nightmare king

daydreams only turn into nightmares, children, so you better keep both eyes o p e n.

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Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and James

[prongedpxtter]

James felt himself grinding his teeth together with a clenched jaw, an act he wasn’t too accustom to doing. The man that stood before was everything he despised; the emblem of everything immorally corrupt. He’d heard stories alright, especially the most gruesome ones involving the sick brutality that the very Rabastan Lestrange had cast upon helpless victims for his own sadistic enjoyment, with the premonition that what he was doing was for justice. For superiority. For the greater good. A muscle twitched in James’ neck at the very thought of this, angering him beyond measure at the blatant disregard for human life. With his knuckles standing white against the dark frame of his wand, James knew in the back of his mind that he needed to cool down. To focus. He couldn’t let the enemy win, not this time. With a small and sharp twist to his neck, the twitch stopped and James’ eyes narrowed.

“No actually, destroying a bookstore wasn’t exactly on my agenda. However, destroying something along the lines of unjustifiable acts of pure inhumane hatred was one of my bullet points on my list of things to do today, right after a trip to the grocer,” he said maliciously, the shadow of an arrogant grin flickering across his lips. He dared not to break eye contact with Rabastan, but his closer proximity to him was to the point where the tip of James’ wand was now in direct contact with his opponent’s chest. He ignored the horrendously pungent smell of gasoline that wafted its way to his nostrils and didn’t let himself flinch at the sight of Rabastan’s cigarette dropping. He was determined.

“Funnily enough Lestrange, that’s actually exactly what I think.” Bringing his arm up, he tapped the tip of his wand to the man’s nose, giving him a wry smile. “You deserve an Academy Award for that little spiel there. Almost made me pity you for there for a second, maybe even bring a tear or two to my eye.” He brought his arm back down, jabbing his wand now directly in the center of Rabastan’s chest. “But then y’see, I remembered the reason why I’ve been with Order and how I’ve been studying and cataloging the incidents that you’ve fucking bastards have committed for the last few years. And then it finally hit me again why I absolutely loathe you. Because from what I can recall, you wanted to commit those heinous crimes and even volunteered to do some on your own, out of pure enjoyment from what I presume. And that my friend,” he said with a slight tilt of his head an a smile oosing with sarcasm, “was the answer I was looking for.”

“Now, if you don’t mind me asking one more time, why are you here? Who sent you? Oh, and if you don’t think that I can just clear this bloody oil stain off the floor with a bit of first year magic by the name of tergeo, then you’re quite mistaken.”

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Rabastan was bored.

The fact of the matter was that James Potter was just another kid in a war he couldn’t possibly comprehend with that pea-sized brain of his and thought he was some hot shit because he got some “Exceeds Expectations” on his Defense Against Dark Arts NEWT. Here were some more facts, however: Rabastan received an Outstanding in all of his NEWTs, regularly invented new spells--sadistic ones, but spells nonetheless--and had graduated from Hogwarts at the top of his class. And he still had no idea what he was doing at the age of eighteen when he first entered this war.

Hell, he didn’t know why he was doing some of the stuff he did half of the time.

Taking a drag from his cigarette, he rolled his eyes. “Ha, ha, you’re so funny and clever. Is that really how you got that lovely little lady of yours to drop her drawers? Because she obviously doesn’t have any standards.” Rabastan let the smoke out of his mouth as he spoke, judging what move James would be making next. When the wand was shoved further into his face, Rabastan didn’t react. James Potter was nothing but a bunch of hot air: all bark and no bite. He doubted that it would take much for him to defeat the kid in a duel, and he would probably be able to do it without disturbing the bunnies upstairs. Rabastan tilted his head, a crooked smile, still glad that he had some aces up his sleeve.

“Then how do you explain me letting a certain member of the Tonks family walk free, despite blood status?”

Rabastan was sure that the younger man hadn’t heard about this yet, and he was ready to relish the change in expression on Potter’s face. Taking another drag from his cigarette, he leaned against the shelf that wasn’t soaked in the pungent liquid. “Sure. you could...if I hadn’t charmed it.” He withdrew his wand slowly, not wanting to get some fourth-year jinx sent his way by a jumpy kid, turning the long, slender baton over in his hands. “It’s a spell of my own design. Try to clean this up, and whoosh,” he said, his voice almost a whisper as he gestured around him. “This whole place goes up in flames.”

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and Ted

[amesdiggory-deactivated20160804]

Why or exactly how Rabastan knew so much about his daughter, Ted didn’t know; frankly, it frightened him that this almost-stranger seemed to know more than he ever should. It was another sudden, rude reminder of the fact that they were in the middle of a war, and they were not the hunters. Ted hid and hid, but it was as though they could smell his blood and follow his trails.

It was always the blood in the end, wasn’t it? People like Rabastan would always hate people like him for just that. Now was he to keep Nymphadora always within an arm’s reach, never allowing her out of the house to protect her? That wasn’t how he wanted to raise his daughter — she was an adventurous soul, always going places she wasn’t supposed to — but now, he was really afraid.

Rabastan moved closer. Ted held his breath in without even noticing, knowing he would later hate himself for allowing the younger man to have such an effect on him. Was that not why the Lestrange boy was like this, though? Was it not because he didn’t have enough love around him like Ted did, or were people really born like this? Were people this cold, this evil, wanting to murder and destroy from the very first breath they took? 

He never got to ask another question before he felt a push against his shoulder, and he never got to fight back before he felt the cigarette drop from Rabastan’s fingers. 

Everything moved in slow motion after that. The fire beneath his feet, almost catching onto his sweater though he somehow managed to leap out of the way as the fire engulfed the building behind him. (The store, Ted stupidly, belatedly realized, had been doused in gasoline). 

“No — no, nonono — ” He fumbled, pushing himself off the ground and reaching for his wand with a shaky hand. But a stream of water could only do so much — there was nothing else Ted knew how to do — he couldn’t run in with the fire in his way. Nothing else he could do but shout at people who couldn’t hear him.

“Hey! Hey — there’s a fire! Hey! Please — someone!” 

