[OPEN] Dark eyed and dastardly, a dangerous pair

Caleb Flint was in need of a reason to waste away the ever turning hands of time, and the adjustment and readjustment of his cuff links seemed as good an excuse as any. He stood in the doorway, shoulder providing relief as it sagged against the frame, fingers moving in a fumbling fashion, having grown tired of the routine. He didn’t his head, just raised an eyebrow and peeked upward, chin still drawn towards his chest. He couldn’t have planned a better image. He was striking.

Camila was the complete antithesis to him. She was wearing yoga pants and a baggy Harvard sweatshirt, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, reading glasses perched carefully on her nose. Her bare feet stretched across the hardwood, her toes wiggling as they tapped the floor, a hum in her throat, her lips moving slowly as she read, deep brown eyes darting across the screen of her laptop. Her fingers paused, resting over the keyboard like a pianist waiting for musical inspiration to grip her. Her lips had frozen, slightly parted, and she turned her head, eyebrow rising in thought, searching for the word that would round out the sentence she was working with.

His picturesque stance looked planned and perfect. But Camila was an unplanned masterpiece, and she didn’t even seem to notice or care.

“Cam, we are expected somewhere.”

“Dubious,” she murmured.

He lifted his head. “Dubious. No, Mum owled, again, mind-“

She shook her head, tapping out the seven letters, and he realized his folly without any need for her to explain further. He sighed again, this time heavily and with eyes trained on her. She turned slowly, a dimple next to the corner of her mouth and raised eyebrows betraying her irritation for smug amusement. A second later and she turned her entire chair to face her brother, her head tilt growing dangerously imbalanced as she folded her hands into her lap, looking just a shade to sassy to truly be a teacher, though her tone was just so. “Yes?” she said, blinking.

He straightened up, shoulders relaxing as he did so. “Oh, come- Cami, we’re going to be late.”

She flicked her eyes skyward and turned back to her laptop. “It takes all of a second to apparate.”

He shifted with a sigh, again playing with the cuff links. “I hate apparating. I’d rather take a car.”

“Not very wizardly of you,” she said faintly, distracted but still willing to echo the sentiments of their parents.

He smirked, a snort of a laugh bubbling from his lips. “You’re one to talk. You know, no one in the Ministry checks email.”

“I’ll have an intern copy it.”

There was no winning. It was something he knew, something he was well acquainted with, but still just as frustrating now as it had ever been. His eyes glossed over the clock and she tapped a final key with a decisive flick of her index finger. She certainly looked pleased as she stood up, taking in the accomplishment. She turned to look at Caleb who looked expectant for an explanation. She let out a breath. “I need to get ready.”

His mouth tipped open in exaggerated shock as she turned on her heel and strode into her bedroom. He could hear the rustle of clothes and the dropping of her sweater, so he flopped himself into the cushy loveseat and rubbed his temples. Merlin, he hated apparating.

“We could have called a car if you weren’t so responsible and committed to your job!”

“I feel like I shouldn’t have to apologize for that!”

He lolled his head, reaching out to finger the edges of a vase, the flowers about a day away from wilting something badly. Who had gotten her flowers?

“What were you working on?”

She exited the bedroom, somehow already changed into a dress and looking near ready to go. She reached up to pull the tie out of her hair as she curved her path and headed for the restroom, presumably to finish her hair and makeup. “New legislation. Makes trade easier between magical communities through a relaxation of certain taxes. Could do wonders for the economy.” She poked her head out, mascara wand held like a conductor’s baton, glasses shed. “Not that you care.” She finally offered him a genuine smile and a crinkled nose, before disappearing.

“Excuse you, I care a bunch about the economy!” Caleb called back.

“A bunch, huh? Shuffling money between this company and that company, oh you’re a regular whiz kid.”

“I have my ideas.”

She hummed, probably too busy applying her classic dark shade of lipstick to say something snarky. Caleb stood and adjusted the vase’s placement on the table. “Sure. Get this. Great idea. A piece of legislation of my own.” He wandered toward the hallway, hands trailing over the walls, glancing at the hanging portraits. Everything about the house was so… correct. How was she always so right about everything? “When someone dies and all their assets and property begin to be dispersed, distribution is based first on blood. So a pureblood man marries a halfblood woman, dies. Property and assets first go through his pureblood siblings.”

He reached the door. Camila was staring at herself in the mirror, but didn’t seem to see herself. She noticed movement and her eyes darted his way. She immediately leaned forward and tapped a layer of gloss across her lips. “And what does that have to do with the economy?”

