Name: Rabastan Eltanin Lestrange
Age & Birthday: 28, December 15th 1951 (started Hogwarts in September 1963)
Gender & Pronouns: Cis-male & he/him
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Occupation: Curse-Breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank & co-owner of Arcana Obscura, a curse-breaking business, with Emmeline Vance.
Blood Status: Pureblood
House: Slytherin
Affiliation: Death Eaters
Family: Alecto (wife; née Carrow), Rhadamanthus Corvus & Asteria Eris (twin children, born January 1980), Rodolphus (older brother), Corvus (father, works on the Wizengamot), Clarisse (mother)
Languages: French
Residence: A small manor house in Scotland, isolated & located beside a loch (staff: several house-elves, including a male named Trinket, who moved with him from London, and Alecto's house-elf, named Pansy).
Second home: London townhouse, hidden from Muggles.
Former Residence: Lestrange Manor (family estate)
Connections: Here
MAGICAL:
Boggart: Himself without magical ability.
Patronus: Lynx
Amortenia: Leather, parchment, rain.
OWLs: Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Potions, Transfiguration.
NEWTs: Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Defence Against the Dark Arts.
WAND:
14", unyielding.
Core: dragon heartstring ;
"As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner.
The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental."
Wood: hornbeam ;
"My own wand is made of hornbeam, and so it is with all due modesty that I state that hornbeam selects for its life mate the talented witch or wizard with a single, pure passion, which some might call obsession (though I prefer the term ‘vision’), which will almost always be realised. Hornbeam wands adapt more quickly than almost any other to their owner’s style of magic, and will become so personalised, so quickly, that other people will find them extremely difficult to use even for the most simple of spells. Hornbeam wands likewise absorb their owner’s code of honour, whatever that might be, and will refuse to perform acts - whether for good or ill - that do not tally with their master’s principles. A particularly fine-tuned and sentient wand."
Height: 6'0"
Eyes: Cold blue
Hair: Dark brown
Build: Mesomorphic
BIOGRAPHY:
Born some time after his brother, Rabastan’s purpose as the second child was twofold: to be the spare, and to give his mother something to dote on while his father was occupied with Rodolphus. In this way, it was hoped that he would be a girl. But alas, he was another son, and much to his mother’s chagrin, he was naturally more like his father than she had dared to dread. Young Rabastan showed little need for affection or companionship from the adults in his life. He was a quiet child, lacking emotion and content to indulge in his own company, occupying himself alone for hours without complaint. The only person he allowed into his personal games was Rodolphus. Blood was the thickest bond after all, and their blood could not be any more alike.
For years, he watched as his father molded Rodolphus and encouraged his aggressive pride and relentless ambition. Jealousy was never on Rabastan’s mind. He didn’t crave his father’s attention or envy his brother’s place as the heir. Rabastan greeted this way of life with cold apathy. He simply accepted his place and gripped the cards that fate had dealt him with an increasingly iron fist. He understood that everything had its correct place and purpose. He favoured order, logic and tradition. He loathed anomalies and change, and therefore he grew to despise those who threatened the ancient bloodlines and the position of their families at the top of the social tree; muggles and mudbloods were actively loathed before he even set foot in Hogwarts. Birthright became an almost religious belief.
It was only when the Dark Lord began to rise to power that his father turned his sight onto his younger son, deciding to steer him more violently towards becoming a Death Eater. The endeavour was not unwelcome, but it was unnecessary. Rabastan knew what his father was, and he was already willing to devote himself to the same cause. He saw nothing more valuable than ensuring a future worthy of the Lestranges’ status. So, at school he studied hard and, unlike many of his Slytherin compatriots, he preferred to glide under the radar, biting his tongue in public and expressing his malcontented opinions from the shadows. One would not find Rabastan openly cursing mudbloods. But if harm mysteriously befell them, he would certainly be high on the list of possible culprits and he would deny responsibility with an arrogance so strong that it pierced even his remarkably icy demeanour.
Excelling in arithmancy and ancient runes, and having an unhealthy interest in dark magic, Rabastan is now a Curse-Breaker alongside being a Death Eater. He takes pleasure in studying the oldest forms of cruel magic and twisting them to fit the Dark Lord’s purposes. He travels frequently for his work, which offers a useful front when the Dark Mark’s delicious summon trickles through his veins like the purest ecstasy. Full of vigour and fierce aspiration, he pursues the war incessantly, determined to carve a world that is worthy of pureblood supremacy.