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Ted was looking more and more like a child as he seemed to shrink in front of Rabastan, and the latter male drew a strong, vindictive pleasure from watching Ted squirm. He could feel a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lip,, and he complied with its request, a malicious smirk darkening the features of his face even more. Shadows cast a deep contrast over his features, making him look even more like a monster.

In the end, it wasn’t the blood that made Rabastan hate Ted, deep down. Sure, that was part of it, but deep down, it was the fact that Andromeda had chosen Ted over him. It was the fact that since she had left her family for Ted, she had left Rabastan behind as well. And for Rabastan, a man who felt nothing for his own family, even, to latch onto someone like Andromeda, to love her more than his own sibling, that was big. It was huge. At first, it had broken him.

Then he grew strong again. He taught himself to hate Ted and to hate this new life that she had created for himself--this new life that didn’t include him. He learned that Ted was wrong for his blood status, not for stealing his only friend. He learned that their daughter was filth because of Ted’s lineage. He learned that Andromeda was dead to him now. He learned that Andromeda had to be.

As the flames started to lick higher and higher at the building, Rabastan stepped back, a look of childlike joy in his eyes, the blue irises red with the reflection of the fire in front of him. He looked down at Ted, kicking the man once in the abdomen with a steel-toed boot. 

“Shut up.”

Rabastan knelt down, grabbing Ted’s chin with one hand and looking him directly in the eye as he said the next words. 

“You’d better hope that I don’t see you again.”

Roughly, Rabastan dropped his head before standing back up, adjusting his black coat around his shoulders before walking away, melting towards the night as people started to file into the street.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and James

[prongedpxtter]

Trying not to show any glimmer of fear or trepidation on his face as Rabastan made conniving moves towards him, the boy stood there, impervious to anything else that was going on around him. He was the only objective, the only distraction. But consequently, immobile was how he felt as he was pointing his wand at the Death Eater and not being able to really do much else but that. James was stricken by the absolute look of assurance for himself that Rabastan gave with every word, his tongue licking with contempt. It angered James to see the man standing before him so utterly self-confident in what he believed it, infuriating the boy to all ends knowing full well of the humane injustices circling around in his opposer’s head. But he said nothing, keeping his lips in a thin line. 

James furrowed his eyebrows as to what Rabastan was referring to. But his ears perked up the the distinguishable sound of rhythmically precise springs creaking, knowing full well what those sounds alluded to. Swallowing a dry patch he found forming in his mouth, he tried to formulate in his head what the reasons and intentions were for the man to ask him such a question. Was he trying to mess with his head? Toy with his thoughts? Try to divulge in the cycle in which his mind worked? Either way, James would have none of it. He wasn’t just going to allow this seemingly psychotic man to defeat him merely by his own thoughts.

“What do I make of love, in its rawest form of human interaction? I find it full of compassion with an understanding of another individual to fully trust one in their most vulnerable state. To feel this sort of empathy, you need something called a heart, which I’m sure is a term you’re not too familiar with.” James gave him nothing but coldness, his eyes not breaking contact whatsoever with the one standing opposite of himself. “Now tell me, why are you here? And don’t even try to reach for your wand because I’ll have you petrified and shipped off to Azkaban before you could even finish the thought of the premonition of doing so,” he ended with a snarl.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Rabastan was unimpressed by James Potter. The man in front of him was seeming more and more like some spoiled little boy, and this interaction, whatever it was, was growing easier and easier for Rabastan to control.The younger man obviously hadn’t been exposed, or made aware of, nonmagical manipulation very often, because Rabastan was playing with his mind as if it was putty in his hands. Rabastan took another drag from the cigarette, thoroughly underwhelmed by the infamous James Potter, the man who had captured so many hearts when he was younger, the star quidditch player and number one mischief maker. Rabastan didn’t see any of that--all that he saw in front of him was a scared little boy in way over his head.

And so, Rabastan used that to his advantage. He used the fact that James was younger, and therefore less experienced than Rabastan to his favour, trying his best to make sure that every step he took and very word his spoke and every move he made was precisely measured, down to his heartbeat, so that he could properly intimidate James into being even more terrified of him than Rabastan could have imagined was possible before. Rabastan had expected more than the slight man in front of him to try and stop him at this bookstore--then again, he knew that the chances of anyone finding him at all had been fairly slim anyway.

“Tell me will you? Will you destroy this bookstore in your attempt to destroy me?” Rabastan took a step forward, his boot squelching softly as the rubber heel of it became slightly saturated with gasoline. He stopped moving, the cigarette hanging dangerously out of the corner of his mouth, the smell of the charmed gasoline rise up from the floor and nearly causing Rabstan a headache--it seemed that nictoine was strong enough that the buzz would drown out the feeling that the fumes from the gas gave off. Rabstan reached up and, just before the cigarette would have dropped, hie catughtit, shfiting his grip so that he was holding it btween two fingers and released a stream of smoke off to the side.

Shaking his head ever-so-slightly in disappointment, Rabastan looked down for a moment before flicking his eyes back up to meet James’. “Is that what you think it is? That mummy and daddy didn’t love me enough, that my brother didn’t treat me well? That the nasty, dungeon-like home of the bigoted pureblood family treated me like a prisoner?” Rabastan took another step forward. “Is that the answer you’re looking for? Because I”m afraid, love, you won’t find it in the erotica section.”

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Alcohol & Bandages | December 7th, 1978 | The Leaky Cauldron | Rabastan and [OPEN]

Rabastan had blood on his hands.Metaphorically and literally.

Stumbling into the Leaky Cauldron when it was far too late, with blood-spattered clothing and shaking hands, he fumbled with the doorway to the bathroom, finally blasting it open in frustration, the nonverbal spell eliciting a small groan from the back of his throat as he staggered to the sink, the door completely off its hinges behind him as he ran his hand under the cold water, trying to assess the damage.

The water ran red with blood as it swirled down the drain.

