The day after her little incident at the Spiny Serpent had been, well, an endless fucking nightmare. Regardless of the fact that Marlene woke up at the ass crack of dawn after only getting a few hours, she was refreshed & recharged after the first night of dreamless sleep she had experienced in years. She was mortified by her initial response to the horror that had unfolded at her hands - an overwhelming sense of numbness. Detachment. Ease. A weird sense of validation. A calm she had never felt before, like the thudding organ in her chest had… turned off. It was gone as soon as she realized it though, with a precursory glance at the clock, her lethargy fading into an overwhelming anxiety with the time.
Despite the hangover slowing the synapses firing in her brain, her hands were already shaking before she had even crawled out of bed. It was a Saturday, which meant game day, and Marlene had stupidly left her sanctioned mode of transportation behind at the bar of her boss, who certainly wasn’t going to take well to her exponentially growing lapses in judgement. Maybe they were more alike than she thought. So with a gasp and a toss of her comforter, Marlene was thrown ass over end trying to get robed up & out her door, clambering toward the rooftop, an old Cleansweep from her Scotland days with the Wanderers in hand. They were playing the Falmouth Falcons at their stadium ( – a brutish team that made up for their lack of talent or speed with unsportsmanlike conduct ), and naturally, she was going to be late. Even with the wind to her back, Marlene barely made it to the pitch on time, having just enough to swap her Cleansweep out for a spare Comet lying around before she was lining up for take-off.
….They lose, but not remarkably so; no fault of anyone’s except the Seeker being outwitted, and Marlene’s not about to point that finger today. In fact, Marlene’s pleasantly surprised to be informed that she had achieved her best stats yet of the season, a feat she hadn’t expected under the conditions she arrived in. However, the good moment doesn’t last forever; she’s barely out of the pitch, not even out of her robes yet before she’s being yanked into the coach’s office, where a furious Billy sat peering at her over steepled fingers. The conversation that unfolded wasn’t polite by any means - Marlene riding a high tide of confidence, Billy enraged by her constant dereliction - so it ended with a punishment; Marlene was to put in hours at Billy’s bar to work down all the trouble she’s caused him, play Celebrity Bartender and rack in the customers with her status alone, leaving the actual work to his actual workers. She’s quickly and quietly informed she was not allowed anywhere near his basement operations again, a blip that both agitated & relieved her. She doesn’t want to feel either, however, so she just accepted the punishment on the spot, and hopes to go on with her life. ( To be fair, it isn’t that bad of a gig - she shows up late, leaves before closing time, guarantees the bartenders make double their usual tip amount, and ends up drinking a bottle of Firewhiskey just to get the taste of rust out of her mouth, salivating each time the basement door opens. )
Three days of this pass before she received the broom from her doorman, the package eliciting a beaming smile from the girl ( a gesture of goodwill from Billy? ) until the aging man handed over an unmarked envelope, grin faltering into an expression of caution as Marlene exchanged pleasantries before heading back up to floor seven. The delivery of fear right to her doorstep - he knew her darkness, he knew where she lived, he knew her name, he still had her stuff - should’ve sent her into a blind rage, or a panicked hostility, but instead, Marlene felt… Well, seen wasn’t the right word. She was a bloody celebrity nowadays. To be honest, the words inscribed in the letter ( which had thudded through her brain ever since like a coiling nightmare waiting to unfold, but never had ) did nothing; it was like Scotland all over again. The danger was so near, her body simply turned off its fight or flight response. Just going to make her anxious? Well, no bloody use to her then - off it went, and soon, Marlene had swept out her door to make use of the residual sunlight, and track where this letter came from. Habit took her to Gringotts, but the goblins were fucking useless after she hopelessly stammered when prompted for a name, before getting kicked out.
