As someone who’d done his fair share of sneaking around when he was younger, Rab had since renounced the habit and managed to reform himself a bit. Sure, there was hardly a need to sneak around anymore - he woke up, went to work, and then went back home - but it was the sort of thing it was hard to lose the penchant for. Thankfully, though, he got a chance for some practice in his lingering friendship with Andromeda. By all accounts, their little meetings were far from advisable, but they weren’t anything either of them had any intentions to stop. Today’s locale: one of the far gardens on the Lestrange estate that was nearly never tended to - a perfect place to meet up before a night of damn near the opposite of what his family would have him do. True to form, Rab was late.
“Not to alarm you, miss, but the eagle has landed,” he said, coming up behind Andy, “And I think he’s made it unscathed.”
Xeno was strewn across his sofa, elbow deep in a bag of chips, when he heard a voice from his front door. He quickly swallowed the last of the chips shards. They scratched his throat on the way down. He wiped the food dust off on his t-shirt, leaving visible streaks on the purple fabric. “Jurst a secund!” He mumbled through the final crumbs. He very gingerly lifted Cheshire, his pet stoat, off of his stomach where he had been snoozing and placed him on a throw pillow.
He wobbled to his feet, which were bare beneath a floor length skirt. Out of habit, he glanced around his caravan looking for any sort of contraband he ought to hide in case the stranger at his door was ministry. They usually weren’t. But it never hurt to check. He didn’t stay on the down low for this long without just a smidgen of caution.
It only took him a few moments of habitual frantic searching for his memory to finally catch up to him. He was grinning at his own silliness when he finally tended to the door. “Well hell-” His greeting died in his throat when his eyes fell upon the ‘stranger’ on his doorstep. Hell was right. The man in front of him looked…ominous. Shrouded completely in shadows and hidden behind dark shades. Xeno understood immediately. He ushered the man inside with a cheery greeting.
Once inside the caravan, he shuttered his kerosene lamps to half their brightness, blew out the candles, and pulled the shades closed. The place was cast into gentle golden shadows. He had his back to the other man, beginning to dislodge ingredients from various shelves and drawers. He spoke over his shoulder to his guest. “You should have mentioned your photophobia beforehand, friend. I would have prepared!” He laughed in an easy way, not taking his eyes from his stockpile. “Now, tell me, what are you looking for today?” There was an excitement in his voice that he didn’t bother to disguise.
There was something about this - about all of this, the location, the utter lack of secrecy, that was beyond unnerving. Sure, Rab hadn’t done this before, but he’d had birthday parties more safeguarded than this. That voice. It was muffled through the door, but it was scarily familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place.
It clicked all at once the second the door opened, and suddenly Rab was sixteen again, and standing in front of him was one of his few real friends in the whole world. Xenophilius Lovegood, you bastard. It made sense, suddenly, the locale and the relaxed attitude of their whole meeting. He hesitated to follow him inside, feeling distinctly as if this was a horrible idea. Well, it was a horrible idea to begin with, even if he wasn’t dealing with the very man whose friendship he’d spat on years before, but this - this made it much worse. As he saw it, he had two options: one, keep the cloak up and glasses on (maybe drop his voice half an octave, too), and suffer through this; two, walk right out without saying a word.
When had he last seen Xeno? Not since Hogwarts, surely, and even then the last stint of his education hadn’t involved a lot of him. Their friendship had been everything he’d wanted when he was younger: it’d been free of all the fluffing and preening of what he was used to, and though it wasn’t able to be public, it was one of the few relationships he had that was real. He’d pretty well fucked all that up, though, so... well, they weren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore, to put it gentler than need be. Merlin, did Rab miss him, and - okay, option three: there was no way in hell he wasn’t saying something.
“Er, you...” he said, hesitating. Out with it, then. He took the glasses off and tucked the hood back, and he felt even more exposed and awkward than before - what could he say? “Xeno, I - you really ought to be more careful with who you give your address to.”
Growing up in the Lestrange household, precaution was a simple and constant part of life for Rab. Any part of life that was anything less than presentable was to be trimmed down to a respectable shape, if not tucked away entirely, and while it was certainly an inconvenience, it’d kept him out of a hell of a lot of trouble. The key was subtlety - he could really do as he pleased, so long as nobody had any reason to suspect him, and over the years he’d gotten much better at covering his tracks. So, when he’d resumed his vaguely illegal potions habit that he almost managed to leave behind at Hogwarts, he knew to be careful.