His fingers trembled as the cold water seemed to burn his bruised and bloodied knuckles, and he bit back a loud groan that rumbled in the back of his throat as he turned his hand over to see the swollen mess that his hand had become. In all honesty, Rabastan probably needed some help, seeing as he could barely even close his wand hand without searing pain, but he was proud. He wasn’t about to ask anyone for anything. In this state, he was too angry and too hopped up on adrenaline to say anything to anyone.

He looked back down at his hand. This wasn’t looking good.

Rabastan tried to prod around his hand, seeing if he could massage the pain away, but it was a futile attempt. Even a single thought of moving his hand or his fingers sent stabbing pain signals up through his arm, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get the split and tender skin to stop bleeding. He was a mess, and he was starting to realize this. Looking up into the mirror, Rabastan cringed. He did not like what he saw. 

A bruise was forming spectacularly across his cheekbone, the greenish tint quickly blackening from the center of where the blow had landed outward, there was blood on the front of his blonde hair, the crimson liquid having dried quickly, leaving matted clumps hanging over his forehead. His eyes were tired and his vision was blurry, partially because of the possible concussion, partially because of the alcohol coursing through his veins.

Chuckling darkly, he looked back down at his hand. It’s a typical weeknight.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and Ted

[amesdiggory-deactivated20160804]

Momentarily, Ted wanted to know what was going through Rabastan’s head. All he knew was that he didn’t want to tick the other man off — though everything seemed to matter less when he asked about his daughter. The question caught him by surprise, and Ted found himself simply staring at Lestrange for a minute, until there was smoke in his face again.

Ted wanted to cough, though he held it back for reasons unknown to him. He could already imagine Andromeda asking him why he smelled like smoke, if he even made it home tonight. No — no, he wouldn’t let himself think like that. She would ask him if he’d gone out for a cigarette (probably with a funny look on her face, seeing how he didn’t smoke), and he’d tell her that he ran into an old friend of hers. He’d change, he would go to Nymphadora’s room just to make sure she was sleeping all right because young ones are prone to nightmares — he felt his heart warming just at the thought of her, and he couldn’t hide that rush of affection, even now. 

“Dora is…doing well.” He finally answered, after a moment of clear hesitation, “Growing very quickly. She looks like Andromeda a lot, and I always tell people that’s a good thing, because, well…” His words stopped there, as Ted realized the last thing he should be doing was having a conversation about his family. 

Rabastan surprised him for the second time that night with his curt answer. Ted was never the fastest nor the strongest one, physically, but he knew when people were uncomfortable. The subtle (though noticeable) change in Rabastan’s tone and attitude made him stand up just a little bit straighter, before he quickly glanced back to the window again. “Then why are you…” Ted frowned, trailing off. What reason did Rabastan have to be here, at this hour, if he didn’t even care?

“…They seem happy to be together. But I suppose you wouldn’t know unless you’ve really cared about someone else.” His words, this time, were meant to hurt, meant to show Rabastan that despite everything, Ted had something valuable in his life. With those harsher words, he knew he was walking on ice; but he knew just as well he would regret not saying anything at all. 

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Rabastan could feel the way that Ted’s eyes scrutinized him, glad to be that much of a mystery. What could he say? He liked to be this way. He liked the image that he put out, he liked the way that he scared other people, he liked the way that other people had a legitimate reason to fear him. He liked being the dark, violent, mysterious one of the lot. He liked being the wild card.

Chuckling softly, he took another drag. “I hear she can look like whoever she wants,” Rab replied, flicking his eyes up to meet Ted’s. Secretly, Rabastan had been keeping loose tabs on Andromeda and her family, wondering when the best time would be for him to meet with her, to ask her what the hell she was thinking with this family and this new life of hers. Was she just willing to leave him in the dust like that? 

Raising an eyebrow and regaining his composure, Rabastan took another drag. “Do you think I need a reason?” he asked, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. “I don’t think I need to explain myself to you, of all people.” He bit back his other comments, the ones about his father, and how he nearly killed the first boy Rabastan spent the night with, the way that his father forced him to meet with all of these pureblood women, how he had tried to beat the gay out of his son. How, after a while, he just stopped caring all together.

A dark laugh barked out of the back of his throat. Ted thought he was hot shit, wasn’t he? He thought he had Rabastan all figured out. “Oh, Ted, you figured me out,” he said, putting on a mocking voice as he took a step forward. He took the cigarette out from between his lips. “If only someone had hugged me when I was younger, if only I had learned how to love, if only I had been taken away from those nasty Slytherin friends of mine, from that nasty, bigoted family.” Rabastan took another step forward, starting to get uncomfortably close to Ted as his voice took on a more menacing tone.

“Do you think that I would have been all right if my mother had given me a hug? If my brother had treated me nicely? If my childhood hadn’t been a nightmare?” Rabastan reached a hand up and pushed Ted lightly, forcing him against the wall in front of him and moving so that they were only an inch apart. He took another drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke escape out of his mouth as he spoke. “Darling, I invented nightmares. You think my family is crazy? Then you obviously don’t know me.”

With that last sentence, he flicked the cigarette onto the charmed gasoline, hearing a soft whoosh as the store went up in flames. 

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and Ted

[amesdiggory-deactivated20160804]

It seemed that Ted was running into all the wrong people these days — it didn’t take him long to realize the man in front of him was none other than Rabastan Lestrange, a name whispered in the dark in hushed caution. That very man was now offering him a smoke, and Ted briefly wondered if a cigarette was really all that Rabastan had wanted. “Ah — hm. Thank you, but I don’t smoke. Not really, anyway. It’s just not the best idea when you’ve got a little one around the house.” He shook his head, words spilling out of him ungracefully. This was why he never became a gambling man, and why he could never become a solider — he was scared, and his face showed it. 

Still, something told him that Rabastan was here, in front of this specific store, for a reason. The harsh smell of the smoke hit Ted’s nose, causing him to grimace before he could even stop himself. What would happen when all of that cigarette burned away between Rabastan’s fingers? The air was cold but Ted’s ears felt hot, like his body was buzzing as it prepared itself for the worst. The younger man had seemed so detached (and irrelevant, even), during their years at Hogwarts, but so much had changed from those blessed times. 