“Keeps money with the magic. Pretty soon, muggles are going to have all our money.”

“And this will stop that?”

Caleb noted the edge in her voice. He shifted his weight. “It’ll help,” he said, as though baiting her.

She flicked her eyes upward and passed over her eyelashes one last time. “Doesn’t seem to be that… direct. Or maybe too direct. Needs some refinement.”

Caleb cleared his throat. “Are you okay, Cam?”

She popped the lid on her mascara wand and dropped it into drawer, sliding it closed. She turned and looked at her brother, allowing a warm smile. She looked a picture, but that effortless glow was gone. “Yeah. Just dreading mum as usual.”

He smirked and they turned to head for the door.

Dinner was over and they were finally shedding their auras of chilled perfection that their parents insisted they wear on every family gathering. Satan’s was a bit too obvious for Camila, her words not his, so they found themselves slipping into a magical nightclub in the heart of magical London, a real high end place where the bouncers could eject you for the smallest digressions against dress code. Caleb checked his suit jacket and he watched as Camila reached up to unhook her pearls. In a twist of her hand, the expensive string had disappeared, banished somewhere infinitely more safe.

The pushed through the throng of people, the path to their favorite perch instinctual from their many nights of deciding they had been too good for too long. They slipped upstairs, following a metal spiral staircase and then turned out at the second landing, handing through a sliding glass door.

The balcony had music as well, but it was not nearly as devastating to the ears as it was inside. Here, people pulled out cigars and cigarettes, ordered from a small bar off to the side, and gripped at the elbows and collars of new acquaintances as they tried to draw strangers in to a sense of intimacy for the night.

Caleb glanced over at his sister who was smiling patiently at a man probably in his early thirties who was smoking a cigarette and looking her way. Caleb lifted an eyebrow. “First round’s on me,” he said, and made his way to the bar. There he ordered Camila her gin martini and some cognac for himself, feeling the eyes of the women who had gathered there for their third and fourth lemon drop shots. He turned his back on the bar to see Camila had joined the debonair gentleman and was now smoking one of his cigarettes, looking completely at ease. He flicked his eyes skyward and grabbed one of the women roaming with shots, asking her to deliver the martini to his sister.

He turned and rapped his knuckles on the bar. “A round of shots, all around,” he called, a smile playing on his lips. The women all gasped and ooh-ed with appreciation.

Yes, this more than made up for dinner.

Tucked away in the half-shadows of the night, there was a barstool onto a which a silky figure had slid an hour or so before. Her rogued lips parted, revealing perfect white tonsils. Her tongue, pink, slick, and pointed, slipped past them and over its surface poured her sultry voice, a slight whine clinging to it as she beckoned the bartender forward, her lashes fluttering as her request for a drink lifted into the air.

The light that spilled out through the windows from the inside illuminated her pale, pointed features. She lowered her eyes, banishing his from viewing the silvery-grey orbs that were so complemented by the fabric of her dress that clung to every unctuous curve. He felt his throat grow dry and his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Her eyes lifted again and a smile tickled at the side of her mouth, drawing it upwards.

It was a miracle his poor heart didn’t stop as he looked at her, drinking in every inch, absorbing the image and committing her to salacious memory. Her eyes were quick as they snapped to his, shining with something that made his stomach turn with guilt, as though she could read the thoughts that were flashing through his mind.

“Now,” she all but purred, spooking him out of his stupor. He pulled his jaw shut with a click and he nodded, turning, hands fumbling as his mind attempted to recall the recipe and, indeed, what precisely she had ordered.

When he turned back, hand quivering around a martini glass, she had two sickles loose in her fingers. He set it down on a napkin and chanced meeting her gaze. With a start, he realised who he was stood before – nigh bowing before, he conceded, glancing around himself as he righted his body. They had shared a house while in school together and this … this was not the girl he recalled. So far removed was she that he could have been forgiven for thinking her a stranger … but she wasn’t. And she was no longer a girl, either. Merlin, she was a woman.

Silver rippled over every sweet, creamy curve. From every pore, confidence seemed to seep like a rushing river that could not be dammed. The name ‘Malfoy’ finally fit like a glove, it seemed. As he breathed her in again, his eyes sweeping across the length of her neck, following the glinting chain that disappeared into the swell of her breasts and beneath the material of her dress, taking in the way it all clung perfectly … he whispered his thanks, assured her no money would be needed, and took his leave, muttering to his colleague that he was taking his break early. Merlin. Where did she keep her wand?

