Before the Storm (Malfoy Manor)

Remy had never thought she’d actually be in the manor already when a Death Eater meeting was called, but she supposed there was a first time for everything. Of course, she wasn’t exactly in the part of the manor where the meeting would be held – unless Elldir was going to start holding meetings in the master bedroom.

Usually, Draco and Remy only met on neutral ground, such as the Leaky Cauldron or another place that rented rooms, but it had been quite a while since the two of them had been together, and Draco hadn’t been able to wait long enough to reserve a room and meet up. Instead, summoned Remy to his personal home (the wife was away visiting family) via the enchanted bracelet he had given her, which is how the two of them ended up entangled between the sheets when the dark mark burned.

“Well, that’s going to cut our night short,” Remy said as both she as Draco cringed at the burn on their forearms. Remy rolled over and away from her frequent bedmate, looking around on the floor for her pants. She found them in a heap by the foot of the bed and pulled them on quickly, grabbing her shirt off the chair and pulling it over her head.

“See you downstairs,” Remy said with a seductive smile as she leaned in toward Draco and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. He was still sitting mostly naked on the edge of the bed, slower to respond than she was. He would be less likely to be chastised for his lateness because of his higher status within the organization, but Remy wasn’t taking those chances.

Moving quickly, Remy opened a window that faced the back of the manor and climbed down the side of the mansion, gripping the stone on her way down and jumping the last eight feet or so. She took a moment to check her reflection in the darkened window on the ground floor - she didn't need sex hair when she went to meet with the rest of the Death Eaters - and then, quietly, she ducked low enough to be out of sight of the windows and ran around to the front of the house. She had intended on making a show of coming in through the front door so the other Death Eaters wouldn’t make any assumptions about her and Draco if they arrived within the same time frame, but when she was within sight of the door, she realized someone else was already making quite a ruckus.

A man was lying – or, rather, writhing – on the front steps, shaking uncontrollably for a reason Remy couldn’t fathom. Remy had never seen him before, but he seemed to be suffering from some kind of pain, which was really rather annoying as it was probably going to make Remy late for the meeting. He was blocking entrance to the manor, but Remy moved toward him in the hopes that maybe she could make the leap over him and still arrive in time to please Elldir.

As she got closer, she realized that the man was about her age, or maybe older. It was difficult to tell among the grimace of pain he was wearing. As she was taking another step closer to get a better look at his misfortune, Remy nearly tripped over a bag that had fallen to the ground, and as she caught herself, she heard the clink of metal from within the sack. Intrigued, Remy picked up the bag and unclasped the closure.

Anything of value in here…? Remy wondered as she unabashedly dug her hand into the depths of the bag, feeling for the cold, hard surface of a few galleons she could filch off the unfortunate man on the steps. Instead, her fingers closed around a smooth, cylindrical item, and when she pulled it from the bag, she found herself looking at the barrel of a black-handled pistol.

Interesting… Remy thought, suddenly much more intrigued by the unidentified man. Looking into the bag, Remy saw the dark outline of several other weapons, some she could identify and others that looked like nothing more than twists of metal.

“When you’re quite finished floundering on the steps, I’m interested in hearing your story,” Remy intoned with a smirk, crouching down and balancing on her toes to get to the man’s eye level, still holding the pistol in her right hand and casually tapping it against the palm of her opposite hand as she waited for him to regain his composure.

At least the pain had been anticipated; for some strange reason it made it easier for Paris to endure the torturous feeling of having an Unforgivable cast in his direction when he had the chance to mentally prepare himself for the blow. This is not to say that he had been able to stop his body from crumbling beneath him once more, however; he fell to the hard surface of the doorstep just as quickly as he had before.

The door-women had put far more force behind the curse. It felt as though she'd intended to kill him - Paris was, however, well aware of the fact that, had that been the case, he would have been dead before he'd collapsed.