No matter. She knew where to get information on people like that, exactly the same place she had found her nameless demon. Billy, unwittingly, became her saving grace. She was right in the middle of schmoozing her least favorite bartender for some information, Dolly or whatever, casually shoving Galleons in her tip jar to try and knock anything loose, before her boss intervened. “Unfuckingbelievable,” came Billy’s interruption, Marlene widening pleading eyes in his direction before tossing him a Galleon of his own, prompting him forward, “McKinnon, get your head out of your ass for five seconds, for Merlin’s fucking sake. Your friend Rabastan took the fuckin’ broom off my hands on Friday, after that lil’ stunt you pulled in the basement - bet he’s keepin’ it for blackmail or somethin’, it’s what I’d do if I was him.” Worthy of noting, but Marlene’s not listening to Billy before he’s done speaking. She’s too focused on the bucket of ice water that just got dumped down her back, all the limbs of her body going rigid as she paused in place. She doesn’t need any more information than that; she practically sprinted back to Gringotts, panting out his name and tacking on Lestrange for good measure as she forked the letter over, knowing in her heart that her suspicions were correct. It’s only confirmed when the goblin handed her back…. a key?
A key, unmarked and without instructions. What a fucking asshole. She still had daylight to spare, thankful for her day off, and with her broom back in possession, Marlene had no qualms about attempting to trace it again, despite the little puzzle he had presented her the first go around. She can’t quit just yet; she has to take the Knight Bus to Manchester to finish the last leg of her journey, but as she approached an otherwise unassuming building with the sun setting behind her, she finally found… pause. Marlene had wrestled with the deeply unsettling feeling of guilt since their time together. Not over what she had done, or almost did, or whatever had happened in the alleyway after ( she didn’t have the emotional maturity to unpack all of that by herself ) - no, she felt guilty because the next morning, the all-too familiar weight of the sheathed metal blade that resided in her sock was gone without a trace. The blade that tied her to Mulciber. The blade that tied her to murder. The key to her demise, resting in the hands of a Death Eater. To receive a key back suddenly felt… ominous. Like a trap. So the feral dog of a girl paced up and down the sidewalk outside, unsure whether to traipse forward with her wand blazing, or to maybe call for backup - but who would she call? - or, finally, to just… leave. Until she could do this - until it felt right to leap before she looked, like it had that dastardly night that got her into this mess. Today wasn’t going to be that day.
The next day didn’t pan out either. Nor the next. Soon, several days had come and gone with Marlene going through the motions, brain shut off to keep from launching into overdrive, heart in its usual, useless condition of barely existing. In fact, almost weeks go by since the incident, and still, Marlene couldn’t find it in herself to pluck up the courage to just…. do… anything. So instead, she threw the key on a chain, strung it around her neck for safekeeping, and distracted herself ‘til kingdom come. It was in the midst of this depressive turmoil that he found her, obviously tired of waiting for her next move - Marlene, agitated and hangry, scowling at the six heads still in front of her at the falafel truck, wondering why she tolerated Muggle establishments when they took so bloody long to finish anything.
Fancy seeing you here, Killer. She’s not sure if it’s the statement, the pet name, the sudden proximity, or the sheer fucking audacity of this guy, but sadly, Marlene recognized the voice immediately, with uncomfortable clarity ( she had heard it ringing between her ears for days now - don’t think, ride the wave - and there’s no doubt her brain cataloged that little sentence away as well, ravenous for another tidbit of his attention ). Blonde hair flared from her shoulders in a curtain-closed motion, her entire posture tightening as nails pressed into the dents of her elbows, wide eyes finding him easily enough, even though he was different now. “Don’t call me that,” was said in a pleasant enough tone, sugar fucking sweet in fact, except that’s what made it not so nice after all; a snarl of a smile passed over her lips, canines bared, discomfort palatable. She made a show of looking around to make sure no one was watching them, eyes scanning the crowds passing by across the street, like an Order member or a Death Eater were about to jump out at any minute, and catch them.
“You…?” was all she got out before she wheezed out a half chuckle, half sigh at her own blatant naivety. There was a pretty steady running joke among her friend group that Marlene was, well, an idiot. It wasn’t meant maliciously, just a teasing glint of a well known truth - Marlene was just a bit daft, academically & emotionally, and it took her longer to catch onto the most obvious cues of the people around her, unless she was directly invested in them. A bit too self-consuming to notice much outside the little world she’d created in her head. It’s not shocking, per say, that she hadn’t recognized the man standing beside her the night they had met - not as Rabastan Lestrange, that’s for bloody sure. “You… shaved,” she finished, dumbly, a frown on her lips at all she offered. She could do better than that.