She let the sting of the vodka tickle over her tongue and her lips twisted into a satisfied smirk as she sat back a little, conceding that though he said far too much with his eyes, that man did indeed make a good drink. He was as suited to his profession as she was to hers, although one would never know that evening, with the scent of potions far removed from her skin and hair, both of which smelt of something un-articulable but decidedly, sumptuously pleasurable. It was a smell that, as the wind ran slowly over her, drew a second glance. Her attention was not so lavishly given away … ah-ha, I’ve spoken too soon.

Her head did turn, resolutely and all of a sudden – with the appearance of two people she naturally recognised. The Flints. A silky smile replaced the smirk, although it was a barely-there transition of facial expression. She slipped off of the stool, relinquishing her perch for more interesting entertainment, and drew near just as Master Flint announced that he was going to be spending some of his father’s hard-earned money on shots for them all.

Conveniently, she’d neglected to bring her drink along – though she’d not forgotten her charm.

“I trust you’ll offer me something a little better than one shot, Caleb.”

Silky.

Teasing.

Expectant.

Malfoy.

---

(OOC: Sorry, I couldn't resist )

These evenings, though designed to break the boredom of two twins with an uncanny ability to grow entirely bored with all the things and people at their disposal, typically followed a rhythm. Camila, who felt restrained to polite and proper communication in her daily interactions, could not help but immediately plunge into nefarious conversation, always challenging herself to see how quickly a secret could be spilt that her brother could find useful for his own entertainment. The record had been three seconds, but both conceded that it hardly counted, as the man seemed to be dying to say it and was sloppily drunk. The rules solidified after that, with no need to state them aloud. But this man, with maybe one drink in him, eyes attempting to peel back Camila, imagining twisting her around his finger – oh, yes, he fit the bill.

Caleb bet she would call him over in ten minutes, bright-eyed and flushed, exclaiming that he must just hear what Todd (Todd, right) had been telling her about, something to do with illegal wolfsbane flooding the streets, and wasn’t that just so interesting to Caleb, a healer, of course, who often dealt with just that sort of thing? And Todd, or whatever his name was, emboldened by her glow and attention, would continue to spin his tale, and Caleb would file away the information he needed, and would suddenly say something to Todd, something that indicated that there must be something more to his claims… and then Todd would become nervous, flustered, would want to excuse himself. But Camila was pressing her fingertips on his wrist and tilting her head, urging him to stay, and Caleb was narrowing his eyes, and now Camila was asking questions that had too complicated of an answer, and suddenly Todd was gone.

It was a fun game, but one that even he tired of sometimes. It almost felt like work, the game had become too easy. He welcomed the nights where the man became physical, he welcomed the times that someone with too much money and too little sense decided to buy out the club and he and his sister found ways to make them regret the decision. But inevitably, there were nights that went almost too according to plan, with playthings that fell right into their hands and had no creativity in escaping. Camila and Caleb would return to the bar to drink and drink, never past the point where their wits left them, and hope that something attractive passed one of their eyes as a better distraction for the night.

It was why the sudden appearance of Isadora Malfoy- Isadora Malfoy-Nott, he reminded himself, was so deliciously welcome that he could not keep the smile that touched on his lips, though it unfurled instinctively into his natural smirk. He turned, placing his elbow on the counter and dropping his chin lazily into his hand, his head tilting as his boyish face gazed up at her with full admiration, giving her exactly what she deserved, and exactly what she demanded. “I’ll buy you the bar, the whole damn bar, if it fits your fancy.”

With faux delight, Isadora Malfoy-Nott’s eyes lit up like a Muggle Christmas tree. Her smirk doubled and she smoothed across the gap between them, her hands pressing against the bar as she reached Caleb’s side. She inclined her head towards his, her lips parting in that way that mouths are known to do in women who carry great secrets. Her voice lifted between them, the purr of a tease alighting across her her words.

“Well aren’t you a generous one?”

Her hand fell to his trailing arm and her eyes snapped to his, sparkling with intrigue. It was the look of a woman who was trying to work out who had control of the net and whether the one caught in it was going willingly to slaughter. These were the sort of power games that they were brought up on, that Isadora could never eloquently mirror. Enough years had passed, however. She’d observed many a woman playing the game. It was her time to emulate those who had gone before her, and rewrite the rulebook.

So who was in charge in this moment, really? The wavering, amber glow that lit the balcony in a soft glow could not illuminate the batter sufficiently. Neither party were truly doing battle. There was no business to be done. There was no need to assault each other and score points. No, absurdly, this was merely a flirtation with company, as much as it was a flirtation in itself. Here she was, with a sparkler on her finger worth galleons most would not see in their dizziest of daydreams, soliciting the company of a wealthy, unattached gallant.