Alecto had always understood what mattered most to Rabastan, what it meant to stand beside him as his wife and what that commitment would demand of her. There was no one else she would rather walk this path with. Love had never been simple between them; it revealed itself in quieter, subtler ways, and they both knew their own language for it.
It came as no surprise that he did not challenge her resolve, if anything, she had expected his encouragement. Their lives would continue as they always had: duty guiding their days, and family waiting at the end of them. The cause first. Everything else second. She shifted Asteria carefully to her other knee, tiny fingers curling around her own. “I thought as much,” she said calmly. “We both know where our efforts must lie. And I have no intention of appearing complacent.”
"Then it's settled." Scanning her features once more, he was content. They were not the most conventional husband and wife, and he would be the first to admit he'd expected to marry a different sort of witch. But they were aligned completely and unbreakably. Loyalty, to the cause and to each other, came first. "We will fight. In our own ways, and together."
He reached for his drink, taking a long sip while scrutinising the pub once more. The wretched building was entrenched in spells. He was convinced there was more at play, but there were more important efforts to pursue and he would waste no more time than necessary here. Personal intrigue had no place in a war.
"Return. Secure a way inside, should our Lord desire it. Be his eyes and ears, teach young minds our ways, and establish yourself as an ordinary, law-abiding mother."
It was almost too absurd. A curl etched his lips into a sly chuckle, and he placed Rhadamanthus into his stroller, having had quite enough of playing the doting father. He did, however, take a moment to push the boy's hair from his eyes, tidying his appearance into a manner more suitable; neat and calm.
It took a long moment before Frank came back to himself and his body. The hazy not-memory of his family clung to the corners of his vision and mind. He both here and he wasn't. Nothing and everything hurt. His mind churned back into moment in sluggish fits. Placing his hands on the floor hurt but he did so anyways. Breathing hurt but he did so anyways.
Frank was breaking but he wasn't broken. This wasn't what ended him. He had things to live for. He had to meet his son.
He couldn't stop trembling and his lungs burned, but he raised his face to meet the Death Eater's, held the man's gaze, and then spat on the floor. "Was that worst you can do?" He asked, chest heaving.
Holding Frank's stare, Rabastan laughed, bluntly and self-satisfied. The other wizard had reacted precisely as anticipated. His expectation was perversely vindicated, to such an extent that he found it amusing. Frank Longbottom was stubborn and loyal. For the latter, Rabastan retained a modicum of respect, despite being far offset by disgust. Longbottom represented such a waste of pureblood excellence. His death would come, and it would be deserved. But it would not be today.
He stepped forward, the ghost of his laugh still thrilling through iron-tinted eyes. Though his wand was lowered, he felt the thunderous remnants of toxic magic, pressing vigorously against his fingertips in a way that only the Unforgiveables could achieve. It was a delicious aftermath.
"Far from it, Longbottom. But you know that, don't you?"
He raised his wand, allowing pause enough for Frank to anticipate what could happen next. Rabastan only desired a second to see the change in his eyes, to see him fear death just as he and Alecto had done. Then he sliced his wand, emitting a deceptive flash of green before knocking Frank unconscious. He returned him unceremoniously to Hogsmeade's streets, leaving him crumpled in the alley from which he'd been abducted.
Mary regarded the wizard with a particular smile that she used during most interviews that made her only blink in response. She nodded at the easy answer and knew that it would make a good addition to her article. Her quill hovered over her parchment before she glanced back up at him. "And what are your thoughts of the school remaining open during a war? I know some have expressed their grievances that it should close. Times are unprecedented surely. Do you think the school should open for the term even if that means putting students in harms way or do you think Hogwarts is still a safe place for all wixens to attend?"
At the swerve in topical tone, Rabastan's smile only grew, opening into a wry chuckle. She'd done it very naturally. He could appreciate the expertise, even it was just questions for a piece of parchment. "I think there's no stronger wizard to oppose You-Know-Who than Albus Dumbledore, and the school's enchantments predate any wixen alive today. The castle will protect itself. Its magic runs deep and ancient. Aside from this, children shouldn't suffer for adults' errors. They must be educated, otherwise society will falter in years to come." He paused, taking a sip of his very alcoholic drink and considering his own children. If they were older, he would most certainly send them to school, war or not. The Dark Lord was - he thought - uninterested in harming innocent minds. Better to teach them accurately and persuade them to the cause. They were malleable.