"Make of…" Ted looked up at where Rabastan was staring, and it was obvious what the other man was pointing out. Granted, he didn’t have anyone close to him who was gay — none that he knew of, anyway — but he’d never been bothered by the idea. How hypocritical it would be if he was judging others for whom they fell in love with, when everyone else around him looked down upon his family for being less-than-pure. "Frankly, it’s really none of my business. I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to say. Do…Do you care? That they’re men?” 

Who knew why he even questioned the other man back — but every inch of his body was telling him to keep the conversation going. Rabastan had an advantage over him in this darkness, in this eerie silence, and Ted would not let him win so easily. “…I won’t stand here and let you hurt these people, so you should — you should just walk away.” 

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Oh, how easy it was to make others squirm. Rabastan considered it a natural talent, his unnerving stare and his terrifying silence. He liked being this way--this was what he was good at, and this was what gave him pleasure in this godforsaken city and this godforsaken war. 

And Ted was the perfect--for lack of a better word--victim for Rabastan’s talents. He could almost see the man visibly shaking in front of him and he could smell the fear and sweat rolling off him in waves. Rab took another drag from his cigarette, looking at Ted with a raised eyebrow. Was this really what Andromeda forsook her family for? He was weak. He was inferior. He didn’t have any qualities that Rabastan could take in on first sight that were worth leaving generations of pureblooded happiness. He was not impressed by Andromeda’s choice.

“Hmm? And how is your...little one?” Rabastan was genuinely interested this time. Any child of Andromeda’s was someone he cared about, even if it was with this quivering mess of a man in front of him, even if the child was some halfblood. Rabastan cared about Andromeda, and, in the end, that child was a part of her now as well. He placed the cigarette between his lips, clamping down on it with his teeth and enjoying the feeling of heavy smoke infiltrating his body.

He blew rings around Ted’s face. The man looked like he just might faint.

“No.” Rabastan took the cigarette out from between his teeth, almost spitting the smoke out. He didn’t want to think about his family’s disapproval of gay men, and how Rabastan didn’t fit into their little molds of how romance was supposed to work. He regretted asking the question at all.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and James

[prongedpxtter]

The only reason why James found himself at a ruddy bookcstore was solely onthe request of Lily’s seemingly good intentions. Of course she wanted him to relax two days before the very first mission he was assigned to by Dumbledore, and his constant pacing around her apartment didn’t help his case at all. Whether it was for the reason that she wanted him to relax or the fact that his nonstop walk up and down the same stretch of hardwood was something she found insufferable, the girl had (forcibly) beckoned him out of her place. As she was pushing him out her front door, the redhead suggested a bookstore she had wanted to take a visit too for a while now and for him to give her the lowdown of the place before she went. With a final smirk, she closed the door and James had no other option than to explore the little recluse.

It wasn’t hard to find the bookstore considering her description of the place as being one of, as she put it, “peculiar attributes.” It stood out against all of its neighbors by having outer walls comprised of neon colors as opposed to the staleness of muted red bricks of the surrounding buildings. The lavishly decorated sign and window displayed of equally immoderate books set James’ premonition of the place as the one that Lily had described. He sighed as he entered the bookshop, noting in his mind that the damn redhead definitely owed him one.

James perused the bookshelves, a bit thrown back by the themes of sexual exploits and desirable insights, even a few mentions of hallucinogenic means of reaching a thing called “nirvana,” whatever that was. Nonetheless, he was a bit intrigued by the whole scheme of the place, with its radical sense of exploration of oneself. As he rounded a corner with a bit of curiosity, he found a man striking a match a bit too close to the inevitably flammable pages of the books. But suddenly, his face completely hardened at the recognizable face of none other than Rabastan Lestrange. For Order purposes, James had tirelessly spent hours researching and mentally memorizing in the deepest corners of headquarters, learning their pasts, learning their faces, learning their intentions. And with everything that James had researched, Rabastan wasn’t one to take lightly. Swiftly, he took his wand from his pocket and had his arm straight down, with his wrist flexed slightly upwards so that the tip of the wand was in direct fire of the Death Eater.

“I wouldn’t strike that any closer if I were you, mate. Why don’t you put that down and we can have a nice chat about it outside, eh? I don’t want to cause much trouble,” he said inauspiciously with a cold stare.  

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Rabastan could hear James moving from a mile away, but he figured if he could get this place alight before apparating, hey, he might be able to kill two birds with one stone--well, really, it was more like three. Rabastan, however, was caught in the act, as he thought he might be, and he looked up with a slightly amused expression. Rabastan produced a cigarette, seemingly from nowhere, lighting it up carefully before waving his fingers slightly to extinguish the match. He he held the still smoldering matchstick dangerously close to a bookshelf, a smirk on his face as he took a drag before blowing careful smoke rings in James’ face.

“What, are you going to blast me away in the middle of Muggle London? In this lovely little bookshop?” he said, with his teeth still clamped around the cigarette. He took it out, tapping the ashes off carelessly near the gasoline, not caring whether or not he lit the place up. He wasn’t looking to have some friendly little chat with the marauder in front of him--James was weak, weak of mind, weak of body, weak in magic, and Rabastan felt nothing but disgust and shame when he saw James. What kind of pureblood associated himself with those kinds of people? Rabastan blinked innocently, looking up to the apartment where the couple must have, inevitably, been having sex, listening to the sound of bedsprings screeching with the same, cruelly amused expression on his face. 

“What do you make of that?” he asked, tilting his head, and gesturing up to the ceiling with the cigarette in his hand before taking another drag. Rabastan would be lying if he said he wasn’t mildly interested in James’ response--a gay couple having sex right above them? What did James, pristine, untouchable, always-forgivable, James have to say about that? Could this be another reason for Rabastan to hate him? It’s not that Rabastan needed another one, but he couldn’t help but love to hate people. 

