Who: Bellatrix Black and Thibaud Rosier.
What: Two relatives getting reacquainted after six(?) years of not seeing each other.
When: Sometime in 1966.
Where: A Rosier relative's home.
Rating: PG or PG-13 ;)

The wedding was in three months and its pre-pre-nuptial celebration was already on the last remaining—and slightly listing—legs of a particularly long night. Bride and groom have long since loosened both corset and cuff links, best men and bridesmaids were having at each other’s availability, chasing the anonymity that went with a festive evening. Thibaud Rosier, principal sponsor of his second cousin’s third sister’s second wedding, was on his fifth drink and while the party droned ever on without any sign of ever stopping and toning down, he found himself retreating to the more spacious parts of the house. As he drifted farther away from the heart of the party—where the living room blared to life with contemporary music, liquor, and momentary lapses of pretentious formality—and his drink in hand, Thibaud heard less and less of who was dating who, of over-active lips, and of the inebriated middle-aged men chatting up inebriated adolescent women. He took a sip of his drink. The hallway that led to his cousin’s library was a bit narrow, with dark carpet cushioning his soft footfalls, but the walls were comprehensive: a history book in cracks, faded wallpaper, and animated paintings: he noted his father’s dignified chin in one, seated on a high-backed chair with his own cleft-chinned grandfather; the aunt that never stopped sending Yuletide presents until he was thirty-three, in an oval frame between bulks of mounted marble statues; a winged messenger; a slightly disgruntled youth in pink frills and silk bows. He sighed, sipped his drink, and let the warmth flood down his throat. His stomach loosened; his face slackened to idleness; his grip loosened on his glass. After a heartbeat and a subtle shake of his head, Thibaud wondered if the contentment he felt at that moment was either excitement or anxiety for the future of a family whose life only ever seems to exist in yesterday’s afterthought.

In plain terms, it all seemed unnecessary. But the Rosiers, Bellatrix mused, were known for their grandiosity of ideas and substantial lacking when it came to execution and other such practical matters. That isn't to say the party was sub-par (though the significantly sparse number of attendees was quite a faux pas, and no doubt her mother would talk her ear off about it come tomorrow morning); it was a fine display of wealth and grandeur and all things French, as one would expect. It just came off as a bit... gratuitous. An excuse (for what, she had no idea, but she was sure she would have such a revelation come her seventeenth birthday, or eighteenth, it didn't really make a difference), perhaps. The point of the whole thing appeared to be that there was no point. Oh yes, the wedding, three months into the future, ninety or so days, countless or so hours, minutes, and seconds thereafter. Bellatrix wondered with dark glee (the kind that rests heavy in the bottom of one's stomach and burns cold) what could happen in three months; the tragic, tragic demise of a buxom, blushing, soon-to-be bride? ...the valiant fall of a tall, trim-wasted and granite-faced groom? ...both? Or perhaps a simple realisation on the part of either party that the other is, in fact, quite insufferable (undoubtedly the most amusing twist of all twists of Fate). And then what would the whole show this evening be about?

The tulle of her gown (picked out with love by her mother, though she had stalwartly refused the first option, which had been a revolting shade of mauve and settled shakily upon this, the peach, which, she supposed, was meant to match a young, flushed girl's skin tone, but simply emphasized her pallor) rustled beneath Bellatrix as she shifted on the sill of the monstrous Gothic window, chafing the underside of her thighs. The dusty volume in her lap slid down into the V formed by her legs and her torso bending together, leaving dull, gray streaks along the gown's material. But that was of little concern to her, in light of the streak of shadow that had just appeared beneath the door frame, with muffled footsteps and a rattling of the Library's doorknob.

In all her feminine glory, Bellatrix Black cursed under her breath. All she could hope was that it was not a member of her immediate family. In her dreams, it would be a pair of lust and liquor-filled strangers, coming together to find a private place for the private moments they wanted to share with each other and, stumbling upon the most improper of teenage girls, the two parties could silently agree with each other not to talk about their existences to anyone. And then they would, of course, find another room and leave Bellatrix to her reading. But that scenario was an ideal one, with slim chances of occurring, Bellatrix knew. The chances were much greater that the party on the other side of the door would know her, chide her, and send her back downstairs. And, Fate being a cruel force that never favoured Bellatrix, it would most likely be her mother, under which circumstances that chiding would last not only tonight, but tomorrow, and the next, and the next.

