cruella de vil (holocron) wrote,
@ 2008-09-27 13:47:00

Entry tags:

flavors, octavia, writing

• • • FLAVORS || o. borgin

TWENTY-FIVE FLAVOURS OFOctavia Borgin

happy	angry	sad	concerned	scared
crying	embarrassed	hurt	determined	innocent
betrayed	regret	confused	jealous	traumatized
wary	drunk	flustered	bitchy	content
frustrated	optimistic	muggle	family	pyo

content
1981, fall"Are you aware how difficult it is to find a present for a man of immeasurable wealth?"

It was Rabastan Lestrange's 25th birthday. Though some might say it was a number marking a milestone in a wizard's life, it was not anyone he was acquainted with. It was to be a day like any other, with perhaps a bit of pomp and circumstance thrown in simply to provoke him.

An entirely different sort of provocateur strode from the depths of her enormous closet, still wearing the filmy black of her dressing gown and a vaguely irked expression.

Rabastan slanted her a droll look as he turned down the collar points on his robe, deigning not to answer his wife, who had heard more than once his diatribe on the banality of birthday celebrations, etc.

Unfazed, Octavia began to tick off on her fingers, "Portkeys to foreign places, passé. Knickknacks from the such-and-such tomb of so-and-so ruler? Sitting in your Gringotts vault. A hit on your mother," her lips quirked briefly, "unfortunately impossible."

He remained silent, only half-listening as he moved to the cuffs at the arms.

Now standing beside him, she met his gaze in the mirror, raising her eyebrows . "Of course, I've always believed homemade presents to be of the best kind." A small silk bag was caught between two fingers of the hand she brought into view.

"It is the… thought that counts," Rabastan intoned in a polite, yet dubious manner, turning to accept the small bag with no small amount of anticipated boredom. The mysterious smile curving his wife's lips seemed out of place to him while he carefully undid the drawstring, as a pair of cufflinks, however nice they might be and with whatever emblem they might bear, were not particularly inventive or exciting. If it placated her, however…

Instead, the tiniest roll of parchment slid into his palm. With a casual cock of the brow, he lifted his gaze to Octavia, whose smile had morphed into a full blown smirk.

"Perhaps you ought to read it," she suggested, clasping her hands prettily behind her back.

Feeling decidedly uneasy after this unexpected turn, Rabastan unfurled the note, smoothing it out on his hand as he saw one word in a swirling, elegant script. His adam's apple quivered infinitesimally.

He read it a second time, just to be certain. His face impassive, he allowed the parchment to roll itself up and slipped it back into the bag, which he nonchalantly laid on the dresser beside them. "My, but you have put thought into this, haven't you?"

The gleam in her eyes was ironically predatory as she stepped towards him, trailing a teasing finger from his shoulder down his chest. "As you said, husband…" she whispered, "it is the thought that counts, no?"

Grabbing her by the throat, he all but crushed his forehead to hers, hand plunging into his robes then pointing to her heart as he murmured. Grip still in place, he walked the two of them back against the wall, his grip tightening just slightly as his lips went to her ear.

"On—your—knees."

wary
1980, winterIf there was one thing in the world Octavia could not abide, it was inventory. As owner and partner, she could very well have doled out the task to an underling—she had, as a matter of fact, in the past. But she then discovered that she was of a meticulous sort, and very possibly the only capable person of her own acquaintance to handle such a task. If she wanted something done right, it had, of course, to be done by herself. She scribbled a notation on her parchment and turned her attention back to the cluttered shelf, making a note to yell at someone for that.

"Miss Borgin."

Her head snapped up. A figure lurked just inside the doorway that she was certain had been closed and locked. But it was, of course, none other than Rabastan Lestrange.

"A member of your—staff informed me of your whereabouts. I require a moment of your time. "

She would fire whoever the imbecile was. Rabastan Lestrange was to have been banned from the premises, didn't they know? However, she turned towards him, though was careful to present as if paying him the littlest of attention. "Very well, Mr Lestrange. I am, as they say, all ears."

"Miss Borgin," Rabastan said again, "I feel our meeting earlier this week was remiss."

Her heart skipped a few hopeful beats. Of course, Octavia was a cautious woman, an utterly cautious woman, and she knew better, far better, than to trust a Lestrange. He hadn't even broached the real subject. Instead, she said casually, "Oh, do you?"

