WHO: Eddie Carmichael & Rabastan Lestrange. WHAT: Bonding. WHEN: Recently! Tonight. WHERE: Various places.
Aside from a few quick duels here and there, Rabastan had never properly taught anyone how to duel. But Rodolphus had taught him everything there was to know and more, and surely he could do the same for Eddie. The boy was half-Lestrange, even if he couldn’t publicly claim it. A Lestrange, Rabastan told himself, ought to know how to duel.
That included the use of dark magic, but they could ease into that.
They stood on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and he gave the boy a critical once-over as he circled him like a vulture, his eyes narrowed. “Let me see your dueling stance.”
Eddie took his stance. He kept things close and controlled, the scrappy Knockturn reputation he leaned into once he’d earned it, fairly or not. His stance reflected this; watchful, ready to react. He kept his eyes on Lestrange as best he could, half-expecting some kind of surprise curse to test his reaction time, or something.
“Not bad,” Rabastan said, almost approvingly, rolling his own wand between his fingers. “You’re clearly from Knockturn.”
Then, without warning (and as half-expected,) he sent a stinging jinx hurtling at Eddie with viper-like quickness.
Eddie’s shield can up just in time to make the jinx ricochet and land harmlessly into the well-manicured lawn. His response came instinctually, returning fire with a violent laughter jinx. A beat later, his eyes widened as he realized that maybe they weren’t at the full duel part of the lesson yet, maybe he’d broken some rule or expectation already.
The retaliation took Rabastan by surprise, but he wasn’t wholly unprepared: a shield charm slammed down in front of him with a flick of his wand. The spell went careening off into the distance and Rabastan watched it for a moment before turning his attention back to Eddie. “Was that a laughing jinx? I haven’t seen one of those used in a duel since I was a teenager.”
"I am a teenager," Eddie countered, a touch defensive. His dueling experience was generally more about winning and making a fool of his opponent than about defending himself or hurting anyone, but the principle, he reasoned, was still the same. "Besides, it works. Have you ever tried casting another spell when you're dealing with one of those?"
“It’s juvenile,” Rabastan said, as if that put the discussion on the merits of the laughing jinx to bed. He squinted at Eddie. “Are you sure you aren’t interested in learning more dark magic? The Cruciatus is more distracting than laughter.”
The Cruciatus also landed you in Azkaban, Eddie did not say. Things were different now, anyway, but even in his keenest Ravenclaw mind, Eddie did not want to learn the Unforgivables. "There's a whole world of spells between a laughter jinx and the Cruciatus," he said, hoping to delay what was starting to feel inevitable.
“That’s true,” Rabastan replied, “but the Imperius would come in handy in your line of work.”
"If I can't persuade people without relying on the Imperius, I shouldn't be in my line of work," Eddie countered.
Rabastan barked a laugh. “True, true. You don’t want to learn the Unforgivables, we don’t cover the Unforgiveables.” He was a touch disappointed, but perhaps Eddie would have to be eased into it. (Still, he couldn’t quite understand it — he’d begged and annoyed Rodolphus into teaching them to him as early as possible.) “Are we ruling out all dark magic?”
Eddie allowed a smirk to cross his face, one that promised more excitement than he actually felt. "I didn't say that…"
* * * * *
But for the brief period of time after winning one from the Gamps' party and giving it to Lestrange for Christmas, Eddie had never owned a broom. He learned to fly at Hogwarts like everyone else, on a school broom that didn't seem to take his 'Up!' command too seriously.
He tried flying with Alicia a few times back at Hogwarts when he wanted to impress her, but she'd seen through that quickly enough. Since then, Eddie's fear of heights kept him happily and safely on the ground.
Until his nineteenth birthday, when he agreed to go out flying (on a borrowed broom) with his former Quidditch captain father.
This was fine.
"So … where do you want to fly?" Eddie asked, an awkward attempt at conversation before he surely made a fool of himself off the ground.
“That’s a good question.” A thoughtful expression flickered over Rabastan’s face as he considered their options. ‘Where do you want to fly?’ was a conundrum he could handle. The larger issue of ‘What, exactly, are you doing with Edasich Carmichael?’ was one he couldn’t quite answer. Recruitment was his main priority, but this outing wasn’t in line with the Dark Lord’s goals.
“We’ll fly over the Cotswolds,” he continued. “I’ll show you where I was raised.”
Eddie nodded slowly, trying to figure out both the distance they would have to fly and how high above the ground they would be. Maybe if they went close enough, they could land on the Lestrange grounds for awhile. Unless… "Okay. Yeah, we can do that. The property doesn't have any like, wards against flyovers, does it? A lightning bolt isn't going to jump up and fry me if I get too close, right?"
He tried for a joking tone, with limited success.
Rabastan leaned forward, his expression somber. “No, but there are wards that can detect those who don’t believe in the Dark Lord’s work,” he told Eddie in a grave voice. “It freezes the very blood in your veins.”
