Eddie Carmichael (edasich) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-11-02 16:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | eddie carmichael, rabastan lestrange |
WHO: Eddie Carmichael & Rabastan Lestrange
WHAT: Meeting in person
WHEN: November 2, 2017
WHERE: The Head Obliviator's office
Eddie Carmichael didn't get nervous. None of the things that usually gave stomachs butterflies ever bothered him. He enjoyed public speaking, tests never bothered him, he could charm authority figures. Walking around Knockturn Alley alone at night was nothing. He wanted to vomit. He made his way through the Ministry check-in. He had an official appointment with the Head Obliviator. Nothing out of the ordinary. He gripped what looked like a Starbeaks cup like a lifeline, but they didn't think anything of it. (Robin's cursework looked wonderfully innocuous. The thing was harmless unless Eddie activated it anyway. He wasn't going to a meeting with a well-known Death Eater without something to protect himself.) The elevator brought him to the floor he needed. He took a deep breath before stepping off. This was it. He studied the Ministry's layout online the night before so he could know right where to go and walk in with confidence. He smiled brightly at Lestrange's administrative assistant, a harried-looking woman who eyed him with distrust. "Hello, Mrs Pips. My name is Eddie Carmichael. We spoke earlier this week? I've got a one o'clock appointment with Mr Lestrange." “Mr. Carmichael, of course,” the secretary replied, uttering the surname as if it was a foul word. She gave him an obvious once over as she scribbled something on a piece of paper — a piece of paper that instantly folded itself into a delicate bird and flitted away down a long hallway. “I’ve let Mr. Lestrange know you’re here. He should be with you momentarily.” Eddie watched the bird go, and every flap of its wings seemed to match the swirl of butterflies in his stomach. "Thank you," he said as genially as he could manage without ever taking his eyes off the door the bird had swooped through. The Head Obliviator emerged from the hallway, his brow furrowed in apprehension. Rabastan’s gaze flicked over the boy — his son, he thought, and his chest gave a kick — but there was no warmth in his eyes. He motioned for Eddie to follow him, jerking his head in the direction of a door at the far end of the office. “Glad you could make it, Carmichael,” was all he could bring himself to say. "It's nice to meet you, Mr Lestrange," Eddie replied. Mindful of Mrs Pips' watchful eye, he began this meeting the same as he did every business meeting -- with the offer of a handshake. A small flicker of nerves or fear crossed his face as his eyes met his father's, but he didn't look away. Rabastan held Eddie’s gaze as he firmly shook the boy’s hand. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately changed his mind, releasing Eddie’s hand as he nodded politely as Mrs. Pips, who gave them both a curious look. He ushered Eddie toward the Head Obliviator office, which was sparsely decorated save for the the framed Auror Adventures pages lining the wall. He pointed at one of the leather chairs positioned in front of his desk and brusquely instructed Eddie (his son!) to sit. Silence settled over the office. Eddie sat down in the chair, taking in every bit of his surroundings as he waited for Lestrange to speak. After a moment without a word between them, Eddie offered an awkward, "This is a nice office." “I’m still not used to it,” Rabastan admitted. He sunk into the leather chair behind his desk, reclining back as he peered at Eddie. “You’re a little short, aren’t you?” For a Stormtrooper Eddie almost said, but thought better of it. A Muggle reference wouldn't go well here. He wasn't quite sure if he should be offended, but it felt like a weird subject to start out with. "I guess?" he said, as if he'd never thought about it. (He had, plenty.) "I'm still growing." A smile jerked up the edge of Rabastan’s mouth. “I see you’re an optimist. That isn’t a trait we have in common.” "That's probably not the only one," Eddie said, finally easing into his seat a little. "We didn't exactly have similar upbringings." Rabastan tried to imagine this slight boy from Knockturn running around the Lestrange estate in the Cotswolds. His rumination was short-lived: a halfblood didn’t belong in such a place. He dropped his gaze to the files scattered atop his desk, files he had ignored all morning due to niggling anxiety over this very meeting. “No, we didn’t,” he said slowly, as if he was choosing his words very carefully. “But you should’ve been very well taken care of — Emilia received quite a bit of money.” Eddie nodded. He looked down at his hands, which had started his old nervous habit of pushing back cuticles without his even noticing it. He flexed his fingers and gripped the arms of his chair instead. "Yeah, we did alright," he said. He didn't mention how quickly Emilia could squander the annual allowance she'd set up for them. What would be the point? "Some of it's still sat in a trust for me, actually. When I'm 21." That, at least, would seem respectable. “Three years from now.” Rabastan paused for a moment, scrubbing a hand against the side of his face. It was etched with lines, eroded by time and Azkaban. And then, almost absently: “You’re very young.” But he wouldn’t be the youngest to join their cause — if he joined. "But getting older every day…" Eddie's strained attempt at something like a joke felt awkward even as he said it. He was an adult. He wasn't that young -- he'd be nineteen in a couple of months. He felt fidgety. He'd imagined this conversation dozens of times but it had never gone like this. The half-smile shifted back into place as Rabastan leaned forward, his expression softening. “I wanted to meet you because I wanted to tell you—” Tell him what? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do in a situation like this, nor did he know what he really wanted to do. He was very aware of what he wasn’t supposed to do, though, and that was always the option Rabastan Lestrange found the most enticing. “If you ever need anything, you can come to me. Gold, information, you name it. If someone gives you a hard time, I can take care of them.” Eddie felt his pulse quicken as the words hung in the air between them. That was a power he didn't want. As enticing as the idea might be, Eddie did not want to be responsible for someone being Taken Care Of by a Death Eater as notorious as Rabastan Lestrange. As his father. He already tried pushing quietly to see just how far he could go. It wasn't an accident, mentioning Draco Malfoy, or thanking the boy's parents for the cursed quill, or even telling the world his name was almost Rastaban. He wanted to find his limits. Maybe he didn't have limits. The idea thrilled and terrified him. "Yeah, I'm good," was all he said. Rabastan lifted an eyebrow. “Good with that suggestion?” The same nerves from the duel, the fear of disappointing his father, bubbled up again. "I don't really need anybody taken care of." “Make a note of it for the future,” Rabastan replied, his voice crisp as he clasped his hands together atop his desk. He locked eyes with Eddie so the boy could feel the weight of his next words. “We’ve talked about a lot of things. But never the Death Eaters. Why?” It wasn't that Eddie wasn't curious, of course. His morbid fascination began almost as soon as he learned Rabastan's identity, but still he hesitated. He would learn things he didn't want to know, and he might not be able to move past them. And this … relationship, whatever it was, was just beginning. "You guys seem pretty keen on secrecy," Eddie answered carefully, "With the masks and all. I guess I just figured that was your business, not mine." Rabastan gave Eddie a shrewd look. “Does it frighten you?” Eddie finally broke eye contact, glancing down at Lestrange's desk. "Isn't that the point?" “You don’t have anything to worry about,” Rabastan assured him, although he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. In fact, as he replayed the words over again in his mind, he was slightly surprised by himself. He hadn’t anticipated Eddie’s presence to ebb away at his hard edges. “You may not be a Lestrange, but I still wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” The words struck Eddie deeper than he wanted to admit, even as they reinforced the fact that he still wasn't good enough. He spent nearly two years so sure that his slumming Pureblood father wanted less than nothing to do with him, that Eddie's very existence might be a threat that Lestrange could one day decide needed taking care of. I still wouldn't let anything happen to you. He wouldn't need the cursed cup. His nods were small and quick, just enough to let him reign in excess emotion and speak again with a cleared throat. "So why did you, um … what drew you to them?" A certain intensity colored Rabastan’s expression as he took a moment to consider his words. “The Dark Lord recognizes the power of pure blood. We have an obligation to remove blights such as mudbloods and blood traitors from society. The Dark Lord is—” There was a brief manic gleam in Rabastan’s eye. “There are really no words to describe him other than awe-inspiring. My brother joined, then I joined. We are his most devoted servants.” A beat. “Well, Bellatrix probably edges us both out. But out of all the other Death Eaters, the Lestranges are the most dedicated.” The reverence in Rabastan's voice was almost intoxicating, and Eddie found himself nodding along even if he didn't agree with the words. (What did he care about pure blood? And didn't he only exist because of a traitorously unpure liaison?) It hit that knot in his stomach, too; the one that always formed when he interacted with his father, the one that begged him to realize this was a bad idea. "You've certainly given a lot for it," he said. It was not a criticism. “I never believed he was dead,” Rabastan found himself saying. He hadn’t intended to discuss Azkaban, but the words slipped out before he could reel them back in. “That thought kept me — well, not sane, but functioning. I knew we’d get out someday.” The conversation was slipping, bit by bit, away from a place where Eddie could make a connection to it. He didn't know anything about the horrors of Azkaban, no matter what he'd read. (Even the times Dementors slipped too close couldn't really replicate what it must have been like, day after day, for years on end.) Rabastan had done terrible things, and maybe he deserved that fate, but Eddie still didn't want to think of the man trapped there like that. Still, the topic brought something else to mind, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, "I knew Neville Longbottom. At school." “Ah,” was all Rabastan said at first. He did not think about the Longbottoms very often — that victory was too tied up in their defeat. “If he’s anything like his parents, then I imagine he’s a very talented wizard.” He gave Eddie a pointed look. “That sort of power is passed down in families.” "Yeah … Neville Longbottom isn't gonna be the best example you can make for that," Eddie cautioned. He used to take advantage of the boy's clumsiness and lack of confidence, selling him home-brewed memory potions or defensive trinkets, but now that he knew more--and knew who was responsible for it--he just felt bad for the kid. He didn't say anything about the power passed down in families. Eddie was his own man; he didn't owe his successes to a family line or an absent father. Rabastan was tempted to press for more information about the Longbottom boy, but that wasn’t why they were here. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask?” There was plenty Eddie wanted to know, but one question floated above all the others. It was one he wasn't sure how to ask, or whether he even should, but it would just sit between them if he didn't give it voice. And he did want to know -- or maybe more, he wanted to hear Rabastan say it. "Why … now? Or why at all, I guess. I always thought you didn't want to have anything to do with me." “I didn’t,” Rabastan admitted, sucking in a sharp breath. He paused for a moment, as if he needed a moment to properly line up his words, before clearing his throat and continuing: “But things are different now. We’re in control.” There was more to it, of course, but that was all he was willing to give Eddie. For the moment. It wasn't the answer Eddie wanted to hear, but he accepted it. Of course Lestrange would prioritize Death Eaters and their power over him. He shouldn't have hoped for anything different. It felt only fair, though, to offer the reverse. "Is there anything you want to ask me?" A smile spread across the older man’s face. “Would you like to set a date for dueling practice?” Some fathers and sons might go fishing, or go hunting, or play catch, but that was never going to be Rabastan and Eddie. Still, Eddie couldn't help but feel almost childlike again at the promise of learning something new from his father. He smiled, trying not to look too eager. "I'd like that." |