Rudolphus resisted the urge to tap his fingers against the desk: the clock on the wall had ticked five past. Five past five. Five past when his brother was supposed to be here. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he was disappointed enough to heave a sigh and pull open the desk drawer to the left of him.
If Rabastian was going to keep him waiting, he might as well get some work done. He methodically placed each different front page draft across the space of the wide oak desk that was the crown of his spacious office, each bearing a slightly different layout for what the next morning’s Prophet would look like. He scowled when he saw that one of Gilderoy Lockhart’s puff pieces had been snuck above the fold on one of the drafts. It was all according to plan, of course; push the gossip columns, the society pages, take people’s minds off of the politics. That didn’t mean that Rudolphus liked having to do so. The Prophet was a propaganda machine, and he ran it well, but one day he’d make it a legitimate business again and be proud to run it.
He went about with his quill noting changes, striking pictures, resisting the urge to send howlers to his page designers.
He found himself resisting a lot of things, lately. It was harder to keep his composure as the war escalated, as people tested his patience, as cracks began to spread through the spun-glass image he kept in the back of his mind, of the world he wanted to create. That world couldn’t exist without his younger brother. Of course, their relationship had been... strained, at best, of late.
It was time to repair that. If, of course, Rabastian ever decided to show up.
He didn’t glance up when the door swung open, waiting.
“Mr. Lestrange?” It was his secretary, her blonde hair spelled into a perfectly revolting coiffeur.
Rudolphus looked over at the clock; it was now twenty past five.
“Your brother is here, sir.”
He rose from the desk and crossed to the bar cart along the far wall. He poured himself a shot of firewhiskey, downed it, and looked down at the streets below through his window.