She turned back her book. Yes, she would act surprised, as if she had been wandering around in a most innocent fashion, stumbled upon this place, and had hopelessly lost track of time. She could play benign, and play it well, as people in her circle expected little else of a sixteen year old girl dressed in peach chiffon.

Biding his time down the warmly-lit hallway, Thibaud reckoned that perhaps his distant cousin’s wedding was, perhaps, not so much a formality but an actual marriage borne out of genuine compassion for her fiancé. He could remember the odd little girl, skipping and bouncing around from one relationship to the other with no real direction, no real standard, no real notion of what husbands are supposed to be and what families are meant for. She had gone through Husband the First without hesitation. A vague courtship, a superficial physical attraction. Skirting the borders of propriety and downright promiscuity. She wasn’t happy with him after the first few months, that much Thibaud had observed even when her parents gushed, groaned, and gloated about the fantastic addition to their family. Husband the Second was different. He was eager to please, eager to accommodate, and the sparkle in his cousin’s eyes as she held his hand was something that neither her strict upbringing nor her otherwise colourful French heritage never managed to achieve in thirty odd years.

He chuckled to himself just as he reached the door to the library. Opening the doorknob, he expected only an empty room amongst his late uncle’s most prized collection of French, German, and East Asian literature, with his half-empty glass of scotch in one hand and his discarded tie in the other. When he entered, however, as the creak of door hinges and grunting of floorboards gave way to a permeating stillness, Thibaud found that the library was not at all empty. Surprise held back to subtle degree, he hesitated a while at the doorway, eyebrows raised at the woman he didn’t expect to see at all.

Her hair was the first thing she noticed. Unlike the crackling hearth, the candle-lit lamps, and the ancient spines of countless tomes, her hair was a striking sliver of darkness. He saw no warmth there but the fullness of it reminded him of a cocoon. Encompassing, heavy, and present. Her lips were next, full with youth. Her neck, long and elegant. The imagined slim figure beneath the generous chiffon garment. The hint of calves pressing against the fabric. Thibaud let in a steadying breath as a smile, gradual and friendly, softened his lips. He met her eyes. He let out the air from his lungs, steady and cautious, and, entering the library completely, the door falling shut behind him, only then did he wonder if this woman was a guest but a gift from several hours of liquor and celebration.

“I hope you don’t mind some company.”

Perhaps Fate was on her side yet.

This, she knew, would be something she could manage. Bellatrix had turned with planned surprise as the door opened, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, feigning a bit of fright mixed in with her shock. But, as it would turn out, the theatrics were unnecessary, and she almost immediately dropped them when she noted the face of the interloper in her sphere of bookshelves and privacy. The eyes that were wide narrowed and her lips pursed together, boldly studying the older man studying her, where a normal girl of her age would blush and turn away, flustered. She noted the half-emptied glass (suspecting it wasn't the first) and the growing smile, and felt infinitely more secure than she had but mere moments ago.

It took her a moment to place the countenance; the dim light and the air, thick and stagnant with words and philosophy and mathematics and magical theory dulled her perception slightly. He was familiar in vague ways, as if she had known him in a lifetime past, or had come upon his picture in the Daily Prophet for something benign and not very noteworthy and had glossed over it without a second thought. But no, neither of those things was quite right. He must have been in attendance at a party hosted by her mother (whom he was, no doubt, related to), most likely at their home in France. Her mind wandered, bringing back with it memories from French summers for Bellatrix to pore over and study, much like the book she had been perusing before. She had to go back far before the connection was made; yes, a summer in France and one of the first parties her mother had permitted her to stay at until the end without the nannies putting her to bed. She had been ten, waiting patiently for the following week when she would turn eleven. It was the summer before she was set to attend Hogwarts for the first time. That was where she found the name to match the man before her. Thibaud, a first or second cousin of her mother's. It was only after this identification that she returned his smile, more out of courtesy than any actual feeling. He was one of her mother's, and when he reported back to her on this little interaction, nothing short of "a pleasure," "darling," and "quite intelligent and capable," would do.