Perhaps he should have saved his puns for a Death Eater whom he had already dealt with in the past. Or maybe, to make things simpler, he should have paid the Ministry a visit first; the pain that was running down Perry’s spine made him ponder the possibility of being paralyzed there on the front porch of Malfoy Manor – which would certainly make it more difficult for him to reach his next group of clients.

Paris turned to his side as he began to curl into himself, when his eyes met with a tall brunet who had decided to help herself to his inventions. He'd momentarily forgotten about them. “J'ai besoin de ceux-là! S'il vous plaît ...” he begged the Death Eater without realizing that he was speaking in his first language; it sounded natural to his ears, and after the stress that his mind had been put under, that was good enough for him.

“Ils sont importants pour moi,” the man added as he pushed himself upward to rest on his shins; he’d only just begun to regain the ability to control his appendages. Paris paused to steady his pulse, but his eyes never left the Death Eater before him, for he feared that she would make a run for it with his weapons.

“Do you mind giving me a hand? I know that you folk get a kick out of having someone lying at your feet, but this is the second time that I’ve been shot at in one evening…” Paris spoke. That’s it, he thought with a faint grin, that was the language I was looking for. “I hate English,” he added in a voice that suggested that he was speaking to himself.

Remy couldn’t understand what the man on the steps was saying when he spoke. It sounded like French, but could just as easily have been any of the romantic languages. The dark-haired woman knew only enough of each language to get what she wanted – money, a place to stay, sex – and none of what this curious pile of flesh and dark clothing was saying was in Remy’s repertoire. He sounded like he was asking her something, or maybe asking for something, but Remy merely cocked her head and raised an eyebrow at him as though to say, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got all day.’

The truth was, Remy was intrigued enough by the present situation to be willing to risk lateness to the Death Eater meeting. Thoar would certainly give her hell for it – Caelani would be worse – but this scenario just screamed with potential. The man on the steps was passably good-looking, from what Remy could tell of his huddled form, and he was carrying a bag of what seemed to be an assortment of powerful weapons. This meant he had at least two things going for him, and as far as Remy was concerned, it was two out of three for the only things that mattered.

If this guy’s got money in the bank, this is going to be the luckiest day of my life… Remy thought, looking down at the pistol in her hand again and turning it over idly, thinking to herself while the man came to. Checking the chamber, she found six bullets. She would have to play her cards right here to make sure the situation went her way, but with a bag full of weapons against an unarmed man, combined with her usual womanly charms, Remy wasn’t worried.

“Sounds like you ought to be keeping better company,” Remy said smoothly as the man on the steps finally started speaking in a language she could understand, claiming to have been attacked twice tonight already. She stepped forward - putting herself between him and the bag of weapons - to offer him her hand to help him stand up, but not before clicking off the safety on the gun she was holding. She was intrigued by this man, no doubt, but she wasn’t stupid. Remy didn’t like holes in her information, and this man may as well have been Swiss cheese.

“I’m rather partial to languages I can understand, so you’ll have to bear up against the frustrations of the English language,” Remy said with a smile, a practiced one that was meant to seem genuine. It had fooled many before this man, and she didn’t doubt it would work now. She just needed to get this man on his feet so she could get a proper look at him and know exactly what it is she was bargaining for, and just how much effort and flirting this man was going to be worth. But she wouldn't be opposed to using the gun to put him on his back if it was necessary.

Poor Draco Malfoy. Remy had forgotten about him as soon as her feet hit his perfectly manicured front lawn.

Upon being pulled to his feet by the woman, Paris came to the conclusion that he would never fully understand the personality of a Death Eater. He was left to assume that each Dark Witch and Wizard fit the stereotype of being distant and sadistic, unless he was presented with proof to the contrary - in which case he could stand before the being without having to steady his quivering spine.

The first woman that Paris had encountered that evening had most certainly fit the common description of a Death Eater – while the second, on the other hand, seemed to, at the very least, have a sense of humor. They were each different, and yet, they each shared similar views – something which Paris would most likely never understand.

“Perhaps I should – but then again, I would not have a business if I did that. It is an occupational hazard,” he replied, speaking aloud the 'reassuring' thoughts that had crossed his mind earlier that evening.

