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Who: @slytherdaddy Where: Ministry of Magic atrium, Rufus Scrimegour’s swearing in ceremony When: February 29th, night

How Rabastan ended up here, he had no idea. An invitation had appeared in the post, which he’d promptly burned, only to have his mother send him a howler, demanding why he was such an insolent little brat, who had taught him to be so ungrateful because it certainly wasn’t her, how he could spurn such responsibility when Rodolphus was risking his goddamn life. The letter was angry enough to make Rab hesitate in his decision, but at the end of the day, he wasn’t built for these kind of functions. He’d ultimately say the wrong thing, offend someone, and leave the party worse than he’d found it, and it was moments like this where he missed his brother. Rodolphus had taken most of this burden, and it wasn’t like he was doing his brother a favor, but Rabastan had benefited all the same. He’d put the event out of his mind...until he’d received an owl from Barty, formally letting him know that he’d be in attendance, and Rabastan felt his heart stutter and squeeze. Perhaps tonight, he’d have the chance to mend their friendship, to soothe the rift between them that had lasted for far too long.

As soon as he arrived at the party, however, and Barty was nowhere to be found, Rabastan realized that he had fallen into a classic trap of Sabine Lestrange. His mother had always had her claws in his skull, from the day he was born until the day he died, and he felt stupid and childish and wholly naive. She’d gotten in his head, seen what he desired, and then used it to reel him in like someone coaxing a rabbit into a trap with a carrot stick. He couldn’t think of anyone else who’d want to lure him to such a dull event, and it only benefited her to have him rubbing elbows with the powerful and influential. Merlin knows she probably wanted him to find some simpering wife here who would help continue the Lestrange name. Now that he was here, he couldn’t fucking leave, so of course, he hitched his wagon to the refreshments table, pouring an extra splash of whisky from his flask into his already spiked drink and tiding over a pleasant buzz to last him through the night. And certainly, he was drinking to make the event more bearable, but also he was drinking because he didn’t know how to be the person he was supposed to be here, all buttoned up and stiff, and he’d rather be a gregarious caricature of himself, with the excuse of alcohol to mitigate his total lack of decorum.

He was on his fourth glass of punch when he saw, across the room, a familiar shock of golden hair, the classically refined features of Lucius Malfoy standing out even this far away. Rabastan felt his heart sink into his stomach like a rock at the sight of him. He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t see the flush in Lucius’ cheeks, the way his lips pressed together, the way his eyes almost looked black, all pupil no iris. And, of course, not even a moment later, Antonin Dolohov appeared as well. The two men separated in the crowd, going opposite ways, but that didn’t matter. Just the sight of them together was enough to rile Rabastan up, picking at all of his most sensitive insecurities. Rabastan was moving before he even registered what was happening, practically shoving his way through the crowd, cutting a path directly to Lucius as his mind went blank and fuzzy with rage, with hurt, with betrayal. He couldn’t say half of the things he wanted to because they wouldn’t make any sense to Lucius, and that was his own doing, but he did have one bone to pick with his friend, and it was the matter of the tampered Felix that had left him reckless and useless in Dumbledore’s office, a child that had to be babysat while Bellatrix carried the brunt of the mission on her back. And sure, perhaps Rabastan wouldn’t be able to get out everything he needed to say, but he’d be able to get in a few choice words, barbed and nasty, and that had to be enough for him. He had no other choice.

It was without much care and without a whole lot of tact that he bodily shoved himself into the middle of Lucius’ conversation, interrupting the thing with a sharp look at his friend and a cold, snarling demand, “I need to steal Lucius for a moment. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my friend, and we have much to discuss.” His hand latched around Lucius’ wrist, dragging him away from the group, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he felt himself thinking of the way he used to feel Lucius’ pulse when he thought Lucius was sleeping because the steady thud, thud, thud was the one thing that could calm his racing mind.

Rabastan only stopped them when they were at the edge of the party, away from the throng, and perhaps this was a conversation that required even more privacy than what Rab had afforded them, but all he was thinking about was how much hurt he had in him, like a walking fucking bruise that spelled out Lucius Malfoy’s name. “Did you know?” he asked blearily, the moment they were alone (or as alone as they could be for this kind of event). “And did you do it on purpose?” He already knew the answer - Lucius was the smartest man he’d ever met, and nothing, nothing, ever slipped past him. Rabastan really just wanted to see if Lucius had the gall to lie to him to his face. Perhaps that would be the insult he needed to finally kick his habit, his on again off again addiction to the way Lucius made him feel. "You think I’ll stay around no matter how many times you kick me in the ribs. You think I’m just this thing you can control and own and make to look like a fool and then you’ll say some pretty words and I’ll forget it all, but I’m fucking tired of it, Lucius. What have I ever done to deserve being treated like the dirt on your shoe?”