WHO: Bellatrix & Rabastan Lestrange. WHAT: Discussing a potential recruit over tea. WHEN: Today, 22 January. WHERE: Malfoy Manor.
Bellatrix tilted her cup toward her to watch the cube of sugar dissolving in the bottom. When it had lost its shape and her interest, she slid the bowl of sugar across the table to Rabastan. Through the steam rising off her tea, she gave him a curious look.
“I can’t remember if I mentioned or not,” she said in the tone one took when they were only half-trying to conceal an agenda. “Ignatius is going to talk to Theodora about becoming a Death Eater.”
Aside from the slightest elevation of his eyebrows, Rabastan pretended he didn’t hear Bellatrix. He had a feeling he knew where this was going and it was not a conversation he was interested in having with anyone. For now, at least.
“Can you pass the milk?” he asked instead, not bothering to look up from his own cup of tea.
As her own eyebrows crept upward, Bellatrix pushed the milk within his reach. “I imagine she’ll be rather formidable when we’re through with her.”
“I’m sure she will,” Rabastan replied, though he still didn’t meet Bellatrix’s gaze. He busied himself with his milk and tea as he added, “If she’s anything like her father.”
Bellatrix lifted her tea and took a slow sip, watching Rabastan over the rim of her cup. When she drew it away again, she asked, “Why wouldn’t she be like her father? It’s in her blood.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know the girl.” Rabastan finally looked up, the corners of his mouth tensing into a frown before he took a sip of his tea. He was vaguely wondering how he could smoothly change the subject to something else. Smooth segues were, unfortunately, not his forte. “But it’s a possibility. She could be more like her mother.”
“We’ll find out,” she said from behind her cup again. When she set it down, she gave him a scrutinizing look. “Is that what you’re worried about? With the boy?”
“He isn’t a purist,” Rabastan explained, exasperation seeping into his tone and actions as he placed his cup in its saucer with more force than necessary. Some of his tea sloshed over the rim of the glass. “He’s friends with those Gryffindor girls Fairbourne seems to like so much. He has to be eased into it.”
“It would solve a number of problems if those Gryffindors girls were dead,” she muttered, nose wrinkled and brow furrowed with disgust. But she wasn’t content to change the subject just yet. “Is he interested in dark magic? You can always start there.”
“Some.” Rabastan’s expression softened somewhat as he thought back on their dueling practices. “But he’s resistant to learning the Unforgivables.”
“The more he learns, the more curious he’ll be.” Bellatrix sounded certain, speaking more to her own experience than to any pattern she’d noticed. “Perhaps if you make it sound like you’re letting him in on a secret.”
“Maybe,” Rabastan grumbled, looking uncertain as he took another sip of his tea. “He dodges all talk of the Dark Lord and trust me, I’ve brought his cause up on several different occasions. I—” His words came to an abrupt halt as he realized he was on the cusp of saying I enjoy spending time with him. He shrugged as he abruptly changed tack: “He’s friends with some of the right sort, at least. The Burke boy.”
She gave him a skeptical from behind her cup as she took another sip. “Better than the company Fairbourne keeps, but I doubt the Burke boy will be the difference between his becoming a Death Eater or not.” She leaned forward in her seat, propping an elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. “What about Montague?”
“He doesn’t approve of Montague’s methods, whatever that means.”
Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me he’s squeamish.”
“He was raised on Knockturn, I don’t see how he could possibly be squeamish.” Rabastan let out a heavy sigh as he leaned back in his chair, eyes on his teacup before they flickered up to Bellatrix. “No, I think it has more to do with his friends. The Gryffindors. It always comes back to the Gryffindors.”
She shook her head. “It’s a shame.” Even with one blood traitor culled from her family, the thought of Gryffindor house still left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Rolling her eyes, she added, “Gryffindors aren’t nearly as loyal as they claim to be.”
“No, I wouldn’t call Fairbourne or Capper particularly loyal,” Rabastan replied with a dry laugh. Then, more thoughtfully, “I’m not sure why those two are still bothering with covers.”
“I don’t know about Capper,” Bellatrix said with a wave of her free hand. “And Fairbourne was meant to be spying on them, seeing as she suspects half of them of being involved in the Order. We’ve at least destroyed one of their hideouts because of it.” She raised her eyebrows again. “But I think she has a troublesome soft spot where they’re concerned.”
“She should kill one of them,” Rabastan suggested. A small, terrible smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “Surely she doesn’t need all of them, so — kill the one that’s the least useful. It’ll put them on their toes.”
A smirk settled over her lips and Bellatrix nodded. “I’d still like to see her infiltrate the Order of the Phoenix and kill the whole lot of them at once,” she said with a wistful glance toward the end of the room. “But one’s certainly better than none. It’s a shame you can’t convince the boy to help her. I’m not convinced she’s working well with Montague.”