After righting himself, Paris drew his lips to the flesh of the woman's knuckles, greeting the brunette politely as though she hadn’t just peeled him up from the doorstep; the faint click of one of his inventions had alerted him, and he’d decided that the simple gesture would allow him to get near enough to the weapon to reclaim it as his own.

“Paris Ravindra Radborn,” he introduced himself as he curled his fingers around the gun’s slender neck, “I see you have helped yourself to my belongings… Usually I make an offer before I hand over the weapons, but I suppose tonight hasn’t exactly been a traditional hand-off...”

Now properly on his feet, Remy could see what she was working with. The man wasn’t outstanding in the physical capacity – so very few were – but he was above average. He also seemed to be flippant with details – he gave Remy information about his occupation without her asking for it. The type of man that handed out information without having to be asked was instantly higher on Remy’s social queue than someone with their lips sealed.

So the man does business with the Death Eaters, but doesn’t wear the mark… Remy thought, filing away details where they might be useful later. She was looking out for signs of personal gain first (as usual), but if she could benefit both herself and the organization of her present allegiance, then she could only serve to gain by doing so.

The man’s gesture of chivalry was unexpected, and Remy smirked at the outdatedness of his knuckle kissing as he offered his name. Just more information I can use… Remy thought to herself, consciously choosing not to supply her own name. Radborn… doesn’t sound familiar, but…

But Remy’s inventory of whether or not Paris was on any of her mental lists was cut short when she felt the barrel of the gun grow heavier and looked down to find that the man had wrapped his fingers around the metal neck of the gun and seemed to have gotten the impression that he was going to be taking it from her. Remy’s smirk deepened further as Paris attempted to talk his way back to a weapon, but clearly he hadn’t yet met Remy Devaul.

“It’s more of a traditional hands-off,” Remy said masterfully, her green eyes flicking up to meet Paris’s, their bodies close enough together that Remy’s voice didn’t have to carry far. Although she had made the play on words, there was no doubt Paris could miss her true meaning: let go of the gun. She tightened her grip on the handle, her finger still resting on the trigger and giving her the upper hand. She hadn’t anticipated this move from Radborn – to go from writhing on the steps to stealing a weapon was a big leap, but she was willing to roll with the punches as long as she was still running the show.

“And I think you’re really on the wrong end of the weapon to be making any sort of requests, don’t you?” Remy said coyly, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder with a toss of her head. She wasn’t above flirting with this man to get what she wanted, but she wasn’t above shooting him in order to keep the weapons either. Hell, the second option might be the better one in the end anyway – she’d get the weapons, whatever money he was carrying, and the opportunity to bring the death eaters more ammunition to carry out whatever long-winded plan was on the agenda for tonight.

“I on the other hand,” Remy began, her voice evoking the kind of confidence that maintained that she was in control, “Am in a perfect position for asking questions, and I’ve got a few. First, where does a man such as yourself procure such a handsome collection of weaponry?”

Paris was not as thick as he looked; he could take a hint, and after crumbling to the ground twice that evening, he did not feel the need to upset another Death Eater. They were such temperamental creatures; Death Eaters. "Alright, alright," Paris spoke slowly as he released the gun's barrel from his grip, "You can have the gun, if you want it that bad - but aren't you in the least bit curious as to what it does?" Paris grinned, despite the fact that he was at gunpoint; at some point that evening, the thrill of being in a near-death situation had worn off. "Though, with a clubhouse like this, I wouldn't think that you Death Eaters would have any trouble paying me for my survives," he spoke with a simple, disbelieving shake of his head.

"Aren't you?" Paris replied sarcastically - though, as it had been when Paris had replied in such a way to the previous women, it seemed that Perry had difficulty making any form of sarcasm believable, due to the fact that he could not rid his face of his signature, amused expression. A ghost of laughter had caught in Perry's throat, and if one were to look closely enough at his smile, it could almost be heard. “You think my weapons are handsome? How sweet!”