Secretly, Rabastan was a little disappointed to be burning this shop in particular. He loved to burn, oh, how he loved to burn, but he couldn’t help but wish that the two people upstairs, who had already received enough shit for the same thing that he was, go through more. Then again, Rabastan was cruel. He was heartless. In the end, it was no skin off his nose.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Run Like Hell | December 5th, 1978 | Ministry of Magic | Rabastan and Rodolphus

Rabastan had been expecting this task to fall too him and Rodolphus.

Despite the burning enmity between the brothers, in the end, they were brothers, and they worked well in tandem. They had the same cruelty, the same blood running through their veins, and it seemed sometimes that they had a telepathic connection. Rabastan had never been close to Rodolphus, and he was sure that Rodolphus had never cared much for him, but they still managed to be fairly similar. Besides, with Rabastan taking care of all of the preparation, and Rodolphus taking charge, the duo were a seemingly unstoppable juggernaut. 

Of course, Rabastan pretended like that meant nothing to him.

Somewhere deep down, the younger of the two brothers always felt the need to prove his worth to the older brother who never cared for him. Somewhere deep down, Rabastan always wanted to be seen as someone useful to Rodolphus, someone who couldn't be replaced so easily. He wanted to be something more than just a punching bag for an adolescent Rodolphus and he wanted to be something more than just a pesky younger brother. However, Rabastan never showed this--he never showed his cards, not even to his brother. Especially to his brother.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Rabastan took the cigarette out from between his lips as he waited for his older brother. He had already taken his Polyjuice Potion and was now waiting outside of the Ministry’s entrance, transformed from the muscular blonde he was to a tall, slightly wiry, dark-haired man. He adjusted his tie, trying to get used to his long limbs as he scanned the street for his brother, who should be changed into another person as well. 

When Rabastan saw him, he couldn't stop himself from snorting. “You look rather lovely,” he said to his brother--who, he supposed, he should call his sister now. 

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and Ted

[amesdiggory-deactivated20160804]

There was something peaceful about walking through London.

To be more specific, there was something peaceful about walking through a place with no expectations. No one knew he was a wizard, and for a brief moment, at least, he felt completely unburdened. In the midst of Purebloods and half-bloods, Ted knew he could be picked out like a cherry, but here? Where muggles lived and didn’t look twice at him? But the serenity in his mind didn’t last for long, as he remembered why he’d come down to London in the first place. Being around so many Order members, he had recently overheard them talking about the recent violence (apparently) caused by Death Eaters. Ted could never go on one of those dangerous missions, no, mostly because he hardly knew how to protect himself or defend himself. Still, he found himself always wanting to do something, anything, and right now, all he could do was scope around the area to see if he could spot anything suspicious. The fighting, he would leave up to those who were more capable. 

As he walked through the darkened streets, he spotted a small, but beautiful little bookstore to his left. Ted was momentarily reminded of the last unpleasant encounter he had at a bookstore and furrowed his brows — thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange never failed to make his stomach turn — until he saw a tiny glint of light out of the corners of his eyes. The night barely allowed him to make out what was happening, but it was clear that there was a man standing there, with what seemed like fire in his hands, though he couldn’t spot a cigarette or anything else the fire could be used to light. A cold shiver ran down Ted’s spine.

"You ought to be careful with those matches," He called out, nothing but the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. Wherever he managed to find this sense of false bravery, he didn’t know, but all he knew at that moment was that he could feel it in his bones that the other man was ill-intentioned.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Rabastan looked up, and his lip nearly curled in disgust. Instead of letting his first instinct take over, a skill he had honed for a long time, he simply looked up at Ted with a neutral expression on his face. He waved his hand once and extinguished the light. Ted Tonks wasn't someone he wanted to burn alive--not yet,anyway. No, instead, Rabastan took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, casually tapping one out before offering the box to the other man. He put the cigarette in his mouth before striking another match and lighting up and then flicking the flames away from him before he burned himself.

Ted Tonks. He was the mudblood Andromeda had married--his friend Andromeda had married this filth. It nearly made Rabastan's blood boil. He took a drag from the cigarette before taking it out of his mouth with two fingers, stepping back from the storefront that had been doused in gasoline, still not saying anything before he turned to the other man again. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, took a drag, then took it out again, letting the smoke make his lungs thick and heavy before he slowly let it escape as he spoke in his quiet, low timbre, his tone lethal. "Ted Tonks," he replied, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. "Feeling good tonight, aren't we?"

Holding the matchbook in one hand, he spun it between his fingers, letting it roll across his knuckles slowly as he took another drag from his cigarette. Tonight felt like a night for smoking quickly--like a night for absorbing as much negativity as he could. After all, he was Rabastan Lestrange. How much worse could he get? He looked up at the windows above the store, where a light had come on, and the silhouettes of two men who were impossibly close to each other came into focus. He curled his lip slightly. At least Rabastan had the decency for a little bit of discretion--these two men seemed to enjoy attracting all the wrong attention. He looked at Ted again, his icy blue irises flicking up to the windows then back to Ted's face quickly. "What do you make of that?" 

Rabastan couldn't care less what the other's opinion was of anything. He just was stalling until he could figure out exactly would cause the most destruction.

[ourdaysarenumbered-rp-blog-blog]

RABASTAN LESTRANGE

Alliance: death eater Faceclaim: Max Thieriot Age: b. October 15th, 1953 Availability: taken

PAST

Rabastan was never the golden child.

It was just a fact that Rabastan was less liked than his older brother. He wasn’t as charming, as suave, as cool as Rodolphus, and that completelydestroyed him inside. Rodolphus used him, abused him, and Rabastan just sat there and took it. He took the punishments and he took everything that Rodolphus and his parents always threw his way. When he went to Hogwarts, and Rodolphus still treated him badly, Rabastan didn’t pay any attention. He was biding his time, spending most hours of the day alone, practicing magic and waiting until the day when he could show Rodolphus that he was, in fact, just as good. If not better. That day hasn’t come yet, but that doesn’t mean that Rabastan has stopped waiting.

