You can vote for Great Aunt Muriel in the Best Canon Characterization category, and for Wings of Glass as the Best Adventure Story, in the Golden Goblin Awards. ♥

Chapter 13:
Perfect Nothing


Until the end of me
I swear
You'll be the death of me
I dare
You to cross the line again
Because deep down inside there's something that waits to be

The thinning line between
You and my sanity
Is quickly fading
Takes just a breeze to cause a storm
The thinning line between
You and my sanity
Is quickly fading
Takes just a breeze to cause a storm
Takes just a breath to cause a scream
It takes me to cause a tragedy

Until the end of me
I swear
You'll be the death of me
I dare
I dare you to cross the line again
Because deep down inside
There's something that waits to be
Cross the line again
Because deep down inside
There's something that begs to be


“My lady.”

Ginny looked up and, as the man who had addressed her swept into a bow she was certainly only women like the [oh-so-noble and oh-so-] Great Aunt Muriel deserved, realized that she had company. She realized, too, that he thought she was of high bearing, and this made her twitch on the inside, in a jerky, unhappy sort of way.

Because the thought, in turn, reminded her of the mistake that she had committed earlier this night, and caused her to feel worse than before. Muriel was going to have her head on a silver platter, for this. In fact, she wasn't going to. Muriel was going to have her head on a plastic platter, because she would not want to waste a precious metal, on her.

She forced herself not to think of what might lay in store for her, the moment she returned to Muriel's house - Muriel's, not hers - and looked up at the man. “Lord -?” she asked, before realizing that she had committed yet another mistake, and holding out a white hand that, for all of its smallness, could cause a cheek to sting when it slapped, as Percy - who, long ago, had once told her girls could not play Quidditch - would know.

He kissed it, with feeling she did not even notice, and said, “Lord Rostov. Surely, you know my name?”

Lord Rostov! Ginny’s eyes widened. Fortune-wise, she knew that man’s name ranked high, and he was perhaps the third-richest man the world of magic had known in its long-winded, well-recorded history. It felt bizarre to be here, in the company of a person who had, until now, only been a distant, uncared-for name. She felt like she had stepped out of a burrow, and into the sun, into a land that she found so above and different from her station, that it seemed like an extension of Mary Sue-ism. Only now, there was no one perfect character - there were bunches, like big, purple grapes.

... and, of course, the knowledge that such a man - the Gary Stu kind not because he did not have his faults, but because he was, she was certain, a component of a lifestyle that she could not imagine, or ever fit in [that she didn't want to fit in, because it was simply not her. She was Quidditch and fire and ripped jeans, not dresses and chocolate and manners] - could notice her, not only flattered but also stunned her.

Perhaps, she thought, I stand out because I stand alone.

"Of course," she said, slightly inclining her head. "I have heard it, before."

“There is no need for that,” he said, waving off her little 'bow' with a wave of his hand, but his eyes lingered on her, and she was certain beyond any shadow of doubt that he had noticed that she bowed, not low like was the custom, but only half an inch of her head. Ginny wondered, then, what would happen if he took offense at this; and realized, rather suddenly, that she did not care. Realized, suddenly, that she did not want to even try to be anyone else, for the sake of a dress or a ball.

“I am afraid to say I do not recognize you, Madame." His voice was cool, in a a way that was controlled, but could easily have been controlling too. "You are a debuntate? Or, at least, not a regular?”

“Neither,” she said, with a shrug of a pair of - in his thoughts, not my words - very white shoulders. In the moonlight, he thought she looked exquisite, her complete lack of proper etiquette new, but her complete lack of even trying to adopt proper etiquette even more so. Ginny, for her part, was oblivious to his thought process, but she would have raised an eyebrow in disbelief, had someone told her he found her lack of 'knowledge' vulnerable. Charming. “I come in place of my Great-Aunt, the Lady Muriel.”

Perhaps she should have left out the 'Great Aunt,' Ginny decided half a millisecond after she had spoken. She was sure Aunt Muriel believed she was a twenty-six year old, with high cheekbones and full lips, and the ability to smite any man with her gorgeous looks, and noble charms.

“I see,” Lord Rostov replied. His replies were brief, in a way that made one twitchy, made one want him to lengthen them. He was not very old – younger, certainly, than Lord Gopal. He was probably, Ginny guessed, in his early thirties, certainly a looker, a handsome man who seemed to be very aware of both his looks and position. “Lady Muriel has been absent from several events, this year, and I hoped to catch up with her, but it is good to see you too, Miss –“

“Weasley,” she supplied helpfully.

“Weasley,” he said, as if getting a feel of the name. “You do not have the Weasley red hair.” It was not a question, but a statement.

“Not at all," Ginny laughed. "It's what you call flame-coloured, isn't it?" She laughed again, a free, tinkling, silvery laugh, and then she stopped abruptly, remembering that 'free' conversation with a gentleman was not appreciated, if it was your first conversation with him – or so, Aunt Muriel had told her. In fact, with the many restrictions Aunt Muriel was willing to impose on her, Ginny wondered how she was supposed to find herself a suitor. Not that she wanted to, of course. The last thing on Ginny Weasley’s mind were men, because men bored her. They were, she had decided at one point, all alike. Driven by and towards charms, and not personality.

Lord Rostov, sharper than she knew, did not fail to notice the hesitation, momentary though it was. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said, though the praise was cold, indifferent in a way that made Ginny look up at him so suddenly, it surprised even herself. It felt irritating to know that someone could praise her, and do it in a way that seemed to imply that he did not care, or did not have time. It made her want him to say the statement again, and with feeling. “I do not see a reason for you to cut it short.”