A shiver ran through Eddie even as he was sure (well...pretty sure) the man was joking, or at least only testing him. Still, his inner Ravenclaw couldn’t help but perk up a little at even the idea of that kind of magic. “Cool, thought police charms,” he said, not even sarcastically. “How do you even do that? That’s got to be some wicked complicated magic. Did the Malfoys have that too?” He asked, a little test of his own. (His blood wasn’t frozen on Christmas Eve, after all.)
Momentarily taken aback by Eddie’s earnest curiosity, Rabastan eyed his son with frank speculation before replying, “No, they don’t. Truth be told, I don’t think anyone aside from the Dark Lord himself is capable of that sort of magic.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “He always knows everything, you see.”
Then why doesn't he know where Harry Potter is? Eddie was wise enough not to say out loud. "Yeah, that does seem pretty intense," he said, once again bypassing the mention and praise of the Dark Lord.
To keep Lestrange from pressing the issue, Eddie took an action that was only slightly less intimidating, and took off on his broom. The sooner they were flying, the sooner they could be done with flying.
Rabastan followed suit, eager to test the limits of his new broom. It was a top of the line model, so he wasn’t too surprised by smoothly it flew, or how easily it made turns. He zipped ahead of Eddie, keen on assessing how it handled loops — only to notice that Eddie was lagging behind.
“Having trouble?” he called out, pulling the handle up as he slowed to a crawl.
If Eddie weren't already as pale as an indoor-loving English boy in December could be, it would have been easier to see how white his knuckles were, gripping the broom as if at any second he might suddenly fall from the sky to a grisly death.
Who had ever thought flying on a thin stick of wood was a good idea?
"I'm fine!" he insisted, the strain coming through his voice as he tried his best to match Lestrange's slowed pace.
Something approaching concern flickered over Rabastan’s face. He had spent days thinking about how this outing would go, but it had never occurred to him that Eddie wasn’t comfortable flying.
“Carmichael, you don’t look or sound fine.”
"How much further to the Cotswolds?" Eddie asked, absolutely determined that he could salvage this. They wouldn't have to learn dark arts in order to have something in common. Still, even Eddie realized how foolish he must look. "I don't … I don't really love heights, but it's fine. It's my problem. I'm excited to see it there."
“We’re not going to the Cotswolds,” Rabastan said flatly, steering his broom downward. “Let’s get you back on solid ground before you break your neck.” Then, with an amused scoff, “You don’t really love heights. Incredible.”
Eddie's relief and disappointment in himself swelled, but ultimately, the former won out. He landed gently and let out the breath he was holding all the way down. This was so much better. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Rabastan gracefully landed in a patch of thick, browning grass as he gave Eddie a curious look. “You don’t need to apologize. We’ll do something else.”
* * * * *
There weren't many places the two of them could sit and share a meal. Malfoy Manor was overwhelming, not to mention occupied by Malfoys and Lestranges and, if his father was to be believed, the Dark Lord himself. Going somewhere Muggle was out of the question, as was going somewhere magical.
And so, Lestrange's well-appointed office it was. It was after normal Ministry hours, so there weren't as many people to sneak by or explain himself too, but it didn't matter. Eddie was used to going unnoticed.
He waited up the hallway until the food was delivered (too many of his old classmates worked delivering things these days, and he didn't want a confusing scene) then made his way into Lestrange's office, feeling a little more at home than last time he'd been there. "So, busy day Obliviating people?"
“Always,” was Rabastan’s gruff reply, half-distracted by the paper full of takeaway cartons. He didn’t order delivery often — why bother with delivery when a house elf could bring him meals ‐ and it made him nostalgic for a youth of slumming it. Eager to distance himself from his posh upbringing, his late teens and early twenties were full of greasy takeaway and swill from Knockturn bars. Eddie reminded him of those years — for many reasons.
“Busy day of... “ He paused, going still as he pulled out a container of rice. “What is it that you do, exactly?”
"Sit around bored out of my mind, usually," Eddie shrugged. His job had promised to be a lot more than it was proving to be, and he felt restless. "Mostly everybody just looks at me and goes 'Oh, you're young! Go social media this' or 'Oh, you're young! What do the youths like to read about these days' or 'Oh, you're young and energetic! Why don't you go reorganize storage downstairs.'" He stabbed a flimsy plastic fork into his dinner. "It's fine, though. I mean the people there are alright and everything."
Something Eddie said snagged in Rabastan’s thoughts. “Social media?” he asked, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. “Are you on… what’s it called, hooter? And the wiztagram?”
"Don't call it 'the wiztagram,'" Eddie advised, making a face. "You're not that old. And yeah, I'm on both. I don't actually hoot that much though. I just use it to follow what's up. But for work I help run their official accounts, like hooting about a new release or something. They don't really let me have any fun with it."
“Obscurus Books is a fine wizarding company. They shouldn’t be bothering with this muggle influenced techno-whatever,” Rabastan groused, his expression one of mingled revulsion and irritation. There was more on the tip of his tongue — and this is why the muggle threat needs to be stamped out, Carmichael — but he reined it in at the last minute.
Eddie stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. He felt like he was arguing with a grandfather about kids these days. A few steamed and sauce-dipped vegetables later, he muttered, "It's faster than advertising by owl."