For months, things had been as standard and anonymous as they could be. Potions and payments were sent discretely, and all was well, until Rab got the notion for a custom potion. What he had was fine, but, ever a lush, he wanted just a bit more, and so today he was meeting with his dealer (whose name he had yet to even ask for - the less the both of them knew of each other, the better), except he was quite sure he’d been given the wrong address. He wasn’t standing some dark alleyway as he’d expected, but in front of the door to what appeared to be where someone was living. If things went awry, though, he had the benefit of disguise: he was wearing sunglasses and a hooded cloak that would obscure his identity, if need be.
“Hello?” he said, knocking on the door - shave and a haircut. It was the closest thing he’d given in their correspondence to a code word. There was no way this was the right place (nobody in their right mind would want to meet in their own home, surely), but it couldn’t hurt to try.
001. When is their birthday?
002. Do they do anything to celebrate their birthday?
003. Does your character like coffee better, or tea?
004. Do they prefer being alone or with others?
005. Are they in good health?
006. What sense do they most rely on?
007. Is your character an optimist or a pessimist?
008. What is their favorite fairy tale?
009. Do they believe in happy endings?
010. Do they believe in love at first sight?
011. How would your character court the person of their dreams?
012. What makes your character embarrassed?
013. Have they ever been bullied or teased?
014. Detail one secret shame your character feels.
015. Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue?
016. What is their choice of weapon?
017. When does your character think that violence is justified or deserved?
018. Your character wakes up to find that war has been declared. What do they do?
019. If they could have a superpower, what would they choose?
020. What are their hobbies?
021. How do they display affection?
022. What is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen?
023. What do they consider beautiful in others physically?
024. What do they consider ugly in others physically?
025. What do they consider beautiful in others personality-wise?
026. What do they consider ugly in others personality-wise?
027. What is their idea of perfect happiness?
028. What makes them laugh out loud?
029. What sort of sense of humor does your character have?
030. Do they believe in the afterlife?
031. Are they superstitious about anything?
032. Does your character believe in ghosts?
033. Do they keep their promises?
034. What’s their view of lying?
035. What is the most important rule your character lives by?
036. How honorable is your character?
037. If your character saw someone drop a large sum of money and knew that they could probably take it without anyone noticing, what would they do?
038. What bad habits do they have?
039. What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person?
040. What is their obsession?
041. Are they comfortable with technology?
042. What is their greatest achievement?
043. What will they stand up for?
044. What disgusts them?
045. Does your character have any chronic medical conditions?
046. How do they handle getting sick?
047. What was the last medical problem your character had?
048. Do they have any allergies?
049. How does your character feel about growing old?
050. How does your character feel about their own mortality?
051. If they knew they would die tomorrow, what would they do today?
052. What is your character’s worst flaw?
053. What is your character’s greatest strength?
054. Does your character want power or authority of any kind?
055. Is your character an introvert or an extrovert?
056. Has your character ever struck someone in anger?
057. Has your character ever killed anyone?
058. What is your character’s idea of a perfect day?
059. List several phrases your character is fond of uttering. Where did they pick them up?
060. What is your character’s attitude toward education and learning?
061. Does your character prefer adventure or safety and security?
062. What sort of legacy does your character wish to leave behind?
063. How well does your character handle difficult people?
064. In what ways does your character annoy others?
065. Is your character better at leading or following? Which do they prefer?
066. Does your character prefer city life or being out in nature?
067. Does your character believe in fate or destiny?
068. How strong is your character’s sense of responsibility? What kinds of things trigger it?
069. What about your character is heroic?
070. What about your character is cowardly?
071. How kind is your character?
072. In a Dungeons & Dragons game, which class would your character be? (wizard, fighter, bard, priest, ranger, etc.)
073. In a novel, what plot role would your character fill? (hero, anti-hero, sidekick, villain, etc.)
074. What is your character’s favorite game?
075. Is your character ticklish?
076. How do they express anger?
077. How often do they cry? Over what?
078. How emotionally stable is your character?
079. How easy is it for them to read the emotions of others?
080. How easy is it for others to read your character’s emotions?
081. Is your character religious?
082. What are your character’s sleeping preferences?
083. What is the first thing they say and/or do when they wake up?
084. Describe your character in one word.
085. Describe your character in three words.
086. How would your character describe themself in one word?
087. How would your character describe themself in three words?
088. Is your character quiet or loud?
089. How vocally expressive is your character?
090. How bodily expressive is your character?
091. What type of music does your character like?
092. What emotion does your character evoke in others?
093. What is your character’s goal in life?
094. Name three things most would not expect your character to be able to know.
095. Name three things most would not expect your character to be able to do.
096. How do they move and carry themselves? What energy do they project?
097. How well do they adapt to change?
098. Does your character like animals?
099. Do they talk to inanimate objects?
100. Does your character dream? If so, what do they dream about?
’Is that blood?’ He looked down at his shirt at the bartender’s words, only then catching the blood stain on his sleeve before looking up and shrugging his shoulders. “This isn’t my blood.” he tried to explain, only to have the other gawk at him in shock and fear. Granted, he should have worded that better. With his reputation and his family’s, it wasn’t surprising to see someone assume the worst, except he had a long day and he really needed that drink. “I am a healer, stuff happens at work. Now can you stop your dramatics and get me my drink?”