This was as similar as they would ever be; the eldest soothed by unrestrained destruction, the youngest wrought beyond his usual calm, enlivened by enforcing correct submission. Muggles encroached too greatly into the magical world. They were protected with improper care. It was unjust that their blood diluted magical excellence, unchecked and unrestricted. Mudbloods were celebrated, their heritage welcomed while the old traditions and ancient names were scorned, stifled, driven to extinction. These things repulsed him.
Rabastan did not need to see Rodolphus's face to know how it shone with elation. Masks covered their expressions, but he knew his brother like the back of his hand. This was their place. There was no cause more worthy, no better purpose for their actions. Their family had raised two sons for the Dark Lord. Rodolphus may have been the favoured heir, but they had both fought to prove their worth and earn their places. At the mention of their father, Rabastan scoffed, knowing full well the look Rodolphus meant. Their upbringing had been harsh and - at times - cruel. But it had been necessary. Rabastan was grateful that their father had the strength of character to raise them correctly. They all knew their duties. Their ambitions were united. Lestranges did not waver.
He tsked, watching with bland amusement as Rodolphus continued his spells. His brother was brilliant. Indulgent and chaotic, but a force that Rabastan admired beyond all others. "Perhaps I look like Father, but you certainly sound like him." The words were wry, scathing yet light. But when he turned to face his older brother, he was completely serious. Meeting Rodolphus's eyes, his pale stare gleamed like ice between the flames. "They are a scourge that threatens our existence; a plague that must be controlled. Do not worry, brother. I feel the joy in restoring order just as much as you, even if my pleasure is not as visible. Our goal is precious. It is holy, indeed. The devout will be revered and the faithless will be damned." Pausing as the daggers still flew around them, he inhaled deeply and anchored himself amid the carnage, considering their next actions. "We leave one alive," he decided solidly, turning his wand to adjust the glass snake still hissing above the building. "One to relay the events. We kill the rest. Slowly, if you want spectacle. The Mark is yours to cast."
It was Rodolphus's right. He was the more senior. Wordless summons had the glass snake slithering towards the ground, not with silent ease but with an almighty creak that predicted the horror about to ensue. It struck heavily, shattering into fragments that scattered with slow, unnatural certainty, hitting the ground yet turning purposefully to seek their victims. The nearest Muggles took the first hits, impaled by the glass that had broken on the uppermost floors of the buildings. The floor below soon followed with the creeping glass, the head of the snake now cascading out of the front door and towards the kneeling people like a ravenous beast, glass departing calmly from its exterior, heading towards the muggles as though magnetised.
He selected a woman, pulling her from danger and levitating her above the flames and the destruction. She looked sensible, as far as terrified muggles went. Rabastan was quite sure she'd express an accurate account of tonight's proceedings - and if she didn't, her memories would tell the tale instead.
Rodolphus turned slowly, the firelight reflecting off the curve of his silver mask. His wand still lifted, still humming from the incantation that had summoned the Mark into the sky -- green, majestic, terrible. It hung above them, writhing like smoke, a promise and a warning.
His voice, when it came, was thick with triumph, but quiet -- reverent, almost. "It is done." He let the wand fall to his side, fingers curling with restraint he rarely bothered to show. "The Mark will burn itself into their memories, just as the glass will burn into their flesh."
He stepped closer, boots crunching on charred remains of glass and ruin, unbothered by the shrieks still echoing beyond the square. They were distant now. Like insects screaming under a boot that had already fallen.
Rodolphus tilted his head slightly, considering Rabastan's words. “Perhaps I do sound like him,” he admitted with a slow smirk. “But we are better than him. Stronger. He taught us loyalty like it was currency. But we have turned it into legacy.”
His gaze flicked to the woman Rabastan had spared, suspended above the fire like a grotesque angel. Her face was blotched with tears, streaked with soot, but her eyes were wide and fixed on Rodolphus with a terror that delighted him.
“She’ll do,” he said simply, stepping closer to examine her — not the woman herself, but the fear in her. The magic curling from her like smoke from wet leaves. “She saw the snake. She saw us. She heard our names. She’ll carry it with her like a second spine.”
He turned back to Rabastan, and for a heartbeat, the chaos fell away. Just the two of them, surrounded by fire and ruin, their silhouettes sharp against the carnage.