Oh, if only Rita Skeeter was still around.

Leaning her head in further, so her breath could ghost across his ear, Isadora could not help but smile into her words as she lifted her gaze, observing the onlookers absently out of her periphery.

“Why don’t you surprise me? Let’s start slow – with a drink of your choosing. I’d hate you to bankrupt the Flints on account of little old me.”

See, this is where Caleb struggled. Certainly, he enjoyed someone who could play along, but there was always this fear, this nagging suspicion, that being agreed with and being matched would soon lead him right down the path he was trying to avoid in the first place.

These suspicions, however, remained beneath the surface, where they belonged, and he reminded himself to be patient and to try to let himself be surprised. After all, there was a very intriguing mix to Isadora. The ironic glee, the lack of distance, the brewing danger between them, the rumble in her throaty voice and of course, the one factor that made Caleb all the more interested in what was happening, the pièce de résistance... the diamond glittering on her finger. There was something here he dearly wanted to uncover, and it would take patience if he wanted to make it fun.

He smiled through her praise, allowing for the smallest bite of his lip as he squinted at her, eyebrows flicking up like he was getting close to the last few numbers of a combination. He straightened up a bit, letting his hand fall so he could straighten his head and look at her more fully.

But before he could make any decision on the matter, she was leaned forward, and the hairs on the back of his neck lifted as her breath glided across them. He angled his head, maintaining the space (or lack thereof) and catching her eye. Without breaking it, he reached across the bar and rapped a knuckle on the wood. "Two."

The bartender went about preparing a matching set of one of Caleb's favorites and he straightened up slowly, bringing himself up to full height as he kept his eyes on Isadora. "So. What is little old me doing in the big, bad city?"

There was a choice that the witch faced: did she tell the truth or did she play the game. The truth was, natural, far more dismal and disappointing than the game. The truth had been that, shut up in Hogsmeade, she was beginning to go stir crazy. She had no true friends. Her childhood yearning for a best friend, someone she could lean on and pour her secrets into, burned on into adulthood. She didn’t feel that her husband was the correct person to pour her heart out too, either. There was only so much time one could spend staring into a mirror, wondering after all the things that should have been said but weren’t. In truth, she was lonely. That was the cold, hard reality. No amount of success in her field, nor the security her marriage brought could compensate. She had left the peace of the village for the city that night because she couldn’t bear to lay in bed awake for another night wondering what the world was like for those who could form meaningful connections with other people. So she’d left. Mainly to people watch. She’d not expect to talk.

“I had a dress that needed showing out,” she told him smoothly, her lashes fluttering as her smirk returned and her heart lifted a little. She cast her eyes down, inviting him to let his own wander over it. It was the sort of garment that was worn not to flatter the woman but the woman had to flatter it. There was no other way about it. Isadora was not meant to look good in the dress. She had to make the dress look good. It was a requirement. She was blessed with her mother’s fine features and the ethereal spirit of her grandmother. She knew this. She could wear the dress. Any concerns had been allayed by the bartender. She picked up her glass and brought it to her lips, letting the alcohol drift over her tongue and wander down her throat, picking its burning path.

“And you?” She queried, setting it down again with a soft clink.

Caleb liked words, but not for the usual reasons. He didn't like their versatility, their double meanings, the points where they came back and recurred, layering their importance and complicating their journeys. Sure, all of that was grand and interesting, but Caleb liked to know what words never tumbled out of someone's mouth. To know what words that never crossed the threshold of their lips, that never materialized in the air. It wasn't how far someone was willing to go that interested Caleb. It was what they couldn't bring themselves to do.

If her reason truly was just to try the fabric in the open air, well... he had not quite decided whether or not that was something to admire. On one hand, it was such a nonreason that it almost didn't matter. On the other hand, not having a reason was just as good a reason as any. If the world truly ran in chaos, just doing something was the only way to stay ahead of the curve.

But she was a pureblooded woman, with a husband and expectations to boot. Every moment was planned. And judging by the way she moved and spoke, this was a woman who knew how to carefully orchestrate a moment. This was not random. Not born out of a waiting dress. No, something was stirring in her head. And she had not voiced the reason.

He smiled. "My sister and I have a routine," he said. "It's one we may have to abandon or embellish, but it's worked so far. Every time we have to visit home and play the part, you know what I'm talking about-" said so casually, yet with the very intention of reminding her of the part of dutiful wife she currently was not maintaining- "we reward ourselves afterwards. Release all of the tensions and polite conversations with some drinks and irresponsibly spent money, some dangerous conversation." He grinned. "We haven't yet gotten in the trouble we probably deserve."

