#lestrange sr

[overlord-of-fantasy]

Little Lucius gets a bit of trauma

Little Lucius, hopping up and down: Mom got me something in Diagon Alley! It starts with the letter C and I LOVE IT!!!

Abraxas: Your first cursed item?

Voldemort: The cruciatus curse?

Little Bellatrix: Cocaine?

Mr Lestrange senior: A corpse?

Druella Black: Cissy? Did she fianlly agree?

Little Lucius: *holds up a bottle of coconut shampoo, on the verge of tears and shivering on his whole body*

[fugamalefica]

Where does the idea of Voldemort being close to Abraxas even come from? He had so many original Death Eaters and people still choose to make Abraxas his original right hand, even though the books never imply they even met, and he is not in the Slughorn memory. It's so baffling and boring.

I would love to explore Dolohov and Lestrange Sr. Dolohov wasn't even at Hogwarts with him. How did they meet?

[lcyzr4llaix]

The amount of Lestranges there are in the wizarding world is no joke.

[hxuse-xf-black]

[The creation of the Death Eaters]

16-year-old Avery Sr.: So, what are we doing this summer?

16-year-old Tom Riddle: I think we should start a cult.

16-year-old Lestrange Sr.: Reasonable ideas?

Avery Sr.: No, put the cult in the maybe pile.

[overlord-of-fantasy]

Overheard in the Hogwarts library

Abraxas, happily shaking a bag of money: Nothing in life is free. Hagrid: Love is free. Minerva: Knowledge is free. Myrtle: Friendship is free. Alphard: Self-respect is free. Tom, playing with "his" harmonica: Everything's free if you don't pay for it. Everyone: ... Minerva: Tom, that's illegal- Lestrange: No, let him finish!

[lcyzr4llaix]

I have headcanon that there is a rivalry between the Lestrange and Malfoy families but I will not elaborate.

[littlestlestrange]

18th of December; drabble

“Master Rabastan, your father would like to see you in his study”.

Barely through the front door, Rabastan had been attempting to dodge his mother’s outstretched arms when the family house elf spoke.

Invitations into his father’s study were few and far between, especially for him. Over the years, he had come to view them as a bad omen, something a severe punishment was sure to follow. But, as he allowed the house elf to lead him away, he knew that this time he was being called there for something more serious.  

The house elf knocked sharply, only to disappear with a pop. This left Rabastan to glare at the space it had once stood, feeling suddenly abandoned. In the few seconds before his father’s response, he briefly wondered if he had time to fetch Rodolphus.

In any other situation, Rabastan would've shunned the need for the older boy’s support, especially with the air still not cleared since their most recent argument. If he was preparing to face anyone else, facing them alone would be a matter of pride. But, there was something about their father, an intimidating man at the best of times, that left Rabastan somewhere between desperate to prove himself and feeling five years old again; startled by his father's temper and taking cover behind his brother's legs. 

“Enter”.

At his father’s command, Rabastan braced himself. Despite his reluctance, he knew better than to keep him waiting, if only because it would betray his nerves. Not allowing himself time to pause, he pushed open the door, entering the room in what he hoped was a casual manner.

“You wanted to see me?”

Rabastan’s father, Aldéric Lestrange, gave a short wave of his hand, gesturing for him to come closer to the desk. The man didn’t look up from the parchment before him, brows furrowed as he signed something with a swipe of his quill.

There was a long pause before he turned his attention to Rabastan, allowing the boy a chance to gather himself. He stood with his shoulders straight, chin up and hands clasped behind his back, being mindful not to slouch in his usual manner.

“Where were you on the sixteenth of September?”

There was no prelude, no greetings or pleasantries, because that was not how Rabastan’s father worked.

Aldéric glanced up, if only briefly, to fix his youngest son with a sharp stare.

It was a silent challenge, daring him to lie.

Again, Rabastan steeled himself, struggling to predict how the man before him would respond.

“I was in Hogsmeade Village”. Perhaps it had been his father’s accusing tone, but the reply had come out sounding closer to a confession than an answer. Rabastan knew this was his first mistake.

There was another long pause.

It was a tendency of his father’s, to leave people waiting. He was not a man who allowed himself to be rushed. Over the years, this was something that infuriated Rabastan. It left him feeling impatient, a sense of doubt creeping over him as he waited for a response.

“And did you not think to inform me of this — neither before nor after?” While there was certainly a scathing edge to his words, a belittling tone Aldéric saved for his youngest son, it also held an unnerving calm.

In the days he’d been preparing for this meeting, Rabastan had always expected his father to be angry. Yes, he would've supported the attack on Hogsmeade, but Rabastan’s decision to join had been reckless; his fleeing at the first opportunity only further proof to the fact he was the lesser son.

But, his father simply laid his quill to one side, as if he had also been preparing for this conversation — with considerably more success, if his demeanour was anything to go by.

“You have always been irresponsible, Rabastan. But, this is not the time for rash decisions and callous behaviour. If you have any desire to be part of this cause, you must learn to grow up”.

To punctuate his words, Aldéric rose to his feet, watching the boy’s expression carefully. Under his father’s scrutiny, Rabastan couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably, bristling at the remarks being made. “Is that what you want?”  His father continued. “To become fully involved?”

This was it.

This was what Rabastan had spent his summer hoping for.

Even before news of the first attacks started to make the papers, his father had begun to have secretive meetings with family friends. They would speak quietly in small grounds, clamming up as soon as he approached.

Of course, Rabastan knew what they were discussing. The reasons behind the attacks were not a secret, both he and his brother being made to understand they were merely extensions on the beliefs they’d been raised with.

Yet, the conversations themselves were exclusive, open only to family friends and, from what Rabastan could tell, his brother.

But, this was the question he had been waiting for; an invitation into the private discussions, to be deemed capable and given the opportunity to prove himself.

If his father had asked a few months ago, the answer would have been simple.

Yes.

So, why was that one word suddenly so difficult to say.

[thepostmodernpottercompendium]

There is much that he has done wrong in his short life. He is the last person to dispute this. Wars are not won by delicate sensibilities, but by hardnosed pragmatists. And this, at least, he is. Cold, perfect pragmatism. There may be blood on his hands, so many dead - friends, sons and daughters of friends, long-lost cousins - by him, but they are only numbers, mere statistics in this war for a glorious new world.

Except.

Except for those times he passes by a mirror and from the corner of his eye, he sees her.

The one they do not speak of. The only one he wishes he could forget.

He sees her every day when he looks in the mirror as he straightens his cravat. Sees her in the tilt of his eyebrows, the hard grey coldness of his eyes, the cast of his nose and lips. How could he not when the same blood ran in their veins? How could he not when he had sworn once that he would protect her, would give his life for her, his own sister?

But she lurked there. He knew she did. Peering into his mirror as he was dressing. Staring. Accusing.

You promised.

Silent. Cold. Pale and translucent. 

Sometimes he wondered, wondered if this house was all wrong with its dark, oppressive oak-panelling and its large draughty rooms. Wondered if he had lived in this hole of his too long. Wondered if a sickness lay upon this house, slowly eating away at him, his wife, his two sons. Slowly eating away at her. 

Wondered if she was the sickness.

But then, those eyes which stared out at him were not hers but his. Brows, nose, chin, the peculiar twist of the lips - all his.

And he wondered, sometimes, when the silence grew too much, if he is the sickness.