Rabastan gave Bellatrix a curious look. “I thought you didn’t want me to recruit the boy. Why the change of heart?”
“It’s occured to me he’s well-positioned to help us,” she said, sitting up straighter and folding her arms across her chest. “And if he’s going to be at our family dinners, he ought to take up the family business.”
“I don’t disagree with you.” Rabastan would begrudgingly admit that he enjoyed the boy’s company — although he wouldn’t admit such a thing to Bellatrix — but his ultimate goal remained the same. This was about recruitment, nothing more. He opened his mouth to say something along those lines, but no words came out.
His mouth was set in a thin, tense line. Finally: “I like him.”
Bellatrix looked mildly surprised at the admission — much of what she’d heard about the boy and the circumstances surrounding his existence had come from Rodolphus, who was more than a little biased against him. As far as she could tell, it remained a spot of shame.
She reached for the kettle and poured herself another cup of tea as she asked, “Do you?”
“A little,” was Rabastan’s gruff reply, and he crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive pose. He seemed slightly mortified to be caught caring about another person. “He’s clever.”
Bellatrix’s tone didn’t change as she asked, “Is he?”
Rabastan shot her a withering look. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Well,” Bellatrix said and stood to collect the milk and sugar. “He hasn’t had the benefit of proper guidance.”
“Yes, well.” Rabastan exhaled a huff of dry laughter before he drained the rest of his cup. “We’ve been working on his dueling. There’s always room for improvement, but he’s not bad at all.”
“So he shows promise,” she mused out loud, neither a question or definitive statement. “Would you say he takes after you?”
Rabastan shook his head. “No, he’s more of a schemer.” There was a beat. “And he can’t fly,” he added, drawing out the last word with all the hauteur of a man who, in another life, could’ve been a professional Quidditch player.
“He can’t fly?” she echoed, her forehead creasing with confusion. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Carmichael is afraid of heights.”
Bellatrix couldn’t contain a scoff, “Well, he certainly didn’t inherit that from you.”
“Flying snag aside, I think he could be an asset to the cause,” Rabastan said, scrubbing a hand against the side of his face. “It’ll just take some more time.”
“How much more time?”
Rabastan gave her a flat look as he leaned forward. “Are we on a schedule?”
She returned it with a challenging one. “Does the Order of the Phoenix still exist? Are they still bold enough to attack the Dark Lord’s servants in broad daylight? Are they still hiding Harry Potter?”
“I’ll do what I can. But I can only do so much if the boy is unwilling.”
Bellatrix bit back the habitual response she had for those who wouldn’t do her bidding — the Imperius curse could do wonders when skillfully applied — and instead took another sip of her tea before saying, “It wouldn’t go unnoticed by the Dark Lord if you used the trust you’re building with him to help the cause.”
“That is the plan,” Rabastan replied, a little crisply. He knew what he was doing — he didn’t need the Black sisters meddling in his affairs. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time with him otherwise.”
The look on her face was doubtful but tinged with something verging on sympathy when she said, “Yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t waste time with the halfblood son you like unless the Dark Lord’s cause mandated it.”
Embarrassment flickered across Rabastan’s features, but he schooled his expression into its default — gruff and unimpressed — a moment later. “I do hope Montague succeeds in killing the Weasley boy. He isn’t as funny as he thinks he is.”
“He isn’t,” Bellatrix agreed. Weasleys were rarely funny, except to look at. “And I do hope the boy comes around. I have no doubt you’ll manage it —” Though she did, of course, have doubts. “As long as you don’t let certain things stand in the way.”
Rabastan’s eyes narrowed. “Certain things?”
Bellatrix deadpanned. “You know what I mean.”
“I haven’t the slightest,” Rabastan said, flatly. He motioned toward the kettle. “Are you going to drink the rest of that?”
“It’s not alcohol,” she said, ignoring his question. “It won’t dull your feelings.”
“Feelings?” Rabastan’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline in mock confusion. “What are those?”
Bellatrix lifted her cup to her lips again and raised a knowing eyebrow at him. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
“I prioritize the Dark Lord’s mission above all else. That includes the boy,” Rabastan said, lolling back in his chair. “I’m willing to ease him into it but I do expect him to eventually fall in line.” He met Bellatrix’s eyes as he finally reached for the kettle. “Is that a satisfactory answer or do you want me to sign a blood oath?”
“Are you offering?” She lowered her cup to reveal a smirk. “You know how I love to see blood spilled over family disputes.”
Rabastan returned her smirk with one of his own. “Why spill my blood when we can spill the blood of someone else?”
“An even better way to seal an oath,” she said, raising her cup this time for a toast. “To blood. May it run ever thicker than tea.”