“Do you feel it?” Rodolphus asked softly, his tone shifting to something rare. Solemnity. “The way the world twists beneath us now? Like it knows it’s changing shape to fit us. Like it remembers what it was before the filth dragged it down.”
He reached out suddenly and clasped his brother’s shoulder, fingers tight with the rare sincerity that passed between them only in moments like these.
“Come. Let the snake feed.” He waved his wand again, directing the shards to finish their dance, precise and merciless. The night answered with renewed screams, and the Dark Mark blazed ever brighter above them.
“Tomorrow, they will whisper of tonight,” Rodolphus said, half to himself, half to his brother. “And they will know the Lestranges have returned — not as sons,” his grin cut through the mask, cruel and shining, “But as gods.”
I died like a saint,
Was reborn a devil.
I slept like a slave,
And woke up a rebel.
...
You will get what is coming,
I'll take back what is mine.
I'll set fire to this dream,
And I will rise.
Mary regarded the wizard with a particular smile that she used during most interviews that made her only blink in response. She nodded at the easy answer and knew that it would make a good addition to her article. Her quill hovered over her parchment before she glanced back up at him. "And what are your thoughts of the school remaining open during a war? I know some have expressed their grievances that it should close. Times are unprecedented surely. Do you think the school should open for the term even if that means putting students in harms way or do you think Hogwarts is still a safe place for all wixens to attend?"
At the swerve in topical tone, Rabastan's smile only grew, opening into a wry chuckle. She'd done it very naturally. He could appreciate the expertise, even it was just questions for a piece of parchment. "I think there's no stronger wizard to oppose You-Know-Who than Albus Dumbledore, and the school's enchantments predate any wixen alive today. The castle will protect itself. Its magic runs deep and ancient. Aside from this, children shouldn't suffer for adults' errors. They must be educated, otherwise society will falter in years to come." He paused, taking a sip of his very alcoholic drink and considering his own children. If they were older, he would most certainly send them to school, war or not. The Dark Lord was - he thought - uninterested in harming innocent minds. Better to teach them accurately and persuade them to the cause. They were malleable.
Starter for: James Potter @its-jamespotter
Where: out in the wild (a quiet street in Godric's Hollow)
When: late afternoon
Months had passed since the infamous Polyjuice Debacle. At first, Rabastan had permitted the Ministry to drive the investigation. However, he had no faith in the Aurors' ability to solve the matter, and since he wholly believed that one of them was behind it, he doubted they'd apprehend the culprit even if they did find them. So he'd waited patiently, part-amused, part-frustrated by how things proceeded. Hestia Jones was efficient enough, but she treated his accusations too lightly. So, naturally, he took matters into his own hands. Like everything else in his life, he wanted it done correctly, so he did it himself.
He was a wizard on a mission and he executed it swiftly and effectively. He'd returned to the café and to the streets through which they'd run. He'd questioned everyone who was there, and some who saw the duplicate Rabastan from afar. It was infuriating that he couldn't locate every single person out that day. Diagon Alley had been too bustling and noisy.
Narrowing the likely Aurors took a little more time. He hardly socialised with them in his rare free moments, and their professional encounters were largely spent embroiled in battles. He didn't rush, considering each and every one of them thoroughly, until it seemed the most likely option for taking a sample was when he'd been stuck in that elevator with James Potter. If Rabastan hadn't been so outraged, he'd have been impressed - and the trouble was, since the Dark Lord wanted to recruit Potter, he couldn't enact his own brand of savage retribution. All in all, the situation was not ideal.
So upon spotting James Potter in Godric's Hollow, he paused and considered his options. It was a chance meeting. Rabastan did not like coincidences. He liked plans and control. But he also believed in exploiting opportunities to their full potential. So he proceeded, intent on doing precisely that.
"Hello, Potter," he softly drawled, his voice carrying on a light breeze, as heedless as though they were old friends reuniting unexpectedly. The tone did not reach his eyes, cutting harsh and cold as he drew beside the other man and watched carefully for his reaction. "I hear congratulations are in order. Your son was born recently, I believe?" News travelled fast within pureblood circles. The Potter heir's son was worth noting, even if the poor child's mother was a mudblood.
"I have always known how it feels to cherish family, Miss McKinnon. Perhaps you do not understand me as well as you think. Sometimes a sacrifice is more precious than all the good it achieves." If his family were to suffer for the cause, so be it. He would strive for their happiness until the end of his days, but if their harm must be his sacrifice, he would make it with abhorrent acceptance. They all had duties to fulfil - even innocent infants with the world at their feet. It was his role to make sure that the world was suitable, and that he did nothing stupid or irresponsible enough to result in their endangerment.