There was no escaping recognition now, even if it was a bit bemused. Without the beard, he looked a bit… well, childish. She missed the hairy mask he had adopted, much more solace found in not recognizing him than the reverse. How many times had she seen his face in the middle of Order meetings, the whispers of a mission or an accusation against a known affiliate of the Death Eaters? The Lestranges were tied as deeply to the Dark Lord as Dark magic itself, practically the butter to his bread. They weren’t just known - they were untouchable, thanks to money and status and power within the Ministry, and so, they merely remained ‘alleged.’ This person standing next to her, she had heard all sorts of atrocities committed by his hand. Even without that knowledge from the Order’s intelligence, she knew firsthand exactly what kind of monster he was - hadn’t she thought of him as just a mirror image of her, colored in with the same shades of blood red? Hadn’t she seen the unquenchable, unending rage in his mosaic eyes, knowing full well the same was reflected back in her own?
“Yeah, I got my broom back. Really missed it for my Falmouth game the next day, bit of a shit thing to do. What are you even doing here? Obviously not a raging falafel fan.” Marlene offered shortly, bitterly - neither was she, to be fair, but she had a right to be minding her own business, and not have him meddling in it. A tension had pulled over her like a curtain, each sideways glance in his direction not quite helping soothe the thud of her pulse in her chest - arguably making it worse. Huh, so that’s where it went. Marlene swallowed whatever bile was rising on her tongue at that revelation before replying again, a bite between each word, “It’s a food truck - I hadn’t realized I was having such delicate company when I selected lunch for the day. It’s the closest one to my apartment but I’m sure you knew that already.”
It’s then and only then that she realized what still laid around her neck, glinting in the afternoon sunlight, and Marlene could just about kick herself for being so stupid. It was like it didn’t have an off switch and everything else in her body did, aside from the fury she nurtured like it was her only child. Allowing the very smallest of smirks to twitch at the corner of her lips, she shot him another curious glance before asking, tone tilted to tease so the question didn’t sound as genuine as it was, “So, what, you’ve now taken to following me? You miss me that much, hm? Can’t get me out of your head? I’d say I’m flattered, but I sort of have that effect on people.” It ashamed her to realize that was exactly how she felt about him, smirk only growing to hide her displeasure.
Rabastan was fond of his beard. He always had been, ever since he spent that summer in Greece with Lucius where it felt like he’d barely looked in a mirror to see the way his face had changed, the way he’d grown into his manhood until he got back to London and found himself tanned and bearded, with lines of laughter around his eyes. This, he thought to himself, is the man I’m meant to be. He felt like a stranger in his own skin without the beard, with his skin pale and translucent like snow, and often, he’d find himself staring at the way his cheekbones jutted and the sharp cut of his jaw, knowing himself to be desirable this way, but not feeling like himself. Because he felt like he was made to be this pretty, perfect, delicate thing, rather than the loud, bombastic, blundering mess of a man that he was. He also knew he looked nothing like the heir his parents expected him to be when he looked like he belonged with the commoners rather than the aristocrats, and a part of him liked that small act of rebellion, of refusing to keep himself sheered like a fucking sheep the way his brother was.
So, to see Marlene look at him, dumbfounded at this version of Rabastan, jerked to a halt by the difference in his appearance, he felt something in his chest squirm. Because so often, it went the other way – he was ribbed and teased mercilessly for how mangy he looked when he let his hair grow out, but here she was, this girl he barely new, being jolted to a halt because the Rabastan she knew was a bearded fiend of a man, and this honey tongued pretty boy couldn’t match up with the feral beast she’d met at the Spiny Serpent. Oh, how good it felt to be seen, but he’d never, in his wildest dreams, expected it to be her. Part of him wanted to pull Marlene close and coil around her and never let her leave for that, and part of him wanted to put her in a grave for the assertion that she’d ever know him because she wouldn’t. “It’s hair,” he muttered curtly, practically snapping at her over an innocent comment because he was incapable of leaving things well enough alone. “It’ll grow back.”