But Bellatrix would be damned if she would lie to him. Of course she minded the company; she had left the gathering for a reason, hadn't she? Did he think she had retreated to the bookshelves looking for human interaction or an escape from it? Closing the book, she put it aside and stood, shamelessly sweeping her fingers over the dust gathered in the folds of her gown in a way that would have left her mother dizzy with embarrassment. When most of it was gone, her eyes found his again with that same, polite grin. She consciously did not respond to his request to join her.

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it? I doubt you remember me. Or perhaps you might remember, but most certainly fail to recognise. The last time we shared each other's company I was ten." Bellatrix left it at that, and her grin tugged at the corners of her lips, growing wider. Her greeting was certainly not disrespectful, but it was definitely a well-phrased challenge to see if the older man would succeed (like she did) in identifying her, or fail. Whichever way it happened to go, for that brief moment, Bellatrix - wrinkled, dust-covered, sixteen year old Bellatrix - had the slightest of advantages over him (without being imprudent, improper, or otherwise ill-mannered), and that was just how she liked it.

Did he know her? The question echoed lightly in his head and, almost immediately, his consciousness said no, he didn’t know her. That if he did, he would never have misplaced a name to a most youthful face and a most piercing pair of eyes. That if he did, the womanly lilt of her voice would be familiar and homely. (Thibaud had very good ears, which came from decades of listening to his father’s old records, and then his own eclectic tastes. If a voice were owned by a very remarkable person, Thibaud certainly would have known if it were friend or foe.) His smile mellowed slightly. After a beat, he finally moved from where he stood; the rattle of ice against liquid in his glass was the only sound he made. Otherwise, Thibaud looked all the calculating, curious, inquisitive, and wary Ravenclaw that he was most known for in his circles of friends, and sounded all the quiet, tactful Pureblood he was raised to be, as wondered, endlessly, just who this woman was.

“It probably has been quite a while. I have good memory,” which was, in part, true. For a time, in his fifth year at Hogwarts, he won a bet against Tacitus Nott in a game of dice and has earned the respect of Nott’s ilk since then. “And if I don’t remember a face then yes, it probably has been decades since we last met or,” his looked mellowed even further, until it was roughly edged with suspicion, any offense meant in context dimmed only by a subtle tone of tease, “We hadn’t met at all.”

He paused, eyes shrewd. He observed the young woman before him. Young, was she really. If she was young then Thibaud would not look at her thus. His eyes would not linger over patches of skin, or tender locks of hair, or the dips and swells of her flirting dress. His head would not be traitorous; his liquor would not rebel. If she was young, he would not think of her at all, but he was and in the five seconds that came between his intake of breath and the sip of his dark and heavy drink, his traitorous, traitorous head has already written her past with a disillusioned desire for little thrills and little anonymities. He exhaled, and swallowed. The tail-end of bitterness was blunt against the back of his tongue.

Then he shrugged, and whatever stiffness that pulled his cheeks taut and his eyes unfriendly abated. Nonchalance soon followed and Thibaud, no stranger to deception and social games, adapted a relaxed stance: his feet slightly apart; his hand in his pocket; his atmosphere carefree and warm. Despite the underlying suspicion and the danger of speaking with strangers, Thibaud could not find it in himself to panic. Any company is good company and if company was female, daring, and vocal, there were fewer things to worry about than clothes to discard and there was no need for fear, politics, and heritage; his father himself said so and Thibaud was inclined to agree.

No, of course he wouldn't recognise her. To ask such a thing of such a man was cruel, and Bellatrix knew it, especially as she stood there, standing straight and looking up into his eyes, eyes that flickered to and fro along her skin. He didn't want to, knowing that what felt like a short, not-quite-noteworthy span of years for him had affected young Bellatrix in drastic and innumerable ways.