Glancing between Marlene's eyes, he noted her negativity. So he smiled, more genuinely than at any other point in this conversation. He was not an innately sadistic individual, but he could not deny his pleasure in her aggravation.
"As charming as this conversation has been, I'll be on my way. Nappies to change, an Ice Storm to placate - you know how it is."
Something about his words caught under her ribs, sharper than she’d ever let him see. He might not have meant it as a blade to her own family, but that’s how it landed, and it made her jaw ache with the effort of keeping her composure. She’d never give him the satisfaction.
Instead, Marlene let out a clipped laugh, rolling her eyes skyward. “Always a performance with you, isn’t it? Almost convincing, if you don’t look too close.” Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, all brittle edges. “Go on then, no one's stopping you and your adoring audience awaits.” She lifted a hand in a careless wave, like flicking away a nuisance rather than acknowledging an equal. “Best of luck with it all, Lestrange. You’ll need it.”
He was insufferable, everything about him made her blood boil-- the feigned charisma, the posh attitude, the blatant lies and the truth hidden behind his eyes. Marlene knew he'd been involved in the fire somehow, couldn't prove it much to her despair, but she knew deep down it was the truth. She wished she had it in her, to threaten his family and hurt him back somehow. It made her guts twist with disgust how much she wanted it, but it wasn't who she was-- she wasn't like them.
"Ah, I'm sure. Family's that important." The witch replied, mustering a smile that most certainly didn't reach her eyes. "How complicated, isn't it? To have something worth losing." She added, thoughtful, politely. "Can't say I know the feeling anymore, but glad you do now."
"I have always known how it feels to cherish family, Miss McKinnon. Perhaps you do not understand me as well as you think. Sometimes a sacrifice is more precious than all the good it achieves." If his family were to suffer for the cause, so be it. He would strive for their happiness until the end of his days, but if their harm must be his sacrifice, he would make it with abhorrent acceptance. They all had duties to fulfil - even innocent infants with the world at their feet. It was his role to make sure that the world was suitable, and that he did nothing stupid or irresponsible enough to result in their endangerment.
Glancing between Marlene's eyes, he noted her negativity. So he smiled, more genuinely than at any other point in this conversation. He was not an innately sadistic individual, but he could not deny his pleasure in her aggravation.
"As charming as this conversation has been, I'll be on my way. Nappies to change, an Ice Storm to placate - you know how it is."
Narcissa’s gaze lingered on the child tugging at Rabastan’s shirt, her lips curving in amusement before his question drew her attention back. “I intend to raise him myself, yes,” she answered simply, smoothing a hand over Draco’s blanket. “With a little help, of course—but I would not hand him over entirely. He is mine. And I find I rather… enjoy the quiet rhythm of it.” There was a note of surprise in her own voice, as though she had only just admitted it aloud for the first time.
At his words of war, her expression softened but grew more solemn. “I share your wish, Rabastan. It should not be theirs to inherit, this uncertainty. Let them be children first, before the world lays its burdens upon them.” She did not speak of victory or cause—her voice carried only the quiet, fervent protectiveness of a mother.
His mention of Emma and Mira lightened her mood again, and she allowed a faint laugh. “It seems the next generation will hardly be lacking company. Perhaps Draco will not want for playmates after all. Though from what I've been hearing Mira has hardly been present in recent weeks?” Tilting her head, she furrowed her brow.. “As for the polyjuice—I daresay one should only be flattered someone went to such lengths to borrow your face, though I’m sure it’s less charming when you’re the one untangling the consequences... If not who, have you been able to at least learn why they did it?" She asked, shaking her head. "I think you can spare me the details of your mothers endeavours for now. There are plenty other things we can talk about before we have to scrape that particular barrel, I'd say."
Rabastan was unsurprised by Narcissa's intentions. To expect Narcissa Black to take a role other than that of 'wife' or 'mother' would be both foolish and unrealistic. Not everyone was suited to warfare. He understood her possessive words and felt the same sense of ownership for his children. But his level of dedication and self-sacrifice were extreme. Nothing was more important than winning this war; not his freedom, not his life, not even his own family. He believed in loyalty and righteous entitlement. The Lestranges were united in this mindset. It would devastate him to lose any of them, but he would rebound with forceful resolve, using his pain to fuel violent rage.
