corvus oculum corvi non eruit / part 2
sirius black x lestrange!reader
summary: breakfast at the lestranges'
cw: blood / injury / family dysfunction / veela hotness again / ur just really hot basically / rabastan lestrange is losing it / veelas have a magical form of haemophilia / because i say so / i think that's all / LOTS of sirius next chapter dw xxx
Earlier
The hiss of boiling tea over china did little to break the tension hanging over the Lestrange breakfast table. A day had passed since Andromeda Black’s elopement with the muggle-born, but the look of shame and mortification was still slapped on your brother’s face. Shock, You recalled Madame Pomfrey describing it once, Rabastan Lestrange was in shock.
“This is pathetic.” said Rabastan as he stared down his ex fiancee’s picture in the paper, shaking so much in his hands it looked ready to take flight.“When did The Daily Prophet turn into a bloody society magazine?” He slid it in front of your mother, who was sitting almost comically far away on the other side of your ridiculously long banquet table. She took one dismissive look at the page before closing it shut with a twist of her head.
“Nobody of any stature reads page seven of the Daily Prophet, dear. You bring us all closer to disgrace the longer it stays open on this table.”
You knew at least one person of stature who read page seven; Narcissa Black read the gossip columns like a hawk every morning. You imagined her all alone, staring at the photograph of her sister in the newspaper, knowing it might be the last time she ever got a good look at her. You had seen what Walburga Black did to the fabric counterparts of family traitors at Grimmauld Place; Narcissa wouldn’t even see her sister in stitches.
“I would have thought that Cygnus Black would have pulled a few strings to stop them reporting about his whorish daughter’s descent into blood treachery.” said Rabastan.
“You must remember not to be so vulgar when you see your sister in law at the dinner tomorrow.”
You frowned and looked up from your toast. You had not seen Bellatrix since she married your brother Rodolphus, and months had passed since then.
“What dinner, Mother?” you asked.
“One that doesn’t concern you, The Malfoy’s are hosting it, I think. You may come when you are of age.”
“Is Rodolphus going to be there?” you said.
“Of course he is, he’s married to her, isn’t he?” said Rabastan, decapitating a boiled egg in its egg cup with his wand and sticking in his spoon inside.
“Is Lord Voldemort going to be there?”
Rabastan slowly slid his spoon out of the egg. He looked like Rodolphus, you thought, as a sick smile washed over his face.
“The Dark Lord prefers to be present when he is being discussed.” said Rabastan.
That was a yes, then.
The spell Rabastan had used to cut open his egg now seemed to be leaking out of his wand and onto his plate, leaving long scratches in the porcelain. He had not noticed, continuing to smile at nothing in particular; it was as though the mention of Voldemort’s name had sent him into some kind of trance.
“Rabastan, dear, stop mutilating your plate.”
He looked up at your mother and spoke quietly, “I will not be ordered around like a child, Mother. I am twenty three years old–”.
“--and still living under the roof of this house until you find a suitable match and start an estate of your own. Stop shaking, you’re starting to look like your father. ”
He launched his egg, along with a silver plate and his teacup and saucer, over your head into the green wall, narrowly missing a painting of your grandmother who was staring down Rabastan with an upturned nose, purple eyes and luminous veela hair. He rose from his chair and stormed out of the dining room, kicking the house elf down the hallway as he went. You resumed buttering your toast.
“Silly boy,” said your mother. “You must be kind to him, he gets terribly jealous of Rodolphus. Men get quite territorial over these things, and I imagine he is feeling rather humiliated.”
“Yes, mother.”
She shook her head. “That family line is rotting from the inside out. Two traitors in a bunch of, how many are there?”
“Five, mother.”
“Five, good grief. It’s terrible, really, such a noble house having to resort to marrying their daughters off so that they can stick their hands in other family’s fortunes. I am rather glad Narcissa is marrying the Malfoy though, I was worried you’d end up having to slum it with new money—“
The idea made you want to retch.
“—though do give him my congratulations on the engagement if you see him at Diagon Alley.”
You frowned and looked up from your toast.“Diagon Alley?”
“You will need to go today, I’m afraid. Rodolphus wants the floo passage clear tomorrow in case they can’t apparate home.”
“Why wouldn’t they be able to app—“
“You’d best be going now. And do stop dripping all over the table. It’s mahogany.”
You gave your mother a confused look as she nodded towards your hand. You had not realised, but a wedge of Rabastan’s tea cup had wedged itself in your palm, and it was bleeding angrily all over your breakfast. Merlin, of all the days. Last year you got a paper cut and spent the best part of three hours in the Slytherin common room while Pandora Rosier held your arm up in the air. She thought it was ridiculous that you wouldn’t go to the hospital wing, but you didn’t believe in making a fuss. You never had.
That was what disgusted you about people like Andromeda Black. And Sirius, who had made the biggest fuss of all. The night that he abandoned ship, Bellatrix had appeared in your fireplace in the middle of the night, laughing uncontrollably and asking for Rodolphus. For a second you had heard a scream on the other end of the network, but it was overshadowed by the roar of flames; someone else had left Grimmauld Place that night.
You still remembered the letter Regulus had sent you afterwards, ink bleeding frantically all over the page from his tears. That was a very selfish thing to do, you wrote back to him, family always stays. He had not referred to Sirius as his brother since, not even in private.
When you looked up again, you found your mother had left, and the only evidence of the existence of The Daily Prophet was a faint smell of burning paper from the other side of the table. You put your wounded hand into your pocket to catch the rest of the blood as you got up to find a bandage with a sigh.
“C'est le prix que nous devons payer pour notre beauté .” came a voice from behind you. The portrait of your Grandmother, looking harpy-like as she spoke with a sickening sweetness.
You raised your wand to the painting. “Silencio.”
You thought the quiet might ease your thoughts, but it didn’t. Instead, the room was filled with the sounds of your blood dripping on the stone floor like the rhythmic ticking of a clock.
trans: C'est le prix que nous devons payer pour notre beauté/it is the price we must pay for our beauty
taglist: @m4rauders-st4rs @godessstela @mrspotatas @fck-off
