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darkhairedgirl
Recipient: flyingharmony
Title: if my heart was a house, you’d be home
Characters/Pairing(s): Druella Rosier/Cygnus Black
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 920
Warning(s): Language, alcohol, implications of violence, pureblood snobbery.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Not my usual choice of pairing, but exceedingly fun to write! Thank you, Mods, for bearing with me, and I hope you like it, flyingharmony! Happy holidays! :o)
Summary: Druella and Cygnus, after the gala.
After the disaster that was the Black Foundation’s holiday masque, after her husband had the sheer audacity to abandon her halfway through the evening, Druella Black has left a trail of clothes leading from the top of the stairs to the bedroom: shoes and then stockings, her elbow-length gloves, her fox-fur stole, her beautiful silver ballgown, all in a sprawling heap that the house-elves scurry and rush to clean in her wake. She is angrier now in the aftermath of the party than she was in the moment; shock at his rude, unexpected exit left her numb, but now, now, she is furious – how dare he leave her to handle his family, his charity, expecting her to handle his affairs and his awful foreign business associates like she is some sort of bloody secretary, the absolute nerve of that man, honestly –
She is in her chemise and a green silk robe when she sets herself at her vanity table, irritably taking the diamond stud earrings from her ears, the silver comb from her chignon, when the door opens behind her, sending warm yellow light from the hall fanning across the floor. Cygnus, in rumpled dress robes, white mask in hand, catches her eye in the mirror and offers an apologetic smile, to which Druella returns with a cold glare.
“You looked lovely, tonight,” he says, and Druella does not reply. She pulls the pins from her hair and it falls, gracefully, in loose waves over her shoulders. Cygnus moves to stand behind her and Druella wrinkles her nose at the signature perfume of the Aethenon Club wafting off her husband: cigars and brandy and the port wine Jepthah Nott favors, a hint of rust and cold night air, an undeniable sense of entitlement. She much prefers his usual cologne: sandalwood and citrus, a bite of anise underneath.
“Dru, love, don’t pout. You know I didn’t want to leave.”
Druella’s mouth twists and she reaches for the pearl-handled hairbrush, running it harshly through her long blonde hair. “Certainly, Cygnus, you can’t think I’m such a fool that I would accept that as an apology?”
Cygnus has the wherewithal to hang his head, embarrassed. He is silent for a moment – unusual in her husband, a trait their daughters and their ceaseless chatterboxing have inherited from him – and Druella thinks he might actually be leaving when he turns back toward the door, her brush stilling in its path through her hair. But no: Cygnus has only crossed the room to hang his cloak and outer robe on the hook at the door, to toe out of his dress shoes, caked to the heel in mud. Cygnus runs a hand through his dark, mussed hair as he turns back toward her, his palms warm and gentle where he rests them on her shoulders. There is a streak of something red across his knuckles, but Druella, still quietly infuriated, ignores it in favor of the way he strokes his thumbs against the bare skin revealed at the open edges of her robe.
“It was not my decision to leave the ball the way I did. You know how Orion gets at these things, love, and someone needed to watch out and make sure he didn’t hex himself.”
Druella sniffs. “Still. You could have found any other excuse than to rush off with your cousin and that abominable Mr. Riddle, leaving me with your sister – whom, I might add, is getting battier than a belfry, with the way she’s been going on to Bellatrix about the ‘rising tide of impure blood’ that’s staining the halls of Hogwarts –”
“Druella.”
Cygnus reaches up to brush her hair back from her shoulders, and in doing so pulls it away from her neck, only to make her gasp when she focuses on their shared reflection in her vanity. There, resting cool at her collarbone, is a web of silver and opals; Cygnus clasps the chain and smirks at her sudden silence, moving in such a delicate sleight of hand that it makes her think, briefly, of Muggle parlor tricks, of the way he used to levitate secret notes into her schoolbag, unseen, in the middle of the crowded Slytherin common room. Druella’s hand flies up to her throat, fingertips brushing over the largest opal at the center, and Cygnus leans down so that their faces are level in the mirror before he kisses her, softly, behind her ear.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he says, his tone warm in the way that always makes her melt, just a little, whenever they are alone. He slides a hand through her hair, curling a lock of it around his finger once he reaches the very end, tugging on it gently like he is ringing a bell. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
Druella turns to look at him and, not for the first time in their marriage – and certainly not the last – allows him the grace and acceptance of an undeserved apology. She shifts on the vanity bench and lets her robe fall back from her shoulders just slightly, just enough. In the low light of their bedroom, with her fair skin and golden hair, Druella very nearly glows.