Rabastan made a considering noise as he toyed with his food. “I believe we have a Hooter, though I’ve never looked at it.”
"You'd probably only need to use it to announce emergencies and things, I would think," Eddie offered. "You know, avoid Kent because of a situation we're handling. It's not like you've got to build the Obliviator brand. Oh," A realization struck him. "Unless you meant … yeah, you've got one there. It's pretty active, actually."
“Is it?” Rabastan asked, leaning forward with keen interest. “Do you read it often?”
"Sure," Eddie said. Reading a hooter was hardly the same as endorsing its content, but if Rabastan didn't make that distinction, Eddie wasn't going to clarify the issue. "It's, you know, straight from the thestral's mouth. Or at least, from whoever you've got running the account's mouth." He watched Rabastan's reaction, suddenly curious just who might run such a thing.
“One of our younger cohort.” The older man pulled away slightly, his mouth curved into an enigmatic smile. “There are a number of—” Not youths, he told himself. Rabastan tried again: “A considerable number of your peers are enthusiastic supporters of the cause. It’s heartening.”
"Like Montague," Eddie said, not willing to actually ask for more names, but curious nonetheless to hear where this might go. "Has he … I mean it's been for awhile, hasn't it?"
Something approaching a genuine smile flickered across Rabastan’s face. “Montague is one of my favorites. I’m thrilled with his progress.”
Eddie stabbed at a particularly stubborn bit of chicken that seemed to just elude his fork and take all his attention away from Lestrange and into his carton. Montague, the one who'd beaten him in a duel Lestrange egged on. Montague, who'd burned anything resembling a bridge between himself and the people Eddie wanted to keep in his own life. Montague, who screwed with Alicia's head and used Eddie to do it. Montague was one of Lestrange's favourites. "Cool," he said quietly.
There was a brief flash of confusion in Rabastan’s eyes. “I thought you liked Montague.”
Chicken (finally) successfully skewered, Eddie shrugged. "Yeah, he's fine. I mean we were never like best mates or anything, but we got on. Get on," he corrected himself, though the former was closer to the truth.
Silence settled between them as Rabastan busied himself with his own container of food. He studied Carmichael as he ate, and their eyes met briefly as Rabastan echoed his son. “Got on, you said.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with an unnecessary amount of force. “You don’t approve of Montague’s loyalties.”
It wasn’t a question.
Eddie felt flush, red creeping in around his neck and his ears as he didn't know what to do with this, how to get out of it. He hadn't been actively afraid of Lestrange in months, but the man's tone brought all that uncertainty right back up to the surface. "I wasn't surprised," he said carefully. "I'm just not really crazy about his … methods."
“Are you familiar with muggle weaponry?” Rabastan asked.
Again, the eye roll was suppressed. "What kind of weaponry are we talking? On a scale from bat with a nail stuck in it to the nuclear sort."
Rabastan lifted an eyebrow. “Nuclear?” he repeated, the word obviously foreign to him. “I’m talking about guns. They’re one of the few things that stood out to me in Muggle Studies. The sheer destructiveness…”
For one brief moment, something dangerous glimmered in the depths of Rabastan’s eyes. But the moment quickly passed, and he pressed on: “Montague is a shotgun. Blunt, powerful, but a limited range. You, on the other hand—” He leaned forward again. “You have the potential to be what the muggles call a sniper rifle. It requires more skill and precision, but it’s no less dangerous.”
Eddie took a few slow, deliberate breaths before responding. One the one hand, of course, he was flattered; in Lestrange's own bizarre way, it was a hell of a compliment. Even if Eddie didn't want to be a sniper rifle, the idea that he could be was … well, it was a little overwhelming, really.
On the other hand, Eddie didn't want to be a sniper rifle. He didn't even want to be a bat with a nail stuck in it. "What are you?" he asked. "In this scenario."
“A shotgun. Rodolphus is the sniper rifle.” A beat. “Bellatrix is the… nuclear.”
"Bellatrix is the nuclear," Eddie agreed. A wry smile came to his face. "Does that make Malfoy something shiny and posh? Like a fencing foil?"
Rabastan threw his head back and laughed. “That’s very good. Scarily accurate.”
"You know, at school, I honestly thought the peacock thing was a myth," Eddie confessed, pleased at the laugh he'd earned. "Who the hell just has albino peacocks running around?"
“Lucius is my oldest friend and he’s always been that posh and uptight,” Rabastan told him, laughter still rumbling beneath his words. “The peacocks are fucking absurd but that’s Lucius. He’s ostentatious.”
"Like father, like son," Eddie said, and his ears burned again at the realization of what he'd just said and who he'd just said it to. "Just, Draco's the same way, like."
“Fathers and sons do tend to have a lot in common,” Rabastan pointed out, meeting Eddie’s gaze in a level stare.
"Especially the ones who've lived in the same peacock manor together the son's whole life," Eddie countered.
“In my defense, I was in Azkaban.”
"In my defense, you fucked off before that."
Rabastan blinked. “Touché. But you still turned out all right, kid.”
"Good, I've got you fooled, too," Eddie joke before a reluctant smile crept across his face. Then, a gentler, more genuine, "Thanks."