"I have no doubt you'll be a better mother than any in our circle," he said sincerely. She would certainly be warmer than either of their own mothers. He was quite certain that his had never forgiven him for being another son, just as much as Narcissa's had mourned she was another daughter. He had long proven his worth, but just sometimes, that wistful flicker crossed his mother's face and made him bleakly entertained. "There is certainly a surge in children. I'm glad they'll all be around the same age at school. Strong connections are essential, aren't they?"
He paused, placing Rhadamanthus back down and picking up Asteria instead. It was an automated action, inspired merely because she had started fidgeting whereas he had calmed. He thought nothing of it and continued as though a break had not occurred.
"Mira's absence is notable. I'm surprised she's still unmarried, but who am I to judge. I have had to visit other healers." That was, naturally, the most important aspect of this detail. He could think of only two reasons why she had not married. The first would not surprise him at all - the father was undesirable, halfblood or worse. The second, he had died or was absent. That left a rather small pool of options. "Narcissa, I cannot begin to tell you how frustrated I am with the Aurors and the polyjuice debacle. Frankly, I think they're behind it. Whoever it was asked questions about my whereabouts, and disturbingly, about my children's schedule. Utterly bizarre and the sort of obtuse attention I'd expect from the Ministry." He paused, then to prove he wasn't entirely paranoid, added- "And they left an Auror Department quill at the scene."
Alecto shifted Asteria higher on her lap, steadying the baby against her stomach. She understood well enough what Rabastan was hinting at,Dumbledore, information worth passing along, and her inevitable return to proper work. It was a thought she had been circling herself. The nanny could manage the children well enough; her place was no longer at home.
“I was going to bring that up,” she said evenly, her expression unreadable as her gaze met his. “I’ve been considering going back in September. It would be far more useful for me to be there than wasting time here.” Already, she was turning over the practicalities in her mind, arrangements with Dumbledore, securing the Floo so she could return home to them each evening.
Though Alecto's expression was inscrutable, Rabastan knew she'd considered this change in great detail. They were not the most natural parents, but leaving the children entirely with another person - even one they had selected carefully - was not ideal. However, it was traditional and it was essential. This conversation was moot, as far as Rabasatan was concerned. But it was necessary to agree explicitly.
"That goes without saying, Alecto. Of course you must return, if it is his will." Their son squirmed, reaching for anything he could grab while held in his father's unrelenting grip. It seemed to frustrate the boy. Rabastan merely met his wife's stare with a look that stated absolute expectation. Family mattered, but the cause mattered more. "We have both sworn oaths. That duty is more pressing than any other. We must win this war. That is where our efforts must lie."
One moment he was doing his best to fight the Imperius Curse, and the next...
It was as if his mind had come entirely undone. The two curses did not play well with each other. It felt like a cat had taken its claws to his consciousness, and then given that to a shredder.
He couldn't scream and he couldn't move, and his mind was coming apart at the seams. He couldn't even buckle over, or weep. All he could was fracture, and feel. He felt everything and nothing all at once. Every time he tried to grasp for something to ground him it slipped away. His mind was too compliant to help him ride through the pain in tact. Frank could barely even focus enough to make himself detach, only partially managing the task. He was there and he wasn't. He was coming apart and he was floating several inches outside of his skin. He was home with Alice and their shadowy son, a face he couldn't see but he knew that he loved. He was knelt on the floor in the barn.
Rabastan's only purpose was vengeance. There was no lesson to be learned, no motive besides sating a gratuitous level of integrity. The moral scales were simply imbalanced, and now was the appropriate time to rectify them. The process pleased him. He cared nothing for Frank's suffering, but his own achievement struck deeply and acutely. It brought him peace. Finally, this matter was being resolved.
Intermittently, he paused the Cruciatus, allowing Frank just enough time to recover being repeating. He could see the struggle in the other wizard's eyes, and approached the procedure much like testing the capability of a machine; clinically and observant. He continued in this way for the best part of an hour, until deeming Frank suitably exhausted. He did not want to destroy him completely. This was enough. Flicking his wand for a final time, the red glow fizzled aside to leave only the invisible strings of the Imperius. He released those too, permitting Frank the ability to speak and to place his hands upon the still searing floor.
"Are you ready for this to end?"
He expected defiance. It would surprise him if Frank were to surrender. But the answer was irrelevant; he'd achieved what he desired.