“Etiquette,” she replied, rather dryly, because the reminder of etiquette – Aunt Muriel made the word seem like some, horrible, hideous, three-headed monster, or perhaps the equivalent of having to listen to Percy sing in the shower – did not, could possibly not, please her. “The rich and the famous, as Lady Muriel puts it, would rather prefer dry silence than what you call beautiful laughter.”

She said that last statement on purpose, as if to drive in the fact that he had called her laughter beautiful.

“You are disused to our customs.” Once again, it was not a question but a statement, and his confidence, his certainty that he would be right, and his indifference to the fact that he might be wrong - not that he would consider such a possibility - made Ginny want to grab him by the collar, and shake him hard. “But that does not matter, Miss Weasley. You have nothing to pretend, as long as you are in my company. I appreciate the natural way of life – I would not wish you to put on forced face, or make forced conversation.”

She hesitated, not certain if she wanted to believe him. “You're either different, or doing a wonderful job of pretence," she said, after a moment's pause. “But if you insist that we make no forced conversation, you may call me Ginny. Weasley is a wonderful surname, but it is a surname, and no one close to me uses it to address me.” Perhaps she speaking out of turn, but what Muriel didn't know, wouldn't hurt her.

“I understand,” he said, with that ease that comes with self-assurance, confidence in oneself. ”You may call me Alex.”

"That's quite a normal name compared to your title,” Ginny pointed out. Then she bit her tongue. Good gosh. She was allowing herself to be carried away. Coldly, even indifferently, he was steering her and, like a bird without a home, she was permitting him to, letting him pave the path from poise to errors. “That is not what I meant – your –”

"You meant exactly what you said," he cut across, with the perfect ease of a self-assured lord. He found her uncertainty, her lack of command of proper etiquette delicious, and her inexperience made him feel like he had the upper hand here, the kind that his wealth and position strengthened. He was used to a society where women bore themselves with such dignity, it became quite dry sometimes, if not often. But they were women who were experienced, who knew how to carry themselves, knew how not to make mistakes – her inexperience made her delightful.

“I suppose," she said, with a shrug. "Has anyone ever told you that what you call etiquette is a dead bore?"

“Someone has, now,” he said, with half a smile. It started Ginny, how splendid that half smile was; but what startled her worse was that she wanted to see it again, to know that she had the power to be the cause of it. He held out a hand and, surprised, she took it. He led her to the dance floor, where the orchestra had struck up music, a slow kind that rose in the air in little curls of rhyme, and where the night sky was like a black canopy, the stars like little diamond pins.

"It might be downright bore, Miss Weasley, but it will keep you alive," Lord Rostov said, and she realized her comment had lingered in his mind. His words had a cold touch to them, and Ginny noticed that he had not called her by her first name. She stepped away from him, and looked up at him out of wide, brown eyes in which he could see himself reflected, see the faint inquiry in his own eyes.

“I told you to call me Ginny,” she said quietly.

“I am sure you know it is not appropriate for a gentleman to come on first name terms with a lady, this quickly,” he said, pulling her to himself as the song burst out into a new note.

She wanted to shake him then, grab him by the collar and shake him, and make him admit that his etiquette was a dead bore, and that she did not deserve his iciness, and that he was a hypocrite, a downright hypocrite for what he had chosen to say, half a second ago. She wanted to shake him then, grab him by the collar and shake him, shake him because how dare he think that she was some common woman he could lead into a dance, when she had stepped away, and how dare he be indifferent, confident enough to believe that she would allow him to steer her into a step, without her express, sought-out permission.

"Do not try to fit in here, Miss Weasley." His voice was cold, in a way that said he did not care whether she did try or not, and that there was a good chance that she would fail, even if she did. "What you are suits you wonderfully, Miss Weasley."

She looked up at him, out of wide, brown eyes, and realized that she did not, could not, want to respond. He returned the look with a calculated indifference, even coldness, and when he spun her away from himself, she let him. He half smirked, but she made no reaction, none because it was hard to think, when his arms were so strong, so strong in a way that was completely masculine, and when he smelled so good, like rich cologne and expensive cloth. The song came to a close with a whimper of a note, and she stepped back at once.

“Thank you for the dance," she said coldly, chin held high.

“The pleasure was solely mine,” he replied in a voice that was pointed, meaningfully cold, even mocking. “I do not believe you enjoyed it as much as I did, Miss Weasley.” When she opened her mouth, he held a hand for silence. "Spare yourself the need to invent an excuse, or claim that you did, Miss Weasley. That would be useless."

"You, Lord Rostov -" Her words were cold, every letter as bitter as she wanted it to be. "Need to realize that you are a -"

"Good evening, Miss Weasley."

He bowed to her, a bow that could barely be called one, and swept off in a billow of dark robes. Ginny stared after him, her wide brown eyes like shattered glass, her pink dress cascading to her feet in little crunches of silken foam, and her heart all jitters and smoke, like a town that had not expected, never even thought of, the earthquake that had turned it upside-down, and burnt it down.

She had been flattered when he had come up to her, but paid him little attention. He had been a gentleman, a rich gentleman, one she would converse, make little take with -- but one she would forget, the moment she stepped out of this place, and back into her carriage. Someone who would become an unimportant half-memory, someone who was a nobody, for her. But when he walked off, his shoulders were straight, his chin held high as was its wont, his voice more than cold - icy - indifferent -- and Ginny realized, as she stood there, that he was not like other men, that she did not understand him, that she hated the fact that he did not care.

That he was not a nobody, for her.


*

[] References:

+ "United by perfect nothing -" E. E. Cummings, No one and a star stand.

+ "Until the End of Me -" - Broken Iris, lyrics of the song Broken Inside, from the debut album The Eyes of Tomorrow.