30th January 2003
The lamplights within the drawing room are still blearing their warmth despite the awakening of morning. And the light is slicing, spearing its way through Geneva's retinas as she becomes conscious with the sun.
Complete disorientation reigns upon her through her splitting headache as she forces herself to take a quick glance around the room. A bottle of mead, three quarters empty, resides on the table beside her and several bottles of wine. She can still taste the alcohol on her stained tongue.
In an overwhelming crash, her memories catch up with her and at first she's unsure of whether or not she's dreamt it. Though her surroundings confirm that it indeed was not a figment of her imagination.
She kissed him. Kissed, snogged, consumed.
And worse, she liked it.
Even now, recalling the event, she doesn't feel repulsed or even disgusted with herself, nor does she feel any form of regret. Because it was good. So good. She's transported back as her teenage self. Her mind's in complete unrest remembering, reliving the feeling, craving it. What the fuck?
Then remorse floods in. Theodore.
For a moment, she's completely forgotten about her distaste towards him and feels nothing but sorrow. She wants to be able to blame her actions on something, she wants to hold Theodore accountable for leading her to this spontaneous burst of desperation for comfort and affection. But truthfully she was the maker of her own destruction.
Yes, she was emotional, and drunk— she still is, and realistically there is absolutely no excuse she can find that can condone her actions. It happened and she had wanted it to happen.
But now she doesn't know what to do. Much less knows what this means for her marriage and despite her pre-existing reckonings for the state that it's in currently, she decides to put the night behind her. No need to make matters worse.
It was nothing but a relapse of adolescent craving for desire and thrill. Nothing.
Picking up her wand, she casts a spell to burn out every lamp in the room for the daylight and through distorted, blurry vision, takes herself back to her bedroom where Theo resides.
He's still asleep when she unlocks and creaks open the door. And he's just lying their, peacefully, beautifully, it makes her want to weep.
Geneva gently collapses onto the bed beside him and sits idly for a while, staring into space, not even thinking. Pushing away the thoughts altogether. There's too much thinking to be done. It will have to wait.
Out of instinct, she falls onto her side and folds an arm around him, holding him closely to her body—feeling nothing.
He flinches subtly and turns his head to find her. He seems almost relieved, but so, so guilty.
"I'm sorry," his voice whispers in a sleepy rasp. "I'm sorry, we can wait. I'm sorry."
She makes no reply. Just shuts her eyes and lets him kiss her head, her nose, her lips. Feels nothing. No difference.
When his arms cascade around her, she just begins to cry. Body shaking against his, and she's sobbing. Through her cries, she hears his pleas of apology, and he believes it's he who has done all wrong, who has thrown her into this pool of empty despair. Perhaps it is. She doesn't know anymore.
Not before long, she's asleep again. And in sleep it's not Theo's breath she can feel, nor is it his heartbeat she can hear.
No, it's those silver eyes she can see. Those grave, cold as stone silver eyes.
***
The bed is empty when she wakes, and she's alone in the room. Heaven knows what the time is. The single urge she currently has is to escape this room, run into the garden and immerse herself in the tranquility of the countryside's morning atmosphere.
But when she peeks out of the window, fate has it that it's raining, ironically matching her mood.
With every force, she fleets down to the kitchen and faces the insufferable drowning sensation of anticipation. She pushes the anxiety away, clears her mind.
But no ones even here. Theo must have left for work earlier on and as for Malfoy, well there's no surprise that he is probably avoiding her altogether. It only makes matters worse truthfully. She wishes to see him now, to get it over with.
However, for the rest of the day whilst Geneva's stuck inside the confines of the Manor as it pours down outside, she finds herself in almost every single room except the very one she knows he's in. Practically skips around the Manor like an erratic child, from room to room, finding excuses within each one.
A feeling lingers within her, a craving for absolute thrill and desire weighs upon her like a building on her back.
