[ For asthedrivensnow ]

[prettyawkward]

Rabastan arrived at the Black's manor with a satchel that was full of everything he'd need.  A resonant ring announced his arrival, and he found his hand automatically moving to his hair as he waited, rather nervously, for the house elf to allow him into the foyer. Fingers twisted and tugged at a few strands of long, black hair as his eyes wandered around the familiar scene.  Rabastan had spent many occasions here, certainly, but somehow this seemed different.  There was a fleeting thought that he might have a chance; that perhaps this would be the moment where he'd finally be able to say he'd caught the eye of a particularly stunning Black sister.  Soon after that thought came the whispering doubt that caused a slight contortion in his face as he ignored the house elf's ramblings.  Maybe he was asking about taking his coat, or bag, or whatever it was that house elves do.  Rabastan was far too caught up in the noise inside of his own head to really pay much attention to anything in the real world.  This had become more and more common since he'd been living on his own, and his lack of sleep was apparent under his eyes.

With another strange fidget, and sudden realisation that the house elf was still trying to get his attention, he glanced down at the creature, "I'm here for your mistress Narcissa.  She should be expecting me."  

He had remembered to send that owl she had asked him to, hadn't he?  He thought he remembered, or maybe he had dreamt it.

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[asthedrivensnow]

He had sent an owl, but he'd neglected to advise time or place - a hastily scrawled "portrait - Sunday?" was all her notice. Rabastan's timing is fortuitous, because it forces Narcissa to stop dithering over gowns and come downstairs to meet him at the elf's behest.

The first sign of her arrival is the sound of her shoes on the staircase. She's dressed relatively casually; cashmere shift dress, simple flats, her hair in its natural waves pulled back into a low bun. Several stunning gowns are floating behind her, though.

"Rabastan," she greets him, smiling hesitantly. An elegant hand waves at the hovering wardrobe. "You didn't tell me what to wear. And did you have a room in mind? The parlor, or the library, perhaps?"

She hasn't had her portrait painted in years, as she'd told him, and is oddly nervous about having this one go well.