While he’d spent many years of his life avoiding the family habit of drinking on weeknights. It was an invariable part of being a Lestrange: leave school, drown your liver, and then let it die with the rest of you by the time you’re thirty. After he’d started working with the Wizengamot, Rab’s resolve in this regard had quickly diminished, and he, too, had taken to a trip to the bar here or there after work. This day in particular had simply begged for him to stop for just a second at the place just by the ministry, where he was surprised to see an old family friend.
“Stefan!” he said, sliding easily into the stool next to him, “Merlin, I’ve missed - is that blood? You know, I never took you for the murdering type, but I should tell you it’s a serious amateur move to go out in public with evidence on your shirt.”
Below the cut is a non-exhaustive list of possible/wanted connections for Rab! None of this is set in stone, just a couple ideas to get something going for our characters.
I. FRIENDLY:
a. Hogwarts friend: No matter how much he wants to, Rab can’t bear to tear away from this person. Even after making a personal vow not to associate with the gang out blood purists he grew up around, their relationship has remained almost the same. Rab’s convinced they aren’t a bad person, and maybe they’re still convinced Rab’s willing to be a bad one - either way, things aren’t disappearing between these two anytime soon.
b. Hogwarts friend (top secret edition): Their friendship was not supposed to happen, but after a group project assignment gone terrible, they were forced to work together. They’re everything his family would hate, and he’s everything that they expected to despise, but after enough late nights in the library together, they became begrudging friends. The only catch: nobody else could know about them, and now that their loyalties have only become more decisive, they have to be more careful.
II. ROMANTIC
a. Classic enemies to friends to lovers: (do I need to explain this) Bas hated them a little too much for things between them to ever be kept at a casual rivalry. They’re forced to work together somehow, and against their better judgement, become friends, and then... well, they aren’t labeling it, but if he could see himself now a couple months ago, he’d be thoroughly unimpressed.
b. Betrothed: It’s a pureblood rite of passage that Rabastan would have no luck evading. Details TBD, but there are a couple possible routes here.
III. ADVERSARIAL
a. Old rivals: This isn’t news. They never got along, from the first moment they locked eyes, and it isn’t changing now.
b. Old victim: Rab was a bystander to more than he’d like to admit at Hogwarts. They’ve never quite forgiven him for letting his group hurt them, and they’re a lot better at fighting back now.
also, reference here for other possible connections!! i’m so open to anything
Rabastan, the younger of two siblings, was born with a bigger mouth than was allowed of a Lestrange. From the moment he could speak, it was made quite clear that he wasn’t able to hold a candle to his brother in any of the ways his family wanted him to. French perplexed him, afternoon tea bored him, and no matter how his mother tried to train the decorum and poise expected of his family into him, at his core, Rab knew only how to act his age. When he was a boy, he was, if nothing else, boyish: no amount of lessons in etiquette could curb his penchant for scraped knees and unruly hair. He cleaned his room just as often as he paid attention to his elementary lessons in magic, which was to say, never.
The Lestrange family wasn’t championed for its gentle, loving discipline, and Rab came to know this well. His mother was a soft woman, but of course, a woman that knew the standards her boys would have to meet. Rabastan’s lack of discipline - or rather, his lack of ability to perform - wasn’t tolerated, and his childishness was met with scorn such that he became all too familiar with the feeling of being put away in a corner. At all the pureblood functions they attended far too often, he was always told, hush, darling. You just sit and look handsome, okay?
Over time, he developed a notion to listen. It was a simple equation, really: he could be still and be met with praise, or he could be a nuisance and be treated as such, and all that sat between him and the approval of his family was a bit of focus. He tried, he really did, to mold himself into everything his parents wanted. When in doubt, he simply did as Rod did, and this worked well enough. When his father went on another rampage about the state of the Wizarding World. Rab was never fully told just what the muggleborns had done wrong, but he was told enough that he knew they weren’t to be trusted. It was unnatural, the mixing of families like his and the descendents of muggles, and while he couldn’t manage the same vitriol as the rest of his family towards them, he saw no reason to question his sentiment, much less theirs. In a world that pushed in on him in every way possible, the only way to create more space for himself was to nod his head and smile.
