fucking freezing

📷 What was the last photo you took of? 

(a simple snap of her breakfast)

💢 If you could erase someone’s existence from your life, who would you choose?

answered here

[vanityemmas-blog]

👫⌚🤗💢

👫 Who would you put before everyone else?

"Myself.” Nobody had ever put Emma first. Her mother put her own selfish anger before the care of her daughter. Her father put his own freedom over concern for his daughter. Emma had learned early on that nobody would see her needs or wants above their own, so she would have to do it herself. Emma came first, and damn all those who tried to hold her back.

⌚ If you could go back in time, what advice would you tell yourself when you were sixteen?

As selfish as it sounded to put herself first, Emma would tell her younger self to not put her more selfish needs above the happiness she could have had. “You’re going to want what you once had, but what you’ll risk to get it isn’t worth it. Don’t bother. Get angry with them if you have to, cry if you have to, but don’t stoop to low levels to get on the pedestal you thought you should have been on. It’ll be better off that way, just trust me. Take whatever else you want in life, just not that.”

🤗 If you could get a hug right now from anyone you know, who would it be from?

“Ted,” she answered definitively. “He gives the best hugs.” No matter what mood she was in, she seemed to find what she needed in his arms. Validation when she was angry, comfort when she was sad, celebration in rare moments of joy. It was also just a reminder that someone else could be there for her when others had turned away, or rather when she’d chased some others away. Sometimes, in his arms, there was a fleeting thought that maybe, one day, everything could be alright. If only he could hold her there forever.

💢 If you could erase someone’s existence from your life, who would you choose?

The answer was easy, and Emma scoffed at the nerve to even ask such a question. There was only one person responsible for the ruin in her life. One set of hands that wrung all assets from her mother and hung her out to dry. One set of eyes that peered over her shoulder at every turn, reminding her of the larger-than-life presence that could do worse to her than her mother had ever suffered. In his presence she forgot how monstrous he was. When he was not in the room, she could remember every step he had ever taken in boiling her blood. She didn’t want to kill him. She knew his presence was responsible for holding the city in balance. But, she couldn’t say the lack of his presence wouldn’t make her life easier. “Tom Riddle.”

[vanityemmas-blog]

🚓 / 🛁 / 💔

🚓 What is your current opinion of the police working on Operation Auror?

“What, do you expect me to sit here and shit talk my boss? Or am I supposed to kiss her ass?” Asked Emma, arms folded over her chest. They’re foolish. They spend too much time focusing on the wrong things. They’re so blind to the justice in their missions they fail to see the whole picture. She agrees with them that the Order is a threat to society, but doesn’t agree that the Sacred 28 need to fall alongside them, as if both are anywhere near equal in the dangers they pose. “I’m not gonna fucking do either, so you’re shit out of luck. They work hard with what they’re given. Sometimes they don’t get how my job works. Also they have shit taste in coffee brands. That’s about all I’ve got to say.”

🛁 What is your favourite shower gel scent?

“Eucalyptus and mint.” It’s for no particular reason other than it smells nice, and that’s the reason it sits in a large bottle in the corner of her small shower. She’s not entirely sure what else anyone would want her to say on the matter; it wasn’t like it brought back any childhood memories or any of that nostalgic bullshit she didn’t really contain.

💔 Who do you miss right now?

Emma misses a lot of people, especially now, her vulnerability growing with every passing second Regulus’s body rots. She misses the comfort Ted provides, always knowing how to make her smile despite how horrid the emotions she shows can be. She misses the distraction of Amycus’s hands and lips and the way his whispers against her ear can make her forget anything that’s ever troubled her. She missed her old self, the girl who simply wanted to get away from a woman whose legacy haunted her, making her haunt Emma. She missed the girl who woke up with optimism on her mind at the thought of finding something wholly her own, a chance to start anew. She corrupted that girl with her greed and entitlement, and look where it got them both. “I dunno. Sure as hell not my mum, if that’s what you’re expecting me to say.”

[penumbra-rp]

Character Ask Game.

Reblog if you want to participate! All answers should be in character.