Under normal circumstances, such a heavy gaze would have greatly agitated Bellatrix. Under normal circumstances, she would have responded to it in a manner that expressed said agitation in a most inappropriate way for a girl of her age and upbringing. But she found, without really understanding why, that this exchange was not bound by the parameters of normal circumstance. The older man and his actions did not ignite her temper, but left her rather entertained. She could deduce that Thibaud was benign for the most part but far from dull, like most benign men tend to be.

"I'm sure your memory is excellent, sir. Perhaps it was your evil twin or doppelganger I met, then?" She grinned wolfishly, extending her hand. "I'm Bellatrix Black. You're probably familiar with my mother, Druella."

He should be shocked, really, of the sudden twist of the situation. Thibaud, a man from the core of his bones to his extremities, has always been used to taking control of any circumstance. He doesn’t like unpredictability when it is to his disadvantage; he doesn't like being one-upped by fate and that moment, fate had certainly ploughed through his defenses and scored a Quaffle through his rings without difficulty. A part of him wanted to be repulsed by his corrupt head, but then he blinked and realized that the instinctive reaction of surprise and repulsion were themselves too surprised and too repulsed to actually kick in.

The dark head ducked, half-attempting to hide the sudden grin that broke in ripples on his face. A chuckle unwound in his throat. His feet shifted. The ice rattled against the class for the second time, piercing the permeating silence that was now, in contrast to earlier’s hollow pregnancy, was potent with a hundred thousand various routes to continue (or perhaps end) this most unexpected encounter. He shook his head, then, and raised his eyes to meet hers. The look on his face was sheepish but unapologetic.

“Are you really?” he asked after a breath, mostly in an attempt to shake off the odd unsettling discomfort that ran down his spine. He identified it as a shudder, and he could vaguely remember the last time he shuddered in such fashion. He could recall that such shudders were very very very disconcerting, they have been completely unwelcome from his spine for a long time; its reappearance was unsettling. “It has been a while, then. A very long while. I would gladly compare you to what I remember of you several years back but,” the hand that held the glass pausing mid-raise to echo a casual shrug, “So how long has it been, Bellatrix?” and took a sip, disguising the tightness of his throat with the tightness of liquor.

It was great fun to witness Thibaud's reaction to her revealing her identity. The scattered sound of ice clinking against glass, the shuffling of feet, the smile spoke something to Bellatrix that left her feeling giddy and oddly accomplished in ways she could not quite understand yet. What she did know was that there was something present in their brief conversation; she could recognise a force of sorts, a push and pull.

Bellatrix knew she pushed people. It was a part of her nature. She enjoyed driving people and situations in directions she chose, bringing them to points that she wanted to bring them to, and having things unfold at her will. Most times her disposition was strong enough that its figurative push went uncontested, leaving her without as much as a molehill to block her path. The rare times that she was met with that pull, that opposition to her indomitable will, the results were never, ever pleasant (case and point: her eldest male cousin). But this particular instance, it seemed, was quite the anomaly. Bellatrix felt that all was not clear in the path before her, but she was not angry. On the contrary, she found herself to be quite pleased... so much so that her own chuckle, higher pitched but still deep and rich in its own right, harmonized with Thibaud's.

"Yes, I'm quite certain of it," she quipped, smirking slightly still, wondering with amusement if she should divulge the actual number of years and age herself, or keep to vagueness and rough estimates, "As you said, it has been a long while. I hope the years have treated you well? It would seem so, but appearances can deceive, you know."

When he had finished most of his drink, he turned bodily and placed his glass on a nearby table. His eyes lingered over the perpetually fresh vase, then the family picture beside it (taken in 1950 in front of the sprawling French countryside, wherein several young girls and boys posed unsmiling and absolutely, painstakingly still even as the clouds shifted across in the sky in the background). His thoughts trailed off slightly but at the underlying jab at his appearance, Thibaud threw a pointed look across his shoulder. It could have been stern, if not for the spark of amusement in his sharp eyes and the complete lack of tension on his lips. This was because Thibaud liked Bellatrix, and that he could remember. He liked her when he had first met her and after those many, many years in between, nothing has changed.