Home. Isadora’s long fingers curled around the glass and she brought the drink to her lips, letting the alcohol pass over her tongue and tickle down her throat. Home. She closed her eyes briefly, bringing to the surface of the consciousness the place she called home. It wasn’t the cottage in Hogsmeade she shared with her husband. Nor was it her ancestral home. The eponymous manor house they called home. She grasped after something, anything that could fill that little void but she couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t a structure in her world that loomed high in her thoughts like that. Nowhere, except perhaps Hogwarts. But then, that was a cliché that wasn’t even worth mentioning, was it? So there was nothing. No home. She envied Caleb. She envied the straight-forward path his life was going to stride down. She supposed hers was a straight line … the only problem was that she wasn’t necessarily following it, was she? She was just … going that way because there was no other way to go.

But then, what was tonight? It was hardly following the right path, was it? She wasn’t quite sure what she was intending on finding at the end of the dress and at the bottom of a martini glass. It wasn’t what she was looking for, at least. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was looking for, mind you. Merlin knew, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t the part she was charged with playing, either. There was a part of her that wanted to squirrel away her jewels, pack away a few clothes, sling a backpack over her shoulder and just walk out into the night, the disgrace of the pureblood wizarding quarter. Her heart hummed at the thought and she took another sip of the drink, wondering if she’d had enough Dutch courage to do it. But where would she go? Would she just live out under the stars, in the Forest of Dean or somewhere like that? Merlin … she couldn’t think of anything better. She could cope without the bugs and all of the rest of it but she’d be free.

She emerged from the daydream of escape and set down the glass, her eyes falling over Caleb. She drummed her fingers idly on the bar and looked at him carefully, wondering when the rigours of their world would tug on his tie and demand him to fall into line with the rest of them. She couldn’t work out quite where he fit in, or with whom. She couldn’t imagine Caleb forced into their world. She imagined that there would always be something loose about the cannon he manned – something just a little bit uncontrollable. She admired it, in an odd, sad sort of way, suspecting that one day someone would tighten the tether and the trouble that he and his sister were long overdue would finally come.

“If you didn’t have to play the part,” she spoke softly, running her finger around the rim of the glass. “What would you do? Who would you be?”

And there was the shift. This was what he lived for. This is what made him even bother.

Behind every flirt and glance, every carefully placed hand and every sumptuous enunciation, every wave of conjured confidence and lilt of practiced smirk, he knew there was a very different story. This wasn't true of Isadora alone. He knew most people had this tendency, but it was in holy grounds such as an upscale club that these delusions could crash down. Every single person walked through those doors with their constructed image, desperately hoping someone would give them a reason to strip themselves of it and step out, in true form, unforgiving and brave.

It rarely happened in full form. It took a dedication and a bravery that was not common among those who needed a drink to take of their true form... and then it took a lot of drink to get them the rest of the way. He had not known how much Isadora had drank that evening, but had he been asked he probably would have cheekily answered enough. Because the shift had happened. Sparkling eyes and smirk settled onto her lips, the consciousness of her effect... it all slipped away under the strength of honesty.

What part would he play? He would have insisted she tell him her own answer first, but wasn't it obvious? Why else was she here, in a dress that demanded attention, in a place that guaranteed that attention didn't come from her husband? She wanted freedom, and she wanted someone else to give it to her, because she had convinced herself she couldn't achieve it on her own. but he could tell her with almost complete honesty, without even compromising the game. Of course-

He might disappoint her.

"I'm doing it," he said, with a knowing smile, certain she was hoping to find out he had always secretly wished to be a painter or a fisherman, something unfulfilled. But just because he was doing exactly what he always wanted to, didn't negate the sincerity of his desire. "Yeah, I know it comes with a bit of playacting. And I'd be the first to tell you exactly what annoying contingencies come from our position. But when you're an Auror, you bear witness to some scummy, tasteless lives. Lives that will pass bearing no fruit or legacy, no joy or profit. And for all the privilege we get in this life, being born superior in blood, wealth, (and I'll even tack on good looks for the two of us), I can deal with all the drawbacks. I can deal with exclusive problems if it comes with exclusive pressure."

Whether this reminded her to be thankful for her husband, or it aggravated him, he didn't mind. He had finally found a game in which he couldn't predict the next three rounds. He really was doing exactly what he wanted to do.