Chapter 1 : Like Porcelain
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Author's Note: I'd like to thank Ilia for such an awesome challenge! It was so much fun writing this, and it forced me to be concise (I really needed help with that.) Any review, whether you hated it or loved it, would be amazing!
Anything recognizable is JK Rowling's. The plot is mine.
Written by: Ilasia
“I won’t ask if it’s true.”
Bella turns; her dress swishes with her. He leans back on a stone pillar, his hair disheveled and eyes illuminated with rage, even in the darkness. The shadows silhouette his face against the streaming moonlight. She speaks.
He moves quickly, stepping towards her. Breath catches in her throat as his arms, like slate, pull her to him with enough force to make her eyes water upon impact. He does not relinquish his hold, nor do his eyes stray from hers.
She succumbs to his presence, as always, mulling over the familiarity of it all as her arms fall around his neck, her head finds the crook in his neck.
She recoils at the feel of his lips on her forehead.
“Stop it,” she whispers fiercely, “We can’t!”
“Bella,” he hisses, agonized, “How will he know?”
It isn’t long until his hands circle her waist, clutching the embroidered silk; until his mouth presses to hers in a flurry of tarnished hope and harrowing regret. She can do nothing but give in, submitting to the aching feeling of going without his touch for too long.
“How will anyone know?” he asks, “If you insist on this, Bella, there’s no reason we couldn’t go on like this, like nothing even changed.”
“I’m betrothed,” she whimpers, “To your brother.”
He sighs, running a hand down her face. She is like porcelain, Rabastan thinks, ice cold and beautiful to behold. She is like porcelain and he is a poor admirer of the finest piece of china; impeccable and so very difficult to obtain.
“It’s not as though we haven’t snuck around before.”
“It’s not as though we’ve never been caught, either.”
Rabastan pulls away this time, stepping away from her. His face, shrouded in shadows once more, stares down at her with overt confusion.
“What?” he asks plainly, cautiously.
“He saw us.”
Her mind flits backwards in time to a stormy night. Dancers fluttering over the floor, sharp, irrelevant conversation passed over uninterested ears. Two proposals.
“That night? That night?”
“An hour after you, Rab, he had my father’s permission!”
“I had – have – your love,” he hisses, “My brother, my brother, he saw us together and proposed?! He’s – he’s a traitor! He’s dead to me!”
She steps forward, reaching out a fragile hand and touches his face. Rabastan’s breath comes out in a rush, broken and raspy.
“If I can’t have you as mine, I won’t have you as a sister!”
“I cannot be anything more to you, Rabastan.”
His eyes glaze over with salted tears, she watches him with bated breath. The sound of their beating hearts acts as melody to their scene.
“Then you can’t be anything to me at all.”
And much like his arrival, he steps away from her with nothing more than easy grace and a fleeting kiss that will have to last her for the time to come.
He is the poor admirer.
She was like porcelain…