This isn’t to say his childhood wasn’t, in many ways, a charmed one. Even as he lived in his shadow, the younger Lestrange sibling loved Rodolphus to no end. When he scraped his knee, Rod was there for him; when he needed to laugh, Rod seemed to know. His older brother didn’t care that his French was sloppy or that he smiled when he shouldn’t, and when the manor was frigid, he was one of the few warm parts of Rab’s life.
That, and he had quidditch.
Quidditch was sort of a big deal, for the Lestranges. They took their Christmas tournament very seriously, and it was one of the things that was simply expected of them: go to Hogwarts, play your ass off for the Slytherin team, and quit the second you leave school. Quietly, in the back of his mind, he always held on a bit of hope that maybe, maybe, he’d be good enough to do more. He watched Rod go off to Hogwarts and join, and when he came home between terms he begged to train with him. Suddenly, he took up reading, even if his definition of reading only included books chronicling the lives and triumphs of the greatest quidditch players in history, and his hands grew calloused from constant practice on his broom. When it came time to go to Hogwarts, Rab was more determined than ever: he was meant for this team.
Hogwarts was a place for Rab to come into his own, even while haunted by the ghosts of the pressures of his childhood. He hadn’t been surprised at being sorted into Slytherin, but he had been relieved. The look on his mother’s face, the anger in his father’s eyes… he could already feel it, if he wasn’t sorted into the family house. He fell in with exactly the sort of people one could expect him to - the children of other pureblood families, all of whom in Slytherin and an overwhelming majority of whom were worlds different from Rabastan. When they poked fun at muggleborns, he stood alongside them, chest panging with guilt and teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. When they got older, and poking fun turned to hexing, he remained a steadfast fixture of the little army of pureblood boys that were, as they seemed to think, just doing their part. Fighting the good fight. Rab’s stomach never stopped churning at the sight of it, but unlike his fingers that had grown calloused to his broom, he never grew tough enough to figure out a way around this sensitivity.
The older he got, the less he could stand to watch everything his friends got up to, and the less he was comfortable with the idea that one day, he was going to have to join the rest of his family in the Death Eaters. He’d met the same muggleborns he’d been told his entire life were threats to the Wizarding World, and - something didn’t add up. On the quidditch pitch, everyone was on the same playing field (unless they were tall, in which case they had the upper hand; Rab would never stop lamenting his disadvantage in this department), and it didn’t make sense that the same people he competed against were the people his father sought to get rid of. If there was a way out in sight, he would’ve taken it - he kept looking for some answer, some way to stay at home but to live without that tattoo on his forearm, but it never came. This was his life, these were the cards he was dealt, and the best he could do was keep his head down, play some damn good quidditch, and study only when necessary.
It was all going rather well.
For all of his life, Rab had been a stranger to real loss. His childhood had been cold, yes, but he wanted for nothing, and his blessings had been endless. This changed, though, just as his brother was nearing graduation. It was all so sudden. One day, they received a letter from home, telling them to come quick, that their mother had fallen ill, and then, not even a week later, she was gone.
The weight of grief was different to any other Rab knew. He knew anger, and he knew loneliness, but this was something entirely new: the hollow feeling in his chest threatened to eat him alive, and something in him ached the only real parent he’d ever had. Through it all, the only person he had was Rod, and in the months following their mother’s death the two became inseparable. They had been close before, but now, they were impossibly more so.
He went back the next year, and people looked at him differently. They pitied him. Once, a certain halfblood caught him on a bad day, and looked at him like some kicked puppy, and for the first time in his life, Rab drew his wand on somebody.
“You - “ he’d said, voice thick with anger, “You look at me like that again, mudblood, I fucking dare you.”
There was a difference between being a bystander and being the one inflicting pain, and the moment his anger passed, he was left overcome with guilt. Sure, he’d watched this before, but when had this become who he was? Somewhere in between the death of his mother and the years spent following his little gang around, he’d lost sight of the part of him that found all of this so wrong. He was mortified with himself, and in an effort to repent - which really, he felt he could never do - distanced himself from the people he had known his entire life. He couldn’t really meet new friends, having ruined that chance years ago, and so, alone and fed up, he got that sacred tattoo. It was a form of punishment: he’d done wrong, deviated from the plan, and now he was forced to live out exactly the life he wanted to avoid.
There comes a time of reckoning for all sins. Rab left Hogwarts, and in the wake of a wildly successful career was still unable to convince his father to let him pursue quidditch. The Lestranges were a Ministry family through and through, and he wasn’t about to throw all that away to go chase a golden ball around a quidditch pitch. The more he interacted with the real world, the more he doubted his values and the Death Eaters, but now it was too late - the doubt and guilt he felt looking at his Dark Mark were simply his punishment for choosing this, and the most he could now was hope to lay low and stay out of trouble.