"I've spent a considerable amount of time replaying our conversation, and I believe you made some—valid points. It appears I may have been hasty in refusing to further discuss calling our—engagement—," he said the word as if it were a horrible curse, "off."

What was this, a concession from Rabastan lestrange? It was what she wanted from him—in truth, it gave her delicious chills to even hear him say the words, regardless of their sincerity. But because it was exactly what she wanted, she didn't trust it. "I confess, I am surprised if pleased to hear it, though my argument was—" flawless "well-thought out."

He cleared his throat. "Of course. Those points are what I wish to discuss—"

The hair on the back of her neck began to rise. Octavia tried to covertly reach for her wand in the deep recesses of her robe pockets. The movements had to be casual, had to be completely nonchalant, because if this wasn't simply a meeting to plan the end of their engagement…

Or if it was. Only not in the way she intended.

He advanced, slowly, his face devoid of most emotion save a tinge of annoyance, precisely as she remembered his expression from the last time he blackened her storeroom. What had he been saying? Her mind raced to play catch-up.

"—so really, you were correct. No one could blame me for forsaking a—what was the phrase you used? Oh, yes. The "'flighty,'" he punctuated his words with fluid steps toward her, "'niece… of a dithering— shopkeeper.'"

He paused.

Quick as lightning, Octavia drew her wand from her pocket, but not before Rabastan had drawn his. Ducking the binding spell he cast at her, she tried unsuccessfully to disarm him, creeping behind a stack of overturned cauldrons to evade immediate fire.

"I expected a little more," Rabastan's voice rang out with a bored tone, just a hint of smugness. "I'm not quite sure why."

Just as he blasted the cauldrons out of the way, she sent a thin ribbon of fire streaming from the end of her wand. The blazed missed him by a fraction, but not before the sleeve of his robe nearly caught, then singed. With an angry shout, she heard him fire a bind and threw herself to the left, avoiding them—or so she thought. The ropes caught her around the legs and, thrown off-balance, her wand flew out of her grasp. He caught her before she overbalanced, only to drive her into the wall behind them by force of a hand to her throat.

Octavia felt the tip of the wand pressing into the hollow of her neck, the hand cupping the curve of her jugular beginning to squeeze. "I had thought to make it quick," he whispered, heavy breath sounding ragged in her ear, "but now the reason seems to be eluding me." Adrenaline pulsed through her system like fire as prickles of fear slowly began to seep through her. There were likely things he'd very much enjoy doing to her as pay back for her flippant attitude and sharp tongue, she was sure. If Octavia could only move the hand pinned between their bodies slightly enough or quickly enough… she had a chance.

He drew the wand rather seductively up her jawline, leaning back just enough for her to—

She grabbed for the pendant around her neck and yanked, squirming just so to get a hand close to his jugular. His grip around her throat tightened, but she saw his eyes shoot to her hand, hovering so close to such a sensitive area.

"What are you doing?" he snapped, digging the wand further in.

If it was difficult to simply breathe, it was beyond difficult to talk around the stranglehold he had her in. "You didn't think it would be that simple, did you?" she panted, trying to shift or at least ease out of the restraint, but still keep her hand steady. "This is—a hollowed point, with enough golden venom from a dart frog—to kill five wizards." She pushed just a bit further, so he could feel the unreleased catch. "One prick—you'll be dead not long after me."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't move closer or tighten his grip. "Do you really take me for such a fool?"

"Do you really wish to risk calling my bluff?" she countered in a hiss, never daring to take her gaze off him.

Rabastan's eyes darted from the wand point at her neck, to her eyes, to her hand, then back. She could see the muscle of his jaw working, just the hint of uncertainty starting to creep into his expression. With an angered growl, he shoved her away and stepped clear of the pendant.

"Just let that be a lesson to you," she breathed, watching him with a hard glare even as she surreptitiously grappled at the wall for support, "I am never off my guard."

The look on his face was mutinous as he slowly backed away from her, mindful of the hand clutching the necklace. "More effort than it'd have been worth," he sneered, turning on his heel and out the door. She could hear the heavy pounding of his boots on the stairs and the crack of his Apparition.

After a moment, she sank down to the floor, allowing the uneven breaths she'd been suppressing to expel in full force. She gripped the replaced pendant til she could feel it cutting her palms and rubbed at the spot over her furiously pounding heart with her other hand. Her eye caught the engagement ring that sparkled even in this dim light, feeling quite sure one of them should have made the move anyway.

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