mageics:
If he’s annoyed to have his hair mussed, he doesn’t show it other than attempting to smooth it back out as he falls in step with his brother. He’s quiet, trying to remember if he’d been allowed to sit with Rodolphus at the Welcome Feast before.
He is also content to walk in silence, remembering. It had been four years now, nearly to the hour, that an eleven-year-old Rabastan had tugged at his sleeve, looking for his place at the Slytherin table. Rodolphus remembers the sheer pride he’d felt when Rab had been Sorted — that’s my brother! he’s my brother!— and wonders where that was in the subsequent years. Nostalgia’s a funny thing.