But then, in an instant, that characteristic Rabastan grin was back on his face – that shit-eating, manic, glinting grin. Because she was somehow so easy to wind around his finger, but once he had her there, she darted away. He had no hopes of containing her, of controlling her, but that had never been his intention. No, he wanted her, of her own free will, to choose him, to walk away from the light and into the cavern of his darkness, where he’d unfurl himself and wrap himself around her like a cocoon and they’d emerge together, all the better for it. “You act as though I stole it from you,” he said shrewdly, “but are we forgetting that you left it behind? Am I being punished for being a good samaritan? For returning it to you? Tracking you down wasn’t exactly easy given that I knew literally nothing about you. But now, I feel a bit daft for not recognizing the famed Marlene McKinnon, even if I do think the Wasps are an infinitely better team than the Catapults. But I digress.” He dug through his pockets, balancing a cigarette between his teeth and lighting it with his wand in broad daylight, not caring that they were surrounded by muggles. Discretion, at least when it came to things like this, had never been his strong suit.
It was in that moment, as he inhaled headily, that he saw the glint of metal around her neck. He’d known she’d gotten the key – he’d fucking seen her outside of his apartment, night after night, barely daring to breathe as he watched from the window, waiting for her to come in, daring her to use what he’d given her. His own brother didn’t have a key to this place, and yet, he’d given this perfect stranger something so personal, so intimate, in the hopes that she’d use it. He wanted her to surprise him, and when she didn’t, when she left him alone with his whisky and his thoughts, he’d felt a sharp pang of disappointment, even though he’d never expected her to be truly brave enough to walk up those steps. Marlene wasn’t ready yet, but no matter – he was here to make her ready. She’d come to him without fear or hesitation of her own free will. He knew that with a primal sort of certainty: the way he knew the sky was up and hell was down, the way he knew the barren branches on the trees outside his apartment would sprout vibrant green leaves in just a few short months, the way he knew his own heartbeat in his chest, thudding second by second to remind him he was alive. She would come to him, and he’d be right because there were other ways to keep that key safe, other ways that didn’t put an intimate gesture from him flush against her heart.
“I think we’ve taken to following each other,” he said coyly, stepping into her space, his fingers winding around the chain at her neck, using the leverage to pull her close. A part of him wanted to send them both hurtling at each other at terminal velocity and shatter them both into a million pieces only to see what interesting shapes were created in the dust of their destruction. But mostly, he wanted to see what she’d do at such an invasion of her space – whether she’d push him away or pull him closer. “If it’s easiest for you, then I’ll pretend this is one sided. I’ll let you carry on thinking you’re the victim here, that you’re being stalked by some twisted villain lurking in the shadows of every step you take. But one day, hopefully soon, you’ll have to reconcile the truth of the matter: you couldn’t forget me because this, whatever this is, is significant.” He paused for a breath, blood rushing in his ears – he knew what had to come next, but that didn’t make it easy. Rabastan, who wore his heart on his sleeve, Rabastan, who carelessly threw around the truth of his emotions, Rabastan, who constantly had the world dialed up to eleven, even he felt some sort of hesitation at being so vulnerable with someone he barely knew. But he barreled forwards because she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted unless he showed her the way. “Of course I’m here for you, Marlene. You burrowed your way into my skull and took root in the folds of my mind. Because I’ve long since made peace with the depth of my loneliness, I’ve known it my whole life and thought there simply was no cure, but meeting you...the relief was instantaneous.”
With his free hand, he raised his cigarette to his lips before flicking it to the ground, exhaling smoke away from her before turning his gaze back onto her green, green eyes and saying, with an alarming amount of fervor, “I kept your broom from you, I jeopardized your livelihood, and that was unkind of me, so let me make it up to you. There’s a bistro a few blocks east of here, and it’s got the best Linguine con le Vongole you’ll ever eat. Have lunch with me. And if you never want to see me again, I’ll leave you be.” A bold faced lie, but he wanted her to think she had some semblance of control over his interference in her life. She didn’t. But it was important to the longevity of this manipulation that she think she did. “I won’t ask twice.” Again, another lie. He’d knock on her door, throw rocks at her window every night until she let him in or they both died – whichever came first. And she didn’t say no, which wasn’t technically a yes, but Rabastan took the barest of hesitation, the uncertainty in her eyes, the way her lips pressed thin, as a reluctant yes, and with that, he released the grip he had on her necklace, took her arm, linked it with his, and guided them down the street, away, to the restaurant in question. “You won’t regret this,” he said with a wicked grin, and perhaps she would, but god he hoped she didn’t.