Paris stepped to his left, took hold of his rucksack's strap, and heaved it over his shoulder once more, breathing heavily as he did so. It wasn't that Paris was lacking physical strength, the bag was simply that heavy - or so he'd told himself reassuringly several times before...

“I invented them; created them each with nothing more than a bit of my own magic, and a large batch of scraps,” He answered the brunette honestly, "and that weapon that you are holding right now, just to let you know, wouldn't kill me." Paris giggled for a short moment. "It would give me a nasty headache and would prevent me from withholding information of any sort, but it most certainly wouldn't kill me. The bullet is a solid form of Veritaserum. It's cool, isn't it?" Paris spoke - and by the tone that he used, it was evident that he expected the women to be impressed by his invention. What he didn't realize, however, was that by offering her such information without being told to do so, he'd made it seem as though he'd been shot by the weapon that she held, despite the fact that she hadn't yet pulled the gun's trigger.

Remy smiled triumphantly as Paris let go of the gun, feeling as though she had won the first battle in this encounter, which was always the most important. It set the tone for the rest of the interaction, and Remy wanted to be the one to come out on top in this situation… one way or another. But while she was gloating at having full control of the weapon, Paris said something that wiped Remy’s smile from her face, making her tilt her head and cock an eyebrow at him as if to challenge what he had said.

“What do you mean, what it does? It’s a bloody gun, of course I know what it does,” Remy said, cocky, not comprehending that what she was holding wasn’t standard issue “shoot-bullets-to-kill-people” artillery. Uncapable of feeling any traditional human emotions, Remy wasn’t scared because of what Paris had said, but the pure logic and self-preservation that motivated everything she did certainly was turning it over in her mind. On the whole, what the man had said should have no bearing on the situation as a whole. She was holding the weapon, and he was probably just trying to wiggle his way out of it.

Remy gripped the gun tighter as if to convince herself of its worth – she wasn’t going to let this man be that much of a distraction – and felt herself wanting to test for herself what it did as Paris began mocking her. The look of amusement on his face was totally contradictory to the situation at hand (you know, imminent death and whatnot), and it confused Remy’s rules of emotion. Typically, she got her cues of what people were going to do by the emotion they displayed; weaker humans with the full capacity to feel always gave themselves away in such fashions. But this man… he was confusing. He didn’t seem to be bluffing the amusement, but rather seemed to be… enjoying himself?

Remy’s confusion was great enough that when Paris stepped past her to pick up the rucksack she had been guarding with her body, she didn’t immediately shoot him. Perhaps it was that shadow of doubt in the back of her mind that Paris had caused with his earlier statement, or maybe just the utter confusion brought on by Paris’ inappropriate display of emotions that broke all of Remy’s rules. But either way, when Paris returned to full height carrying the bag of weapons Remy had been hoping to be getting out of this discussion, the situation had definitely taken a turn for the worse from where she was standing.

Dammit… Remy thought, her lips getting minutely thinner as she weighed the new options, Man’s smarter than he looks…

And it seemed that deduction was correct, or at least supported, by Paris’ claim that he had invented all of those weapons himself. And that claim only served to support his earlier question – that she might not know what her weapon actually did – and Remy felt that creeping sensation when one knows they have done the wrong thing – gut twisting, heart beating faster – rising from her abdomen. She had underestimated this man, and was now left facing him holding a gun of his own design that would give her no greater power over him than the ability to make him talk – and he seemed to do that just fine all by himself.

“Under different circumstances, I might say yes,” Remy answered, trying to keep her tone cool although she could feel new tension taking hold of her body. She needed to recover from what could turn out to be a very damaging error; she didn’t want this golden situation to pass by without her getting at least something out of it.

“But now that I seem to be holding what is effectively a useless weapon, at least in your case, I think I need a significantly ‘cooler’ weapon in order to be inclined to be impressed,” Remy added, intentionally using the informal adjective Paris had used to describe his own invention.

