Chapter 18:
Cold Ethane


The world was on fire and no one could save me but you.
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

No, I don't want to fall in love.
With you.

What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way.
What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.
What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way.
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you and -

No, I want to fall in love,
With you.


It was seven in the evening, when Ginny peeked into the mirror in her room. Outside, the sky was a clear blue, but even as she looked at herself, it deepened, and eve gave way to the onset of night, the arms of dark laden with points of light that were little stars.

“You look presentable,” a voice behind her said, and Ginny did not have to turn around to know it belonged to Aunt Muriel. The old lady marched in, not bothering to so much as knock and, if Ginny had not known her better, she might have thought Muriel looked satisfied. “Green is quite the colour for you, young lady. Of course, the hair can’t be helped,” she added, a frown creasing the tips of her mouth. “Looking at it from all directions isn't going to make it look less tomato-like or more seductive. Might I mention a dye?”

"You've mentioned it before," Ginny said under her breath, but she drew herself up and said, "Nothing, Aunt Muriel," when Muriel gave her the Dare Your Contradict Me, You Monkey look and asked, what had she said?

Five minutes later, the curtains had swung down to shut the rest of the universe outside, and the horses had sett off. Ginny remembered the last time – less than twenty-four hours ago – that she had occupied the same carriage, and her insides twisted uncomfortable at the memory of the gift she had failed to deliver. Aunt Muriel had been "kind" enough to let it go after seven-and-a-half lectures, but Ginny knew that the sole reason that had happened, had been the Muriel [the Muriel] being too keen upon hearing the story of Lord Rostov’s "attentions" – which story Ginny had significantly altered, until Muriel had left, disappointed.

It was Ginny's turn to be disappointed, now that the letter had showed up to end Muriel's disappointment.

The letter. She had hoped she might get to at least look at it - perhaps its manner could give her a clue, tell her what to expect tonight - but there had never been a chance. Her heart beat just a little louder than usual, as the carriage drew close to his house. It wasn't a case of love at first sight, and Ginny wasn't foolish enough to think it might be. Could she call it a case of wanting the un-have-able? She'd hate to, and yet she couldn't not admit that something in him attracted her.

In less than half an hour, on a night that had seen her visit a ball by chance, he had swept her off her feet in the coldest manner ever employed.

He greeted her at the door, and Ginny was suddenly aware that she must look good [and aware that that knowledge had been the downfall of better woman than her], the pale green robes clinging to her and bringing out the flame-red of her hair. She was also aware that he looked good himself, eyes steel-blue in the night, and it occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, she had been away from this kind of thing so long, the first man to come along had left her speechless [and that was saying something, given that Muriel went around calling her a monkey and a chatterbox and fire-mouth]. She had, after all, heard of things like this happening before.

He kissed her hand and Ginny, all too acutely aware of her own feelings, found herself sounding stiffer than she had intended to. "Thank you for the invitation." And then, for the mere pleasure of shocking him and being able to feel like herself - herself and not some stupid little girl that might be falling in a love that didn't suit her - again, she tossed her head back and said, "Might I mention that I never read your letter? My aunt did, and decided a consent sounded like a good thing. Can you imagine?"

He smiled, a cold, mocking smile that made her feel like a rude little person, and want to kick him into next year. “Does that mean, Miss Weasley, that you would not be here, given your own choice? I can escort you back home, if you so please.”

“I didn't come here to be discourteous." She crossed her arms against her chest and, though Ginny did not realize it, that was the exact moment she decided she would not, not ever, give Lord Rostov the satisfaction of knowing he made her feel. Feel what, she still did not know. “If you will show me inside? It's cold out here - My Lord.”

That stung. Knowing how much manners, the little things that meant the different between proper and improper, mattered to these people, she had said it on purpose, and said it to sting. He must hate to be made to think that his coldness had caused him to lose his grasp on how to treat a guest. But Lord Rostov showed no emotion, as he offered her an arm.

“You need not use fancy gestures," Ginny said, looking the very picture of dignity. Maddeningly. Lord Rostov - certainly far more at ease than she had imagined he might be - took no offence. In fact, he thought she looked delicious, rebellious like no other lady he knew, and his gaze said that so openly, Ginny coloured and ended up taking his arm, after all.

If he smirked, she did not see it.

The size of these people's houses must be directly proportional to their egos, Ginny thought as she stepped into the dining hall, large enough to house half the Burrow, if not all of it. Gold things and glass tables and silver decorations - it had that casual aura of riches that [small consolation, Ginny thought] did not come across as garish or tasteless. Lord Rostov pulled up a chair for her and, frowning at the monotonous formality of it all, she strode to the other chair, his chair, pulled it up for herself and sat down. Then she looked up at him, and said ungraciously [acting ungracious had begun to give her a savage pleasure], "Thank you." Her eyes said the but, as you can see, there was no need that her tongue did not. "My Lord."

"For being told I need not be chivalrous?" Lord Rostov asked, his eyes alight. He seemed amused - amused - and Ginny resisted the urge to grab him by the neck of his robes and shake him senseless. How on earth did Muriel expect her to act like some prim and proper lady, if the men she had to meet all ended up being this composed, this handsome, and this detached? "Shouldn't you be more concerned about my opinion, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny tried to force herself not to ruin it all for Muriel, could not succeed, and asked, "Is there even a reason I should?"

