#pre-war hogwarts

[nerasfics]

A Wedding of Snakes

ship: Sirius Black x Female Lestrange!reader Rating: Explicit

summary: the Lestrange family was as old and possibly as equally as terrifying as any of those from the noble house of Black, after all, Bellatrix was celebrating a new marriage to Rudolphus and that left the younger Lestranges to recruit and terrorize sympathizers to muggles and their filthy kin. but you-- youre the youngest Lestrange and the name doesn't fit quite as well with your brothers as it does you...... and Sirius is only just noticing something very important about it

warnings: fab!reader, no use of y/n ( mostly be referred to as Lestrange or Little Lestrange ), no descriptions of reader ( no hair color or body shape descriptions idk what they're tagged as on here ), dark themes, blood purity, prewar hogwarts, increasing violence amid students ( primarily against and towards muggle/half blood students ), mentions of childhood and family abuse, implications of domestic abuse, verbal abuse, threats of violence/death, the Black and Lestrange families deserve a warning on their own, possibly sociopathic tendencies but not be clinical so -- not sure, moral ambiguity, death eaters, sexual themes, drug/alcohol use, vivid nightmares, forced curses, james and remus being mistrusting idiots in the beginning, ... and maybe some cute stuff in there too ...

word count: 886

notes: this was an idea i had after listening to the song The Village by!--. as someone who's always written OCs and not so much reader-inserts i'm not sure how well this'll turn out BUT if you want me to continue it please leave a comment or a reblog because that means the world to us creators! ...... i also just realized my other oneshot.. doesn't have... a summary... welp - this chapter doesn't include sirius, he will be in the next part once the reader goes back to hogwarts this is sort of just setting the stage and to see how you guys like my writing style.. hope you enjoy either way!

Dinners were expected to be had together and when those dinners included death eater meetings, those not in attendance without explicit permission for their absence were drug in, by hair or nail and — well, absence stopped being an issue. Permanently. It wasn't a meeting tonight, however, no, this was a joyful gathering. Food and drink celebrating a business deal gone well. Bellatrix still wore the expensive silken wedding gown with imported lace, gold beading, and charmed into a swirling, shifting, churning sea of shadows; slithers of the Lestrange house colors and the Blacks coiling and writhing amid it all while others slid along the dress' skirt and bodice. Amid all the "merry-making", the volume never rose above a polite chatter. The drink never came easy enough to inspire any questionable behavior; a wedding celebrated as mutely and subtly as any in a board room. Candles flickered in a sparkling golden chandelier, the finest silver polished to enviable shine, and food laid out of every kind as long as money could be spent and stir conversation. The families always festered with subtle and well practiced pride.

The House of Black housed a bloodline as ancient and pure as the founder they claim relation to. A family dripping in wealth and influence, who held one of the highest seats of honor amid those of the purest blood. This marriage was one of convenience and strategy, the Black family needed to reclaim their power and honor after the shame and ridicule their eldest has wrought and aligning yourselves with such a family only gave the Lestranges more advantage, not only amid death eaters, but placed their family, finally, above the Blacks.

As deeply as their hatred of muggles ran, Grimauld Place remained a home of decadence and opulence. Furnishing from long lost ships swallowed by the north sea, riches squirreled away in hidden stones and forgotten passageways; rumors continued to slither from lips in hushed voices of bone worked into Grimauld Place's very bedrock. Hiding in plain sight, the family always claimed, but many know there's more to their location than merely wanting to be nearer their future prey. The Lestrange manor, however, never managed to reach the same level of mysticism and intrigue. Theirs was a stone castle cut from the deepest rock in the cliffs of the Black Sea; a rough unforgiving stone the hue of soot and brimstone ensuring the air remains moist. Stone blocks remained uniform from grave to galley never once shifting from its final resting place. A castle as old as theirs, centuries of war and battle wounds carved into turrets and gaping at the deepest, oldest, sections, dripped continually with the unpleasant smells of damp earth and all forms of mold and moss it fed, and the sticky stench of death that from the family mausoleum lining the lower levels. In short, the Lestrange manor was built on a crypt and smelled of a grave. Death upon death upon —

Distantly, the air sparked prickling up your spine and becoming static at the base of your skull. A warning. A survival instinct you'd perfected over so many years fearing your own breath. How long had you drifted? At first, nothing seemed different. Bodies still twirled and danced around in practiced rehearsed dances, smears of black on black with the very rare streaks of mossy green and deep wine red. Shades too deep to really differentiate between if anyone asked you. No one would though. No one ever did. The electricity worsened, pricking down the lengths of your arms bringing your spine to a coil, tightening the spring and winding tighter and tighter preparing for a fight you'd most certainly wish were a flight.

"You'll be next, you know." Your brother's voice felt like the thickest oil; greasy as it slipped over you and the feel of it stained with every word he spat. Rabastan never did like you.

"It would have to be," you replied flatly, " no one would stoop as low as you offer you a daughter." Without any change or even a pitying glance you added, "Maybe you'll find a man—" The stinging itself was familiar and maybe that would be depressing if it had ever be unfamiliar. Sometimes you found yourself poking and instigating fights and purposefully spoke smartly just because not being hit felt like a trap. A cruel way to store all the frustration and anger and displeasure in life just to unleash on you all at once. It wasn't relief you felt when things were still in the manor — it was fear.

Rabastan's snarl came with wet, spitting warning, "Don't forget your place in this world," your name sounded dirty, almost pitying a horrid thing, "you're lucky to be sat here in your pretty little dress all dolled up and smelling so good," his nose dug into the hair above your ear inhaling deeply. You swallowed your words and discomfort hard knowing better than to shift in expression by any degree. "You'll be right here, where you belong, and we have you here for another seven days." You preferred the snarl to the way your brother looked at you now.

And then those pricks began to burn.

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