While she happens to be in Theodore's
study, she can't help herself from having another snoop around. Considering his strange behaviour from the night before, there's every reason as to why she speculates something.
Though she finds nothing and then begins to feel guilty for becoming the wife who does this sort of thing. Invasive. But it's the most frustrating feeling when one feels as if the person closest to them is hiding something and won't reveal what that is.
Geneva truly knows she's only trying to find something so she can feel less guilty about her latest endeavours. So she doesn't have to paint herself as the unfaithful villain everyone already speculates her to be. It appears she's proven them right now.
But it was nothing. Nothing, nothing.
A nothing she cannot stop thinking about.
She lets her body slump onto the edge of the desk and caves her head into her hands, feeling both sick and confused.
All is silent for a moment, alone with the wilderness of her mind where each passing thought is a stray beast. But a tapping at the window interrupts this peculiar void.
One of their post owls jolts the window open, releasing a clump of letters addressed to Theodore, letting them splay out across his desk. Out of sheer curiosity, she scans the pile, eyes and radar busy until she finds what she knows she's been looking for.
A letter. Recognisable handwriting scrawled across the front, a hand which twists a funny feeling in her gut. Geneva doesn't even hesitate when opening the envelope.
She stares at it even minutes after having read it through twice, three times maybe. Just stares again like she had at the last.
But this time she doesn't leave it perched on the side for him to read later. After all, he'd know she's seen it for it's already been opened. That would only cause more suspicion and drama.
Again, without giving it a second thought, she casts Incendio into the fireplace, observing with satisfaction as the logs strike up in flames, grabs the letter and tosses it right in. She feels nothing as she watches it burn to a crisp. No anger, no hatred, no betrayal. Not a thing. Just watches mechanically as the parchment blackens and falls apart.
Later on, Geneva takes to doing the only thing she can think of to acquire some peace of mind— going into the garden, despite it being a bitter January day. She had waited until the rain came to an end, immersing herself in the damp, dewy atmosphere.
Inevitably, many more of the plants have withered away so she uses her magic where necessary to savour the life within. Each one to grow grants her with pride for doing a good deed, however small that might be. It only temporarily clouds the truth of how she really feels through the mess she's in.
She doesn't even realise how long she's tinkered outside for until the sun begins to dip behind the vast body of the Manor. Though nothing within her wishes to go back inside. It almost feels safer out in this quiet. She's certainly less on edge. Less tempted to go and find what she shouldn't be looking for.
Eventually, night falls and Geneva's still alone. Due to the Winter chill of the air, she's taken to solitude in the greenhouse, far across the garden grounds away from the Manor. She's aware she should probably go back inside, especially because Theodore would be home soon. Though she feels no inclination to see him whatsoever.
The atmosphere is quiet, peaceful. But there's a sinister feeling within the air, as if she's being watched. She tries to ignore the feeling. She doesn't want to go back inside. Not yet. Not ever if she can manage.
A rustle at the door expels the silence and she yelps aloud at the sight of Malfoy's tall figure in the entrance of the greenhouse. Her heart sinks back into her chest and she almost collapses to her knees with the most strangest relief. Until she rationalises this occurrence.
"Bloody hell, Riddle. No need to shit yourself," he chuckles, rather snidely.
"You shouldn't do that— fuck! Sneaking up on me in the dark like that," she almost pants. "What do you want?"
"Just wondering if you're still alive. It's freezing out here. You're bloody insane."
"As if it matters to you."
"Well, I don't want Nott thinking I locked you outside. Just come back in now, will you?"
An abrupt laugh bursts from her. Hearing him give her orders as if she'll submit, obey and meet his wishes simply because of these strange terms they seemed to be on at the moment. But this trait is so default in Malfoy's character. He spent his entire upbringing expecting everyone to meet his expectations.
"What?" he asks, bluntly, appearing annoyed.
"Just leave me alone."
He stares, blankly, not even attempting to move.