Upon entering Hogwarts, Rabastan shamed his parents in the worst way. Instead of being sorted into Slytherin, like his “perfect” older brother, he was sorted into Ravenclaw, much to his parents’ disgust. While he had all the qualities of a Slytherin, with his cunning and his shrewdness, above all, Rabastan was beyond intelligent. He was always smarter than he had let on to Rodolphus, and it showed. Because of this, the headmaster had looked upon Rabastan with pity. He thought that Rabastan’s sorting into Ravenclaw was proof of a schism between him and his parents, between him and the darkness that came with being in a Death Eater family. He had tried to recruit Rabastan into the Order of the Phoenix, but Rabastan turned him down. Make no mistake—just because he wore blue when he was student didn’t mean that he was any less serpentine than his Slytherin counterparts.

During his time at Hogwarts, Rabastan was always looked upon with disgust by both supporters of the Dark Lord and supporters of Albus Dumbledore. His silence when his friends were doing what they considered “pranks,” those dark, dark magical jokes played on muggle-borns was considered support for those “filthy mudbloods” by the Death Eaters in training, and support for those “pureblood maniacs” by those who were antagonized and those who stood by and watched. It was neither of these things. Rabastan saw no point in bringing the war to Hogwarts through these petty curses when Albus Dumbledore was just a stone’s throw away.No, he spent his time at Hogwarts learning. He spent his time getting better at magic and better at fighting and better at everything that he could possibly imagine.

He dabbled in Dark Magic as well, during his time at Hogwarts. He spent a lot of time sneaking into the Restricted Section, or telling Professor Slughorn that he wanted to see a specific book about Potions, and then taking that opportunity to read the books about ancient curses and spells so black he could hardly believe they were true. He has all of this magic tucked away in the back of his mind, ready for use at any moment. Rabastan generally uses the more common spells and hexes, but when he gets angry, everything is fair game. This magic isn’t something that you want to mess with unless you’re absolutely sure: and the dark side of Rabastan was. Rabastan spent a lot of time by himself, growing up. Without the support of his more popular older brother, he was left out in the cold. Rabastan didn’t have many friends, and the few that he did have never knew of the malice and darkness residing in his heart. All that time spent alone was time spent practicing to hide his true self, to lull others into a sense of false security and to pretend that yes, he was, in fact, different from his maniacal family.

Do you want to know the truth?

He was the craziest of them all.

PRESENTLY

When it came time, when he finally left school, Rabastan knew that he wanted to join forces with the Death Eaters. For a good second, he had considered the Order of the Phoenix, but he knew, in the end, that he wouldn’t be able to fulfill his dark fantasies under the iron-fisted rule of Albus Dumbledore. He wanted to serve a higher purpose, and he knew that the Death Eaters, along with having that higher purpose, would allow him to practice Dark Magic the way he wanted to—and, in the end, despite all of the fighting and all of the detestation between him and his former schoolmates, his lineage and his talent managed to get him into the ranks of the Dark Lord.

Rabastan is often used as an attack dog, of sorts, for the Dark Lord. His extreme capability for  violence has come in handy. He still doesn’t have many people he calls his friends, but that doesn’t matter to him. It used to bother him, but not anymore. Rabastan has let himself show who he really is, which is just about the most terrifying thing that he could show anyone. He doesn’t care much for other people, taking after his brother in the way that he looks down on just about anyone. He doesn’t take Rodolphus’ shit anymore, and he hasn’t for quite a long time. Rabastan isn’t afraid to show Rodolphus how much magic he really knows, and Rabastan thinks that Rodolphus is only better in the fact that he’s larger and stronger.

He often spends his time at the Leaky Cauldron or in Knockturn Alley, trying to listen in on other conversations, picking up bits of information that will be useful to him in future. He doesn’t always report this information, however: some of the juicy pieces, he keeps for himself, because, in the end, the Dark Lord is just another way for him to show that he is better than everyone else. And that’s something that Rabastan needs.

PERSONALITY

Rabastan is cruel, calculating, and he isn’t afraid to take what he wants. He has an outstanding capacity for violence, almost terrifyingly so. He is very,very good at magic, but he has been known on more than one occasion to forsake his magical skill to pick up a weapon and rely on his physical strength and brute force to get the job done. Everyone knows about this, and, because of it, most tend to be a bit careful around him. While he’s cool and collected on the outside, he’s a typhoon on the inside, and once he gets angry, that storm is unleashed. He doesn’t hold back, not for anyone. Not even if they’re on “his side.” He measures everything he does, careful to never slip up. Everything he says is planned carefully and everything he does is calculated down to the heartbeat. He doesn’t fool around.

TRAITS

[ + ] intelligent, collected, organised / [ - ] violent, cold, detached

KNOWN CANON FACTS + FUTURE

Rabastan has one sibling, Rodolphus, and attended Hogwarts in the 70s.

When Lord Voldemort rose to power, Rabastan - as well as his brother - joined him, and were counted among his most loyal servants.

Sentenced to life in Azkaban for his part in the torturing of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Escaped Azkaban in 1996, and participated in the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, where his head was transformed into a baby’s. After this, he was presumably sent back to Azkaban, only to escape again in 1997.

It is unknown if Rabastan participated in the Battle of Hogwarts, how or when he died, or if he was ever recaptured.

CONNECTIONS

ANDROMEDA TONKS — undecided. Andromeda’s decision to betray her family for the mudblood Tonks sent ripples through the pureblood community. Rabastan and Andromeda had always been amicable during Hogwarts, but he can’t understand her decision - and with rumours of her involvement with the Order, Rabastan wants answers.

PETER PETTIGREW — acquaintance. Rabastan sees Peter as the weakest of the Marauders, and has been taking every opportunity to corner Peter and talk to him about the perks of being a Death Eater.

JAMES POTTER — enemy. Arrogant and self-righteous, Rabastan loathes everything Potter stands for; Rabastan is waiting for the order from Voldemort for a chance to take Potter down and show him his proper place.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Fahrenheit 451 | Lower East London | December 3, 1978 | Rabastan and [OPEN]

It was a special pleasure to burn. 