“So the real question is,” Remy said, dropping the veritaserum gun down to her side as she took a step closer to Paris, “Have you got anything in that bag that might be really impressive?”

Remy wasn’t interested in buying any of Paris’ weapons – she never paid money for anything she could get for free – but she needed to at least know what she could potentially get for her efforts. If he was only pilfering things she couldn’t use… then she was going to have been late to a very important Death Eater meeting for no reason at all. And for Paris… that would be very unfortunate.

“I don’t believe anything could ever be effectively useless…” Paris thought aloud, pondering over the contradiction for a moment. “That arrangement of words suggests that the weapon’s use is to be effective in uselessness,” he added, speaking in a tone of voice that made it seem as though he had forgotten about the brunette before him, despite the closeness of their bodies. The woman stood so near, in fact, that her warm breath brushed over the skin of Paris’ neck each time she exhaled – something which, it seemed, he had not yet noticed, for he continued to speak in a casual manner that did not suit such a situation.

“Anyhow,” Paris swatted his thoughts away, returning to the front porch of Malfoy Manor, “if that weapon does not interest you, I suppose we could simply move on to the next. Are you intending to kill me, or to cripple me?” Paris took hold of the zipper that bordered his rucksack and dragged it backwards on its track, revealing its contents once more. “For example, you could permanently prevent me from casting spells, hexes, and charms” – Paris ran the tip of his index finger along one particular gun upon mentioning its function, before moving on to another weapon, which was not in the form of a gun, but a small, round object that could not be seen correctly in such dim lighting - “Or perhaps you would be more interested in a more permanent solution? This one is most usual in the event of a war, but I suppose if you are one for presentation that it would be quite impressive when used on one person.”

Paris removed his hand from the bag once more, and intertwined the fingers of both his hands behind his back once more, returning to his usual stance. During his little presentation, he hadn’t so much as glanced in the direction of his weaponry; everything at that point was a part of a nearly-perfected routine - and so, he’d continued to examine the woman's every facial expression as he spoke.

At that point during their conversation, the woman had not yet said anything that would set her apart from any of Paris’ other clients in his memory, but it had become a bit of an instinct of his to pin every creature that he served with a general description - something which he was having difficulty doing with the brunette. The only true emotion he had been able to force out of her, it seemed, had been a generic one, which he really did not see as an accomplishment.

He odd man allowed his left eyebrow to shoot upward so to make it evident that he was confused by the woman; Paris felt that there was a chance the gesture would get a reaction out of her.

Remy stared blankly at Paris as he corrected her word choice, trying not to comprehend the reasoning behind his correction, but rather the thought process that motivates one to start educating someone on their grammar choices approximately three minutes after said person holding a gun to their chest. Paris seemed to be in another world completely of his own, and acted accordingly. Remy was having a hard time not getting more and more frustrated as this interaction ran increasingly off-course.

He’s just like that oaf Jess… Remy thought to herself, arranging her facial features into a look of interest as Paris began to explain the intricacies of the other weapons, though she was still milling over what exactly she was going to do about him. Lives in a world in his head, and is therefore oblivious to just about everything else. Why do they have to make everything so bloody difficult…

“I’m not too particular,” Remy responded with a devilish smirk, answering the man’s question about whether she intended to kill or simply maim. It was an honest answer – the only factor that really made a difference in the decision was whether the individual was worth more to her alive or dead. And in Paris’s case, Remy still hadn’t figured out which scenario held more value.

Remy’s interest was legitimately piqued by the weapons Paris was putting on display, particularly the one that would render the target unable to use magic – that would certainly level the playing field between her and an opponent, and likely give her the upper hand. Remy was used to not using magic, but most witches and wizards depended on it. If it were to come to hand-to-hand combat, Remy would likely be the one walking away in one piece.