Except perhaps for her height, and for the fullness of her cheeks, his mind kept on going, and would you please stop staring it’s incredibly rude and besides, your wife is only a few doors away. Be discreet with your indiscretions and not with your relative’s daughter, please and thank you. If he cared about his conscience at all, he would’ve defended him with the unspoken tradition of in-breeding among the Purebloods but he didn’t and instead, he turned towards her fully. His eyes were calculating but his body deceptively casual.

“Yes, appearances certainly can be. If you hadn’t had the quick thinking to introduce yourself,” he shook his head at the taboo topic he was skirting the dangerous edges of, “This paintings would certainly have something to talk about for the next decade.” A chuckle, dry and self-deprecating but not overly so that his courteous humility did any damage to his dignity. “You’ve grown so much and if I didn’t know otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken you for a Rosier. A black through and through, aren’t you?”

Bellatrix watched the older man even as he turned his attention elsewhere, grey eyes transfixed on the back of his head. When he gave her that sharp glance, it should have been her turn to look sheepish, perhaps move her gaze downward and grin, but that had never been her way. So instead she kept her eyes steady in that moment, steady on his, and raised a brow; it might have been a challenge or a simple, unspoken statement about her character. She made few concessions and even fewer apologies.

Likewise, if Bellatrix cared about her conscience at all (and also her reputation, which she very well knew was more important for someone of her gender and age... not that she could be made to give a damn, really) she would have responded to Thibaud's subtle indiscretion accordingly... coquettish, pink-tinged cheeks, a bit flustered, even. But she had already made quite clear that little of what she did was dictated by silly (in her opinion) rules of feminine etiquette; it simply didn't suit her. And so she took the bait Thibaud placed before her, and followed behind him (or perhaps jumped in front of him) on the figurative edge of propriety and taboo, "Quite true, but I suppose the question really is, which one of us would they be talking about?"

She would let that linger for a moment, just a moment longer than it should have, perhaps, before she steered the two of them into an entirely different area of the boundary they seemed to be flirting with, "I'd like to think I'm thoroughly Black. Besides, I'm not nearly well-behaved enough to pass for a French girl. Surely your... affiliates have made that clear to you? The ones that have made my acquaintance, that is."

Amused, Thibaud had nothing to reply to that. The crowd would perhaps talk about them with equal amounts of fervor and intrigue. Bellatrix was young and beautiful and his relative, for Merlin’s sake, how could he do such an immoral thing and with poor Odile left to look after their son, too. On the other hand, Thibaud was a loving father, a reputable Rosier, and would she please stop romancing men much older than her with lives of their own and families they have to raise. But Thibaud also knew that, secretly, the vine that bore toxic grape was the very source the crowd thrives upon and even though they spit out the seeds, mock the flesh, and skin the grapes raw, their love for it was addictive and unceasing, despite (and, even, in spite of) immoral old men and immoral younger women.

“A well-behaved French woman is incredibly ironic, I think,” he disagreed, but not with an unfriendly tone of voice. Amusingly enough, the French can be both: well-behaved and wild; worse, they can be both at the same time. Kidding aside, and after a moment of peeling back the innuendo to reveal the underlying message, Thibaud realized that the reluctance he felt right then—upon understanding what she truly meant—was the first ounce of hesitation he had felt since he walked in.

It took a while for him to reply and as he took silent breaths with deliberate ease and calm, Thibaud eyed her carefully. Beyond the deceptive good looks, the perceptive eyes, and the poised countenance, Thibaud knew he ought not to mistake the silent female strength for something less than what he, a capable wand-waving, curse-breaking male, was capable of. Bellatrix’s words were not without weight and he found that perhaps the young woman—his mind played on the words: young, woman--before him now would bring about a change that they might just benefit from. “I’m led to understand and accept that the French, despite being on the other side of the channel and with odd nuances about them, are perfectly capable of being British. The British just say they prefer Italians to put up appearances but I’m sure the French will fit in quite well.” He paused, then seemingly in afterthought, added: “Who knows, perhaps their fancy bread might be the key to limitless economic power.”