It was even more pleasurable when it was in order to put the filth in their place. It was a muggle bookstore, nothing special, some dive owned by two older men who were completely open in their affection towards each other--an advantage, Rabastan supposed, a little fact that would make this crime deemed one of hate by muggles, throwing any suspicion, if there were to be any in the first place, off him. He had his wand in his long jacket, but he had decided to forgo the use of magic. There were too many witnesses, too many chances for him to get caught on some sort of technicality, and, frankly, it was far more enjoyable with a gallon of gasoline and a book of matches in his hand. He grinned to himself in the darkness, his white teeth forming a leer that seemed to glow through the night. 

He hadn't been told to do this. He hadn't gotten some order from above to make sure that this specific shop get burnt or to enact a hate crime against these two men. No, Rabastan had found out about them and had decided to do this himself. He wasn't angry because they were gay--hell, he was about as gay as they came, and he wasn't that much of a hypocrite--not when it came to this. It was because, or so he had heard, one of the men in the flat above the bookstore was some squib and the other was a mudblood who had both forgone a  life in the Wizarding World to be down here with the rest of the filth. Rabastan wasn't particularly impressed.

And, besides, after perusing the titles in their store that afternoon, they were exactly the sort of hippies who deserved to be burned anyway.

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Mornings After | December 1st, 1978 | Leaky Cauldron | Rabastan & Evan

[xrosier-blog]

It was no surprise to Evan that nothing interesting had come to find itself slipping past the Ministry’s censorship rules despite the clarity of everything that was happening before them. Often he wondered if they were simply saving everyone from what was already so plainly obvious before them: the damned muggles didn’t have a chance. Just the thought was enough to bring about a glint in Evan’s eye - he wouldn’t be fully satisfied until they were all brought to their knees, enslaved or dead before his very feet. As much as he wanted to see them suffer, nothing would bring him quite so much joy as the overwhelming sense of accomplishment that came with watching the light leave another’s eyes.

At the other man’s question, Evan simply raised his eyebrows knowingly, offering him nothing more than a quick wink. While it was surprising that he remembered the events of the night before, he tried his best to suppress them in order to save from allowing the grin to take over the rest of his features. Even if it had now been proven just how submissive he was elsewhere, Rosier was more than determined not to let it slip into other parts of his life. Settling himself in a more comfortable position once it was realised that he was welcome to stay, the Death Eater perched the side of his head against his hand, allowing him to more comfortably glance at Rabastan.

"Guess ye could call it a rough night - slept with some tosspot who thought it’d be a good idea to mark his territory. Between you an’ I, I’d say he was pretty mediocre if you ask me."

Turning towards the barkeep briefly, Evan gave the man a quick nod that spoke far more than any words could at the time - Tom knew his usual was on the house, something that could easily be paid for through other methods. His tongue flickered out briefly, running across his chapped lower lip before disappearing once more.

At the mention of their ‘mutual friend’, Evan sat a little straighter in his chair, somewhat proud of himself already. “‘eard from him last week actually - got some… business… to do down in Diagon, nothin’ special, but I ain’t complainin’. I’d rather raid the shops than wait around any longer to ‘ave some fun.” It was almost surprising that he’d been chosen for something so close to home, though at the same time it seemed logical - the new recruits were far more disposable, though Evan saw it as a challenge in which to prove himself rather than a death sentence. “Wha’ ‘bout yourself?”

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Rabastan wasn't impressed with Rosier. He was weak. Spineless. He took another drag of his cigarette, looking at the other man with only a hint of malice in his eye, not wanting to wreck any future, drunken chances he had, but also not wanting the other to stay. Generally, Rabastan wasn't one for much company, especially this early in the morning, and even more specifically with whoever he had spent the night before with. He wasn't one to do a whole bed and breakfast--just the bedding would be fine for him. However, he also realized that Rosier was going to be staying with him for the foreseeable future, thanks to their "mutual friend," and so, Rabastan had to put up with him. One wrong step, and things would unravel very quickly.

Leaning further back into his chair so that it was tilted ever-so-slightly, he let smoke escape out of the corner of his mouth and his nose, holding his cigarette delicately between two fingers as he looked over to the door, watching the wizard walk in with two witches, his smirk now gone and his hawk-like eyes surveying the landscape of the pub this morning. It seemed as though it was busier than other mornings, that people were really swarming in today. He looked over at Tom, the bartender, but the man seemed just as confused as Rabastan was. He shrugged off the curiosity, looking back at Rosier with just a slight tinge of disgust in his expression.

That accent. Godric, didn't anyone teach him to articulate? Rabastan didn't reply, his good humour from that morning wearing off as he took another sip of his coffee. This was a bad idea. Why did he even invite Rosier to this table with that wink? Rabastan stared at his steel-toed boots, which were just close enough to the other man that he could pretend that he was actually focusing on the mediocrity in front of him, but still look at something that was definitely far more interesting than the man on the other side of this conversation. His mind was now wandering, only half-listening to whatever horse shit the other was spouting at that moment. 

When Evan started talking, Rabastan's eyes widened, and they flicked to Evan's, their icy blue iris locking with his in a definite show of shut the hell up right now before I make you do it. He was speaking too much, giving up too much information, saying too many things all at once. Did he not notice where they were? Did he not care? Rabastan took another drag from his cigarette, waiting for Rosier to finish--cutting him off would sound even more suspicious to the people at the next table.

"Rosier," he muttered, his voice lethally quiet. "Shut. Up."

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Mornings After | December 1st, 1978 | Leaky Cauldron | Rabastan & Evan

[xrosier-blog]

If he’d have been any less sober, Evan mightn’t have believed just what he’d been through the previous night. Just the memories were enough to bring a smile to his ever-smirking lips, though the slight discomfort he felt whenever the fabric of his robes chafed against the scratch marks was enough to bring him close to hysterical.

It had been a good night.

