Almost Apathy

The Slytherin Common Room was darker than at any other point in the day, despite the facts that it was noon. The Dungeons were warmer than usual, meaning that the normally roaring fire was silent for the time being, and the only light was from several dimly-lit, lantern-style lights hanging from the tapestry-covered ceiling.

Rodolphus Lestrange was seated on a large armchair near the back of the room, leg thrown casually over the side, and a grimace that was hardly due to the presence of any physical discomfort. The Seventh Year had been quite successful in blocking out such nonsense: he'd become relatively immune to bodily ache. No, his pain was far deeper and more difficult to deal with, being of the emotional variety, something that Rodolphus wasn't all too comfortable with. Feelings of snuggly warmness were hardly his forte.

He grunted and ran a hand across his rather wide forehead, a habit he hadn't been able to shake since he'd gotten his hair cut a few weeks previously. He was used to having a curtain of dark brown hair hanging in front of his equally dark eyes for the vast majority of his waking life, so being able to see clearly was slowly becoming a luxury to him.

One that he'd prefer not having at all, as a matter of fact.

The Common Room was empty, save for a few scrawny First and Second Years, comparing the wealth of their parents. Rodolphus snorted. They all had a tendency to strut nastily around the castle, acting as if they owned the place.

Clearly they hadn't met him yet.

Swinging his leg forward, he stood up from the chair and walked slowly forward, weaving his way through the bundle of younger students. She'd be expecting him about now, and though Rodolphus outwardly hated being summoned, he couldn't help wanting to obey her every whim.

He brushed his fingers across his forehead again and headed for the entrance of the Common Room, stepping aside for a group of Fourth Years presumably returning from a lesson. After this mild inconvenience passed him by, Rodolphus made his way into the Dungeon corridor. He could only imagine what the late-May weather outside must be like if the Dungeons were this hot. Sweltering, probably, which was all the more reason to take his time in leaving the Dungeons.

The third floor was several staircases above him, a journey he'd not be willing to take if it wasn't for good reason. His mind whined childishly at him to grow a backbone, that she didn't have him on a leash, that he was independent. His body, however, had different plans: his legs moved numbly from step to step, though they should be aching terribly by now; his stomach prickled, his lips twitched, his hands groaned when he thought about her face, her hips, her hands.

And he thought he was immune to physical pain.

He made his way through the onslaught of students and professors heading to the Great Hall for lunch. First floor, second floor, third floor, eighth door on the left. The handle was a trick one, proven with age to be more stubborn than most as he rattled the handle: two turns to the left, three to the right, and one more to the left sent it off its dogged bolts and creaking open.

It was warmer inside than out in the corridor, and darker, as well. Rodolphus shut the door behind him, the handle hot in his grip, and made his way further into the room.

It was hardly what one would call luxurious: shabby curtains framed a pair of foggy windows, and two or three broken desks and chairs lay in a pile in the far right corner. The dark made it harder on his eyes than Rodolphus felt was necessary, but he squinted and was able to make out the outline of her form, standing up straight, shoulders back, against the dim lighting of the windows.

He took a step towards her, his hands burning again, and brushed a hand against his forehead once more. Beads of anticipatory sweat hung there, mixed with the ones caused by the extreme heat. He could hear her breathing. He was only a few inches away.

"Bella," he breathed, his voice brusque and slightly hoarse from lack of use. She smiled and leaned in close, her lips pressed to his ear: his blood was pumping so loudly that he could barely hear her as she replied in hardly more than a whisper, "Always."

Her breath in his ear was cool. He tilted his neck back, staring at the rafters above them in the tiny room that was hardly more than a closet. Her hands snaked up his back and settled on his shoulders: he could feel her cold breath against his throat. He brought his chin forward and rested his head on hers. She laughed, a low, dark sound that made his jaw clench and his eyelids flutter. He felt her hands, cold as her breath, on his cheeks, pushing his head back.

Focusing on her face was difficult in the dark but not impossible: dark eyes beneath thick lids, rounded lips, sharp cheekbones, the whiteness of her pale skin accentuated even more by the murky grey light. Bella.

His hands, no longer useless trunks of flesh at his sides, slid up and down her forearms and finally to her face. She smiled and laughed again, and his insides squirmed some more.

"Glad you finally made it," she droned, her voice sopping with sarcasm, her lips barely an inch from his now. Rodolphus swallowed. His tie felt unusually tight, and his legs had returned to their useless, leaden state. All he could manage was a kind of pathetic gurgle, which made Bella laugh amusedly again.

His mind yelled at him a bit more about his mental state, but stepped out for a spot of tea as he lowered his hands to her waist and pulled her close. Her incessant giggling stopped immediately, though he could still feel her cold breath on his chin.

"Me, too," he said with a grin.