“Well,” she says, the sharp tinge of anger in her voice now softened down to an amiable purr, “I’m certain you can think of something,” and can’t help but smile when he laughs, low in his throat, then tilts her face up to let her husband kiss her properly.
darkhairedgirlRecipient: flyingharmony
Title: if my heart was a house, you’d be home
Characters/Pairing(s): Druella Rosier/Cygnus Black
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 920
Warning(s): Language, alcohol, implications of violence, pureblood snobbery.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Not my usual choice of pairing, but exceedingly fun to write! Thank you, Mods, for bearing with me, and I hope you like it, flyingharmony! Happy holidays! :o)
Summary: Druella and Cygnus, after the gala.
After the disaster that was the Black Foundation’s holiday masque, after her husband had the sheer audacity to abandon her halfway through the evening, Druella Black has left a trail of clothes leading from the top of the stairs to the bedroom: shoes and then stockings, her elbow-length gloves, her fox-fur stole, her beautiful silver ballgown, all in a sprawling heap that the house-elves scurry and rush to clean in her wake. She is angrier now in the aftermath of the party than she was in the moment; shock at his rude, unexpected exit left her numb, but now, now, she is furious – how dare he leave her to handle his family, his charity, expecting her to handle his affairs and his awful foreign business associates like she is some sort of bloody secretary, the absolute nerve of that man, honestly –
She is in her chemise and a green silk robe when she sets herself at her vanity table, irritably taking the diamond stud earrings from her ears, the silver comb from her chignon, when the door opens behind her, sending warm yellow light from the hall fanning across the floor. Cygnus, in rumpled dress robes, white mask in hand, catches her eye in the mirror and offers an apologetic smile, to which Druella returns with a cold glare.
“You looked lovely, tonight,” he says, and Druella does not reply. She pulls the pins from her hair and it falls, gracefully, in loose waves over her shoulders. Cygnus moves to stand behind her and Druella wrinkles her nose at the signature perfume of the Aethenon Club wafting off her husband: cigars and brandy and the port wine Jepthah Nott favors, a hint of rust and cold night air, an undeniable sense of entitlement. She much prefers his usual cologne: sandalwood and citrus, a bite of anise underneath.
“Dru, love, don’t pout. You know I didn’t want to leave.”
Druella’s mouth twists and she reaches for the pearl-handled hairbrush, running it harshly through her long blonde hair. “Certainly, Cygnus, you can’t think I’m such a fool that I would accept that as an apology?”
Cygnus has the wherewithal to hang his head, embarrassed. He is silent for a moment – unusual in her husband, a trait their daughters and their ceaseless chatterboxing have inherited from him – and Druella thinks he might actually be leaving when he turns back toward the door, her brush stilling in its path through her hair. But no: Cygnus has only crossed the room to hang his cloak and outer robe on the hook at the door, to toe out of his dress shoes, caked to the heel in mud. Cygnus runs a hand through his dark, mussed hair as he turns back toward her, his palms warm and gentle where he rests them on her shoulders. There is a streak of something red across his knuckles, but Druella, still quietly infuriated, ignores it in favor of the way he strokes his thumbs against the bare skin revealed at the open edges of her robe.
“It was not my decision to leave the ball the way I did. You know how Orion gets at these things, love, and someone needed to watch out and make sure he didn’t hex himself.”
Druella sniffs. “Still. You could have found any other excuse than to rush off with your cousin and that abominable Mr. Riddle, leaving me with your sister – whom, I might add, is getting battier than a belfry, with the way she’s been going on to Bellatrix about the ‘rising tide of impure blood’ that’s staining the halls of Hogwarts –”
“Druella.”
Cygnus reaches up to brush her hair back from her shoulders, and in doing so pulls it away from her neck, only to make her gasp when she focuses on their shared reflection in her vanity. There, resting cool at her collarbone, is a web of silver and opals; Cygnus clasps the chain and smirks at her sudden silence, moving in such a delicate sleight of hand that it makes her think, briefly, of Muggle parlor tricks, of the way he used to levitate secret notes into her schoolbag, unseen, in the middle of the crowded Slytherin common room. Druella’s hand flies up to her throat, fingertips brushing over the largest opal at the center, and Cygnus leans down so that their faces are level in the mirror before he kisses her, softly, behind her ear.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he says, his tone warm in the way that always makes her melt, just a little, whenever they are alone. He slides a hand through her hair, curling a lock of it around his finger once he reaches the very end, tugging on it gently like he is ringing a bell. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
Druella turns to look at him and, not for the first time in their marriage – and certainly not the last – allows him the grace and acceptance of an undeserved apology. She shifts on the vanity bench and lets her robe fall back from her shoulders just slightly, just enough. In the low light of their bedroom, with her fair skin and golden hair, Druella very nearly glows.
“Well,” she says, the sharp tinge of anger in her voice now softened down to an amiable purr, “I’m certain you can think of something,” and can’t help but smile when he laughs, low in his throat, then tilts her face up to let her husband kiss her properly.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-27 09:31 pm (UTC)