The only downside had been waking up in a dingy bed in the Leaky Cauldron rather than his own warm four-poster back at the Manor, though he couldn’t say that he’d have preferred another night alone. Evan had come dangerously close to bringing muggle girls back home before, only to discard later on of course, though he’d always figure that abstinence would do him some good. Focussing on missions wasn’t exactly easy when there were still certain distractions hanging around in his bed the morning of, and being dragged back for round two had never been something he’d been able to avoid.

It hadn’t taken him long to dress and make himself look somewhat presentable, though he kept the red lines that crossed both his chest and shoulders completely visible to those who might have laid eyes on him. Shame was a foreign word to Rosier, something he’d managed to suppress years ago thanks to those awful muggle relatives. Though he would never admit it, they had done him some good: steeled him for the outside world and toughened him up enough to face the demands that came with being part of the Dark Lord’s following. It was a strange start to life that he’d had, though he feared growing up any other way would have made him soft… and he couldn’t have that.

Running a calloused hand back through his hair, Evan realised just how horrific he looked in comparison to his usual self. Of course, with an unshaven jaw and long, unkempt hair he was not exactly the picture of sophistication, but some effort was usually made on his appearance before he left the house. Running a hand gently over the scratches on his neck, he glanced absently towards the bar in search of Tom, the young bartender that had seemingly taken a shine to Evan, though nobody could exactly be sure why. The sentiment was only a convenience to him of course - while there was no suspicion of who (or rather what) he was just yet, Evan found it particularly refreshing that there would never be an accusation while he was in Tom’s pub, and for that he was thankful. 

Upon scanning the faces at the bar, he recognised one almost instantly, to which his smirk only widened. His feet started forward before he even realised that was where he wanted to go, and Evan wasn’t exactly one to deny the sense of amusement that he felt within him.

"Bit early for tha’, isn’t it?" he chuckled, taking up the seat next to Rabastan. "Anythin’ interesting to report, or is it all bullshit as usual?"

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Rabastan reached out for the coffee nearby, taking a sip as he put the still smoldering cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Looking up at Evan, he blew a long stream of smoke out of the corner of his lip away from the other man, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he surveyed the damage done around his neck and shoulders. Looking back down at the paper, a smirk lit up his features as he remembered what had happened last night.

What could he say? Rabastan liked it a little rough.

He shrugged one shoulder, picking up his cigarette again and placing it between his lips, taking a slow drag and enjoying it. He never was a fast smoker--he could make a single cigarette last as long as he wanted. He wasn't smoking to die, smoking to turn his lungs into tar and his body into ash, no. He was smoking because he loved the feeling of darkness filling his body as the thick gray smoke entered, and he loved the burning in the back of his throat as he expelled it back again. It was rare to see Rabastan without a cigarette in his mouth and a hint of a smirk on his face when he wasn't fulfilling a mission for the Dark Lord. He was practically oozing with an aura of "cool" of "couldn't care less" without even meaning to (though, it sure as hell was nice when he needed to be calm).

"Usual bollocks," he replied with the cigarette between his lips. He looked Rosier over again, admiring the red lines of fingernail scratches on the other's body. "Rough night?" he asked, raising an eyebrow ever-so-slightly before looking back at the Prophet. There was the obligatory vapid gossip-reporting, the useless entertainment news, the Muggle news he really couldn't care less for, and then, he was back at the beginning, at the stories he had been skimming earlier. Rabastan neatly folded the newspaper back up, putting it down on the table next to his feet before reaching up at taking the cigarette out of his mouth with two fingers. He let the smoke slowly escape his mouth as he spoke.

"Heard anything from our mutual friend?" he asked quietly, not even looking at Evan as he spoke. They both must have been thinking it, Rabastan was just asking it--what did the Dark Lord have in store for them this time? He couldn't be the only one who was curious. Besides, Rabastan's bloodlust had been growing over the past few weeks, a lot of violent energy getting pent-up inside him. However, Rabastan knew that he had to be clever. He had to be willing to wait his turn and wait for a long time if he was going to get the types of assignments that he desired.

Looking up, Rabastan met Evan's eyes with his piercing gaze. It wouldn't take much to let Rabastan know that yes, an owl would be coming soon. 

[rabastanxthexstrange-blog]

Mornings After | December 1st, 1978 | Leaky Cauldron | Rabastan &

Rabastan frequented the Leaky Cauldron.

For reasons that he could never explain to anyone, lest he end up in the hands of the law, or worse, some imbeciles, the Leaky Cauldron perfectly filled out his purposes when it came to getting what he wanted. The bartender was discreet, the innkeeper blissfully ignorant, the maid a bit gossipy but vapid with lower-than-average intelligence all the same. That was why he felt perfectly comfortable here, with his feet up on the table and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He didn't care who saw him here--none of them would suspect a thing, and he figured that was a good thing in this situation. 

He spun his wand between his fingers as he read the Prophet, wondering who had been killed the night before with mild interest. He figured that he should check if Rodolphus' body had been found--Rabastan didn't care much for his brother alive, but if Rodolphus was dead, he figured that it was his duty to relay the information to his parents. Neither of them read the Prophet anyway.

As he flipped through the pages, the soft crinkling sounds drowned out by the low roar of chatter surrounding him, he looked up. There he was, descending the stairs--the man he had slept with the night before. While Rabastan looked just fine, prim and proper and perfectly manicured, the other seemed a bit worse for wear. Rabastan had been rough the night before--as the other's robes pulled back ever so slightly, the scratch marks were still visible on his muscular forearms. Rabastan's lips curved up into the slightest hint of a smirk.

This was always his favourite part--watching the walk of shame he could so easily avoid. Rabastan looked just fine, his long coat hanging, neatly folded, on the chair he was sitting on, his clothes without even a speck of dust sullying the black. He looked up at his...friend from the night before and winked without smiling any more than he already was--even this was a bit excessive for Rabastan. He blinked once as he watched the man before looking back down at the newspaper in his hands. He lifted his cigarette to his lips and took another drag.

Figuring that Rod's name wasn't in there, he let his mind un-focus slightly, now only skimming the print on the page while simultaneously listening to the chatter around him. He put the cigarette between his lips as he turned the page towards the obituaries, wondering who he was going to add to the list that night.