The room's energy was peculiar. There were several reasons for this, beginning with the fact that Rabastan never expected to have a decent conversation with this wizard - let alone one that covered details he found important. The more Pettigrew continued, the more Rabastan could feel the air thickening. It thrilled with magic, both dark and innocent, as though aware it was under discussion, and wary of what the result might be.
As he listened, he watched the way that Pettigrew handled the clock. Unexpectedly, he found himself glad that he'd brought it in. He'd been tempted to leave it and to re-attempt the repair himself, some other time. He was not entirely certain why he was glad. Neither did he think on it. The emotion was simply there, like the blue sky stretching through the clock's overcast clouds, natural and harmless.
"Ancient magic is precious," he said simply, not especially caring whether Peter agreed. "It would be insulting to throw it aside, when it could be fortified and continue to thrive for yet more centuries. It would be a tragic loss." Now, it was his turn to pause. Then he added with deliberate precision, mirroring Pettigrew's earlier words. "That's true of more than clocks, too." Having stated that thinly veiled ideology, Rabastan studied Peter and smiled more lightly. This situation amused him, more than he would ever have anticipated. "You certainly had a talent for getting into restricted places at school. Perhaps it's time I forgave you for that unfortunate incident." Perhaps. "When shall I return for the clock?"
Peter hadn’t expected to enjoy the work—let alone the company—but as the last of the storm clouds faded into a soft stretch of sky, he found himself strangely reluctant to step back. The clock thrummed faintly under his wand, as though it approved of being seen to properly for the first time in decades.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, eyes still on the pendulum. “Tragic loss,” he echoed quietly, though it wasn’t clear if he was agreeing with Rabastan or only with the sentiment the object itself seemed to carry. Either way, the words felt true.
Only after a long pause did he look up again, meeting Rabastan’s gaze with a flicker of surprise at his own engagement. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You can come back for it on Friday. It should be steady by then.”
And with that, he set the clock carefully aside—though his hand lingered on the glass for just a moment longer than necessary, as if it were harder than expected to let go.
Peter’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, though there was something close in the expression. He didn’t immediately answer—his attention stayed fixed on the clock as though the question hadn’t really been for him at all. The constellations flickered, shifted; a small correction charm steadied their slow orbit. “I wouldn’t call it expertise,” he said after a beat, voice low, almost absent. “You pick things up when you’ve got a talent for getting into places you’re not supposed to be. Old magic lingers in odd corners. You start listening to it, it tells you what it wants.”
The pendulum swung once, clean and sure, before hesitating. Peter adjusted with a sharp tap of his wand and the storm clouds peeled back, revealing a faint stretch of clear sky. His shoulders loosened as if he’d passed a test no one else could see.
“Besides,” he added, finally looking up, “it isn’t astronomy so much as pattern recognition. Once you know the rhythm, you can hear when something’s off.” His gaze held Rabastan’s a fraction longer than necessary. “That’s true of more than just clocks.”
For a moment, Peter seemed about to leave it there. Then, as if an afterthought: “Funny you’ve kept it in your study all this time, though. Most people shove these things in attics when they stop working.” A small shrug. “Guess preservation matters more to some than others.”
The room's energy was peculiar. There were several reasons for this, beginning with the fact that Rabastan never expected to have a decent conversation with this wizard - let alone one that covered details he found important. The more Pettigrew continued, the more Rabastan could feel the air thickening. It thrilled with magic, both dark and innocent, as though aware it was under discussion, and wary of what the result might be.
As he listened, he watched the way that Pettigrew handled the clock. Unexpectedly, he found himself glad that he'd brought it in. He'd been tempted to leave it and to re-attempt the repair himself, some other time. He was not entirely certain why he was glad. Neither did he think on it. The emotion was simply there, like the blue sky stretching through the clock's overcast clouds, natural and harmless.
"Ancient magic is precious," he said simply, not especially caring whether Peter agreed. "It would be insulting to throw it aside, when it could be fortified and continue to thrive for yet more centuries. It would be a tragic loss." Now, it was his turn to pause. Then he added with deliberate precision, mirroring Pettigrew's earlier words. "That's true of more than clocks, too." Having stated that thinly veiled ideology, Rabastan studied Peter and smiled more lightly. This situation amused him, more than he would ever have anticipated. "You certainly had a talent for getting into restricted places at school. Perhaps it's time I forgave you for that unfortunate incident." Perhaps. "When shall I return for the clock?"