Now the game had really started. Oh, yes, the banter before had been great fun, witty and challenging in its own right; any woman would have loved it. Bellatrix, however, was not any woman. She took what she could from such interaction, but there was something about talking business, and talking about it with men much, much older than she (old enough for the aforementioned banter to be considered borderline obscene, she thought with pleasure) that excited her in ways little else could. She felt quite fitted for such situations, as if she had been wearing shoes two sizes too small her entire life and now she had finally put on a pair her size, and she relished in them when they, on rare occasions, came around.

What she loathed, however, was the bloody wordplay. Certainly Bellatrix could appreciate the toying with double entendres and implied meanings when they were tied to frivolities like flirtation and other such innuendos. But things like blood purity and the Dark Lord she be discussed in as plain, no-nonsense terms as possible. Of course, this was not always possible. But impossibility did little to change her desire to proclaim exactly what she meant, or her heavy curiosity. A part of her (a large part that she struggled to keep in check, just then) wanted nothing more than to roll up Thibaud's left sleeve and stare in fascination at the Mark, touch it and familiarize herself with its texture, its inky, impenetrable colour, it's shape... ask him how it felt, was it painful, was it good pain, bad pain, no pain? Did he like how it felt? Her questions were limitless because, inevitably, one answer would birth ten more that she could have asked. And it nearly killed her to know she could ask none of them.

Bellatrix realised, as Thibaud finished talking and her mind found reality once more, that her heart was beating quite rapidly, her breath coming in staccato bursts between slightly parted lips. She paused to calm herself before she spoke. "Or perhaps fancy bread is the distraction that they wish the rest of the world to notice instead of something else. Like soldiers dressed up as bakers sneaking poison into those... fancy loaves. French wiles must never be underestimated, after all." It was her turn now to decide whether the afterthought should be left unsaid or not. It could potentially have a double meaning, but it was only a hunch, based on what she'd seen so far from Thibaud. If it turned out to be true, well... that would prove entertaining. If not, it would be a harmless witticism, wouldn't it? "I would have thought a man such as yourself, being a... lover of French culture, would have known that..." and then, realising just how much she was pushing the envelope, she added, "...sir."

He shouldn’t be talking about any of this at all, he thought to himself as soon as the words left his lips with, surprisingly, an unchanged timbre of confidence and calm. Bellatrix was a Pureblood, yes, and everything else felt right about her but discussing things (albeit indirectly) made him feel uncomfortable. Watched. As if the eyes mounted on the walls followed even the slightest twitch of hairs at the back of his neck. He had, after all, seen many men punished for their missteps, for the intentional sabotage of their own anonymity within their brotherhood. Though fully confident that Thibaud, with his involvement and contributions to the Cause would not befall such undignified manners of rebuke, his conscience—the part of him that was fully aware of how taut and thin the line he walked was—reminded him of the possibility with a pang at the pit of his belly.

As she spoke, and as both ears listened quite intently to every word she uttered, Thibaud allowed himself to approached the arm chair nearby and lower himself into it. If he were to sin against the only commandment he had sworn to, physically if not at all financially (but he’s never one to count his Knuts), by indulging a young child’s curiosity then he ought to do it sitting down. That way, the slight twitch of the limbs or the restless jerk of the feet would be disguised with as much dignity in his stance as possible.

Thibaud was painfully honest with mistakes and weaknesses, but when it came to matters that could afford neither truth nor failure; he always made sure that each was cloaked with simple, unassuming normalcy.

He did so with a slight laugh, an odd chuckle that could’ve been genuine, if not for the aversion of his eyes or the sudden shift of a forearm to an armrest. The trouble with speaking in code all for the sake of misleading the avid (and shrewd) enemy was the tendency to misunderstand and, hoping that with French loaves and French women, he could express himself appropriately. “I love the French. Never mind my being French myself but if the law were to permit me, I would marry as much of the French as I would like,” he began, looking over the table between them to cast a meaningful look at Bellatrix. “They,” you, his mind added, “Have so much to offer and if those things go so far as poisoned bread, plagued baguettes, and spiced tea, then the cunning they display simply proves Britain’s need to have them on board, don’t you think?”