Remy crossed her arms over her chest and raised a hand to place a finger on her temple, peering at the inventor of these weapons with curiosity written on her features. It seemed Paris wasn’t interested in putting all his wares on display, and stopped after the first two weapons to put his hands behind his back in a supremely relaxed position, save for one raised eyebrow. He seemed to be looking at her quizzically, and Remy wondered if he were feeling the same curiosity about her as she was about him. It didn’t seem to be the type of sexual curiosity that she tended to inspire in men, but rather curiosity of the kind that usually led to too many questions. Remy’s lifestyle demanded that she fly primarily under the radar, so allowing Paris to take this conversation in that direction would not be to her advantage.

“So if one were interested in, say, the weapon that prevents spells,” Remy said, feigning nonchalance, but being to-the-point enough to try to get this man back on track to the weaponry instead of giving him time to focus on her. Although her original plan might have been to seduce Paris, it seemed that this was not the moment for that tactic. She always carried it in her back pocket, though, and while Remy knew it wouldn’t be as effective with Paris as it was with others – it only took a few minutes to determine that – she didn’t believe many of the male species were completely immune to her charms.

“What kind of exchange would have to occur?” Remy inquired, intentionally asking the question while avoiding the subject of actual monetary payment. Remy wasn’t exactly as rich as her membership in the Death Eaters might leave some to believe. True, she did have some personal wealth that accrued through her various suitors, but as a policy, Remy never paid gold for anything she could get by other means.

It seemed as though Paris' comment on the woman's grammar had only increased her frustration towards him, and immediately, Paris felt as though he'd made a mistake; his bones were still quaking within his skin from the previous curses that he'd been subject to, and he did not feel as though he had enough strength to withstand another infuriated Death Eater. "Excuse me for getting distracted," he apologized, though, towards the end of his sentence, Paris mistakenly allowed his voice to rise, causing the statement to become a question.

He swung on his feet, rocking from his heels to his toes a few times as he grinned at the brunette; he was quite a fidgety fellow, despite his relaxed way of speaking. He almost seemed as though he'd had a bit too much coffee during the earlier half of the day, what with the way he answered questions willingly and grinned at moments that did not require such facial expressions. He also seemed to have control over himself, however, for there were moments when the wheels behind his irises could be seen as they turned over possibilities. OH, with the possibilities; they never stopped running about in Paris' brain - and yet, he constantly found himself at the end of a dangerous weapon...

Paris watched as the woman's eyes stopped on the first of the two weapons that he'd offered her for a moment, and he paused, allowing her to examine it; he knew of her interest in the item, but it was never wise to rush to sell a weapon, as it often made the buyer feel as though they'd been read far too easily. Paris had learned that valuable lesson during one of his very first jobs. His hasty actions had resulted in the loss of one of three of his fingers, which a Death Eater had so kindly blown off of his hand. Paris instinctively glanced at his right hand and twitched said fingers - but his hand got the message a little late; the healer that had repaired them hadn't been the best at healing severed nerves, it seemed.

Realizing he'd lost focus once again, Paris quickly returned his eyes to his current client, and listened as she made her proposition. It seemed as though she'd cut money out of the equation completely. For the first time that evening, Paris frowned in the woman's direction; so she was one of those clients. It was not often that Perry found himself in a situation where the client was not willing to pay for his inventions with cash, but showed genuine interest in buying them - but it was something that did occur every now-and-then, and was a situation that Perry dreaded. He was not as lucky as most wizards his age were; he hadn't made a fortune off of working for the Ministry, or becoming a teacher at Hogwarts. His career choice had lead to a lifestyle of microwavable dinners and a messy flat without heating. On the occasions when he got lucky and a client made a purchases, he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he could keep up with the bills...

Paris Ravindra Radborn was not poor - he had a place to live, and he had the money to make certain that he was somewhat presentable when he went out in public - but he most certainly was not a wealthy man.

Paris brought a hand to his untidy hair, and he scratched his skull, his own eyes never straying from the woman's catlike ones. Perry always had some witty remark up his sleeve, ready to leap of his tongue at the right moment - but right then, it seemed as though he could not come up with the proper thing to say. How did one explain the need for money to a Death Eater who spent her free time walking about a manor? "We'll figure something out."