💀 Who do you think killed Regulus Black? 💔 Who do you miss right now? 🎬 Who is your biggest celebrity crush? 👫 Who would you put before everyone else? 📱 What was the last text you sent and who was it to? 🎵 What was the last song you listened to? 💻 What was the last status you posted to FlooNet? 🚓 What is your current opinion of the police working on Operation Auror? 💤 What did you dream about last night? 👚 What is your favourite confidence-boosting outfit? 👟 What are your most frequently worn pair of shoes? 📷 What was the last photo you took of? 🛏️ What is your favourite sleeping position? 🛁 What is your favourite shower gel scent? 👜 What would you typically find in your bag? ⛰️ Where is your favourite place to escape to when stressed? 📚 Which fictional character do you aspire to be like? 📰 Would you rather read The Daily Prophet or The Quibbler? 🍷 Would you rather go for drinks at The Dungeon or The Leaky Bucket? 🦴 Have you ever broken a bone? 💭 How do you want to be remembered? ❤️ How would you describe a perfect date? 📓 How did your high school teachers describe you? ✨ How would you describe your aesthetic? 👪 Do you aspire to be like your parents? ☎️ If you were in trouble, who is the first person you would call for help?  ⌚ If you could go back in time, what advice would you tell yourself when you were sixteen? 🐈 If you could adopt any pet, what would you choose?  🍽️ If you could invite anyone, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would you choose? 🌹 If you had to get a tattoo, what would you get? 🤗 If you could get a hug right now from anyone you know, who would it be from? 🎓 If you could change what you studied at Hogwarts, what new subject would you choose? 💢 If you could erase someone’s existence from your life, who would you choose?

[vanityemmas-blog]

caputserpentis‌:

Rabastan was sincerely appreciative to be out of the thick adhesive atmosphere that clung densely within the Borgin and Burke cellar. He welcomed the fresh air like a tidal wave, crashing against uncomfortably hot skin as he closes his eyes and expires a sigh of relief. It’s not your problem anymore, you don’t need to worry about it. He would repeat that sentence like a broken record on their way to his car. Over and over again as if it were his mantra and by thinking it enough it would alleviate the burden of his actions and no longer be his burden to keep. Of course, he knows that he’s wrong. Concedes that his empathic nature would torture him relentlessly for the foreseeable future when he’d have to interact with Regulus’s family members; his friends. The car is parked a few streets away, far enough from the true scene of the crime to not be deemed suspicious and hidden within an isolated area. A click of the button opens locked doors and he sits in the driver’s seat to turn the key in the ignition. Whereas his mandatory car rules were ordinarily not to drive unless the passenger has agreed to sing along to every lyric of his chosen song, Rabastan flicked on the radio and pulls out with no argument. His only comment being an instruction for Emma to check she’d had her seat belt on. 

Parking in his building’s car park, his concentration was instantaneously uprooted from the road to answer Emma’s question. It was a valid query, it wasn’t unheard of for Rabastan’s younger fans to stalk his every move and tweet his whereabouts for the entire world to see. “I’m sure,” he clarified with a nod, unfastening his seat belt and meeting her with an assured gaze. “You can’t get on the premises without validated ID… and besides, most of my fans aren’t allowed out past 11pm,” for a moment, the melodic humorous tone had reverted in his voice, if only in the attempt to ease leftover tension carried from the cellar. Leaving the car, he guides the way to the entrance of the building, an old piano factory located in Camden that had been converted into a luxury apartment block. Greeting the guard in the entryway, he directs Emma into an elevator and presses the button for the top floor. Whilst entering the flat, Rabastan took off his jacket and threw it onto the chair by the door. “I’m not a clean freak by any means so you can make yourself at home… do you mind if I put some music on?”

Rabastan’s words were reassuring, for once. Emma believed what he said and didn’t think he was simply trying to say whatever she wanted to hear so that she might go along with whatever scheme he had planned. He was as scared as she was, and truthfully, he had more of a right to be than Emma, since his finger was the one upon the trigger. That didn’t stop Emma from feeling what she was feeling, though, for she’d had a long history of ignoring what others might think she should have felt or deserved to have felt in favor of what emotions overtook her. And with the pair bound over this scarring act, her panic was just as fair as his. Emma kept quiet as she followed Rabastan out of the car, unable to find any humor in the joke about his fans when her mind was overflowing with emotion, and walked behind him into the building, her head bowed down just in case. It was difficult to look down at her own feet and not see the blood they nearly trekked through when cleaning. It was difficult to hear her own heart beat and not hear the gunshot that interrupted it for a split second.

His place is quite obviously nicer than hers. Emma knew how the Sacred 28 lived, knew no expense was spared, though she was surprised to see his space didn’t look like a three-dimensional Jackson Pollock piece. Still, the space didn’t feel uninviting or uncomfortable, as many of the places for the rich appeared to be, for this one actually looked lived-in in comparison to those places with the couches that were just a bit too white and a bit too stiff for you to believe people actually spent time there. Emma followed Rabastan inside, slowly making her way to the couch, unsure if her legs could truly carry her that far without them collapsing from some form of disbelief- or panic-induced exhaustion. Relief is found in the form of a cushion meeting her back, but it’s fleeting. “Yeah,” she answered, hand running over a blanket draped beside her. “Go ahead. I don’t mind.” Emma didn’t even know what sort of music Rabastan wished to play to relieve the tension that plagued him, but she figured any noise was better than what must have been going through both their heads at the moment.