vicious [d.m]

seven: dawn & vengeance

"Dress code is black."

Ayla's words echo in Khione's head as she frowns down at the piece of parchment on the desk in front of her, her quill pausing. She's been working on this for a little over three hours — and she thinks she's finally got it right.

The dress she's designed is a tentative sketch — long and sleek, a high slit down the side, strapless, woven from a fabric that she can picture flowing like night. It's simple because she doesn't want to draw too much attention to herself tonight but she'd always loved dressing up with her mother as a child — and when Ayla had told her about the Feast after the initiation of the Duellum this morning, she hadn't been able to resist the nagging thought of designing her dress herself.

She's required to attend as Ayla had put it. All Death Eaters within the manor are. It's supposed to be a celebration for those who committed to the Duellum this morning, willingly giving their lives to try and secure the throne as theirs. Khione doubts any of them really have a chance — not against Malfoy anyway.

Teeth clenched, she shakes the thought of him out of her head. When she'd realised he'd been the one to support her as she'd stumbled from the throneroom, she'd nearly hurled with the shame.

Khione gets to her feet, clutching the parchment in her hand and pads over to the wardrobe. She looks down at her sketch and then closes her eyes, imagining the fabric ebbing and flowing like night, speckled with the tiniest, almost-invisible silver stars. The neckline, heart-shaped, the waist cinched. Long and strapless, hugging her hips with that slit up to her upper thigh.

Her hand closes around the knob of the wardrobe as she envisions it, drawing it up to the front of her mind. It only takes a moment — and then the knob twists under her hand as the wardrobe creaks open on its own accord.

And there, hanging right in front of her, is her dress, so perfect her breath catches. The wardrobe even seems to take initiative, providing a pair of tall black stilettos as well, sitting on the shelf below the dress.

Khione blinks — and then smiles.

———

"Hello, Faust."

Khione finishes clipping on her earrings, smoothing her pin-straight hair down in the mirror.

"How'd you know it was me?" It's almost a grumble as he comes into view behind her, his reflection in the mirror. He's dressed in a plain black suit, hugging the entire bulk of him, his hair cleanly shaven and buzzed close to his head.

"You're still limping," she replies, eyes flicking to his in the mirror. "From the duel."

"It's barely noticeable," he counters, arms folded across his chest.

"I notice." She looks at herself one last time in the mirror then turns to face him. "Have you come to escort me?"

"Unfortunately." His eyes move over her, briefly. "Where'd that come from?"

"The wardrobe. Where else?" She pushes past him, back into the bedroom. "Let's go."

He doesn't respond but watches as she grabs her wand and slides it into the sheath wrapped around her thigh. "It's a Feast. You don't need your wand."

"So why do you have yours on you?" She nods at the faint outline of it, hidden in the inside of his jacket pocket, barely discernible.

He looks down, as if taken by surprise — and when he looks up to find her expectant gaze still on him, she thinks she sees a flicker of a smile on his face. "Get moving."

She obeys, twisting on her heel as she strides out of her bedroom, Faust a step behind. "Does Malfoy know I don't need to be escorted everywhere?"

"You're too much trouble already. I don't think he trusts you in the slightest."