He ignored her.

Ginny stared, quite stunned at this turn of events. She had expected a comeback, even to anger him, but the fact that he ignored her remark altogether, summoning instead his house-elf [she supposed. Because a house-elf chose that moment to appear] surprised her. The house-elf, not at all unsettled to see her there, bowed to her - Ginny's eyes narrowed at this - and then turned to the man seated opposite her. “Master summoned?” he asked, bowing even lower.

The steel-blue eyes flickered to her. "Perhaps you'd like something specific for dinner, Miss Weasley?"

Still seething at being ignored, and still not used to the multitude of feelings he caused her to experience [happiness and anger and surprise and everything else under the sun, one changing into the other so quickly, she could not even tell at times] Ginny folded her arms against her chest. "How does something that might not commit me to a painful death, sound?" she asked, her inner turmoil returning her boldness - a boldness that she decided, a moment later, she might have done better to have left behind. She did not need Muriel chasing her on a broomstick, holding some sort of cooking pan and shouting "You tomato!", as soon as she returned home.

Something in Rostov's gaze changed at her remark. "Charming," he said, but Ginny could tell that that, at least, had stung. It had been a serious accusation, and she doubted he had taken it lightly. It occurred to her, for one brief moment, that she might be making a powerful enemy here. Then she reminded herself that she had had Voldemort for a foe not too long ago, even if it felt like centuries, and everyone knew how that had ended.

The house-elf had left, and the bright lighting in the room died not long after, leaving the table bathed in a rose-yellow haze, a product of candle-light streaming out of large, tapering candle-stands. Plates and goblets seemed to spring up from nowhere, silver, glass, all gold-edged, and Ginny had to admit it looked beautiful, all of it, even if she couldn't see Rostov now, and that made her feel a tad more nervous than she might have admitted. Focus, she told herself. Focus on Voldemort and how Lord Rostov is as much of an idiot, in some things.

But she couldn't.

"You look beautiful, Miss Weasley," Rostov said, and Ginny looked up and frowned. There was something in his tones that she could not exactly place, something that made her ask herself if he had said that on purpose to see her reaction, just on purpose to see her reaction.

"I'm sure you've seen more beautiful women," she said, folding her arms.

"More well-mannered, yes; more beautiful, no," Rostov grinned. She glared at him, he laughed, and Ginny realized she had just given him a reaction. She did not respond, then, looking - she knew - like a sullen little child as she stared at the food and at the ceiling and at her hands, everywhere except him. In some corner of her mind, she compared the food here with the food cooked at home and found, to her surprise, that she enjoyed both equally - the food cooked at home, because it smelled of her mother and cream and cookies; the food here, because it smelled of...

Of lemon and him?

Muriel, O Aunt of Doom, this is all your fault.

It all came down to her announcing she had decided to leave, the moment the table had cleared itself. Rostov raised an eyebrow and, for a moment, he did not speak. Then he asked, as calmly as if asking her opinion on the day's weather, "You would rather leave?"

Rather? Rather than what? Ginny, on her feet, looked around, as if for an escape-route. "You invited me to dinner," she said and, as soon as she said that, she wished she had not. It sounded as if she had come here to eat, just the kind of uncouth thing Muriel would expect her to say, and the thought made her cheeks colour. For the first time, she found herself grateful for the lack of light.

“Miss Weasley." Simultaneously sounding that detached and that charming, Ginny thought, had to be an art. How could anyone? How could he? How did one sound as if he hoped she stayed, and did not care if she didn't? “I did invite you to dinner. I sought your company, because it pleases me.” He said it as if he did not expect her to refuse, and that made Ginny go stiff.

"You think you have some natural right to my company, don't you?" She asked, realizing that for the first time, and finding it aggravating. "You see a girl, you like her, and you expect she'll be tripping over her feet to please you. Is that it?" It maddened her beyond belief that he could even entertain an idea like that about her. That he could think all it took to impress someone might be might and riches. That he could take her feelings for granted. He did not respond, merely raised an eyebrow as if she had said something childish, almost as if saying, Go on, let's get this new tantrum over with, and Ginny's eyes narrowed. "This is unbelievable! How could you even think - how - give me one good reason not to leave -"

Their eyes met.

Ginny blushed, stopped rambling, and found herself hoping - hoping! - that he would give a reason, any reason, so that she could relent. Stay. Make him apologize, make him want her.

He didn't.

"You're right on one account, Miss Weasley." Lord Rostov inclined his head, and she thought she detected another flicker of amusement in his eyes. He's playing. I'm just a toy, and he's getting exactly the reactions he desires from me. He spoke then and his voice, she realized, held no amusement after all. It came across as detached, indifferent, cold all over again. “You should only give your company to those, that you desire to give it to. Let me escort you to the door.”

Ginny stared at him in disbelief, he met the stare coolly and indifferently, and then she decided she had had enough of him. "No, thank you," she snapped, looking as rebellious as she felt, and she stormed off. He let her, almost as if he knew this could infuriate her even more than before, and climbing back into the carriage, Ginny felt more miserable than satisfied.


*

[] References:

+ Ethane? ETHANE.

+ "The world was on fire -" - Lyrics of the song Wicked Game by Chris Isaak, from his third studio album, Heart Shaped World.