"Please," she sighs, deeply, meaningfully.
He waits. Just watching her, surveying.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?"
Her eyes meet his, appalled that he would even bring it up.
"Aren't you?" he repeats.
"You've been avoiding me." She doesn't even know why she says it. Now she just feels silly.
He cracks a grin, shaking his head.
"Didn't think you'd want to see me."
"I didn't. I don't," she clarifies, too abruptly. He laughs.
"Right then."
"Right."
A few beats pass. Silence.
Geneva breaks into it, avoiding discomfort. "How did you know I was out here?"
"I was watching you."
"Of course you were," she rolls her eyes at his attempt to sound intimidating.
"You weren't hard to miss. I had a direct view from my window."
"Then you could see I was perfectly fine."
"Alright, fine, what do you want me to say? Like I can't stop thinking about you. Fuck off," he mocks, viciously, as if it's the most ridiculous thing he could ever say.
She stares back at him. Blinks in confusion.
"It was nothing, Malfoy. Nothing."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I was pissed out of my bloody head, and emotional, and mad at Theo. It was nothing."
"Okay."
"Fucks sake! I mean it."
"Okay." There's an irritable smirk prying upon his face. "Yet you can't stop thinking about it."
"No, you can't!"
"Maybe," he breathes, edging closer to her. "And I can't tell you how fucking sick it makes me."
She stays still, even as his feet drag closer and closer to her, she does not move an inch. Hardly breathes.
"You stand there and tell me it was nothing, as if nothing is what you call your biggest fear. Because that's really how you feel, isn't it? Scared?"
She attempts to interrupt but he continues, voice overpowering.
"You reject it as nothing because you cannot even begin to face the fact that you could ever regard me in such a way. How disgusted you are by me. How sick I make you. Because the hands that you felt all over you last night are the same that killed fifty-odd people. So, of course it was nothing."
He looms over her intimidatingly, eyes piercing through hers.
"And even now, you feel nothing." It's not a question. It's a statement, an attempt to throw her off and persuade her to disagree.
He's so close, she can smell him. Instantly, she's transported to the previous night. How captivating that scent is. Almost like a manipulative drug.
His head crains, she can't even process what is happening, except for hearing the slow drawl of his words through his smooth voice. His hand delicately touches her jaw, thumb lightly caressing her skin.
And then suddenly he's pushing her against the sturdy cold glass wall of the greenhouse, but he's still not kissing her. Just teasing the idea by rolling his tongue over his bottom lip. Then bites down slightly.
His hand is on her waist, and she doesn't want it to move. There's a slicing look in his eyes and she fears if she looks at him for too long she might crumble.
"Nothing," she whispers, her eyes fleeting from his eyes to his lips. One hand moves to the back of her neck, holding her in place. Then his head dips into the crook of her neck.
And he's— smelling her. Breathing in her scent, the vague remnants of her fragrant perfume which she applied earlier this morning. But there's still no contact. She feels his hot breath on her skin. She shivers.
His nose trails up her neck, to her throat, smelling her as if he's a mutt and can't get enough of this one particular space of scent.
Then his eyes fix on her lips, staring, craving, pleading. He leans in. And she swears his bottom lip brushes hers, until his mouth pulls up into a grin, stilling this moment.
The air between them freezes.
"Such a cunt," he whispers with a deriding chuckle. And his tone is frustrated and amused and strangely disappointed.
She can't move. Neither can she speak or even think in this moment. She's simply an inanimate statue, allowing this audience to gaze upon her to critique or admire. And at being called a cunt, she feels no different. Just the same irrevocable hunger for more of whatever that was.
His hold on her releases and without even giving her another look, he flees the scene, storming out of the greenhouse with a vexed humour about him. She tries to recover, but can't seem to find the solution of how.
She just stays still, caving into this idea of a statue. Docile and tranquil.
-
so sorry with how slow updates are, i have terrible writer's block at the moment but i'm trying :(