WHO: Noëlle Zabini & Rabastan Lestrange. WHAT: A lunch date! WHEN: Backdated to 11 September 2017. WHERE: Whistle & Skull, Diagon Alley. WARNINGS: Comic books.
Unsurprisingly, Lucius and Narcissa had very good taste in restaurants.
They were seated on the patio of Whistle & Skull, which their server assured them was kept sunny and temperate all year round. Creeping vines swallowed the stone walls that surrounded them, and someone had teased the stalks to twine around the pergola overhead. The restaurant patrons were the right sort of people — witches and wizards who didn’t have to worry about being affected by this war. It was all very nice. Rabastan fussed with the sleeves of his newly tailored robes. Niceness hadn’t been expected of him in some time.
Sipping at his wine, Rabastan smiled at Noëlle over the rim of his glass. “I don’t drink wine often,” he admitted, setting his glass down on the linen tablecloth. “I prefer whiskey. But this is nice.”
While Rabastan sipped, Noëlle had almost drained half her wine glass already, far too practiced at spending her days with a bottle of wine now that she had no husband and only a part time job to keep her occupied. Realising this, she placed her glass down and returned Rabastan’s smile, fingers already itching to pick the glass back up again. Instead, she reached across the table to brush her fingers against his. “It is nice. All of it,” she agreed, looking around the patio. “Almost as nice as your new office.”
Rabastan fought to keep his expression even as his gaze dropped down to their hands. His attention snapped back to Noëlle as he leaned forward, the lingering tension in his shoulders melting away. “Between you and me, the office is the best thing about being back at the Ministry,” he joked, his face cracking into a cocky grin. “It wouldn’t be worth it otherwise. Who wants to deal with people day in and day out?”
Noëlle let out a perfectly practiced ‘appropriately engaged and amused’ tinkle of a laugh at Rabastan’s joke. “At least the Ministry is improving daily. I noticed that they were even doing some redecorating in the foyer today. “ She moved her fingers back away from his, playing with the stem of her wine glass instead as she carefully studied his face for any reaction to the loss of contact. “I can’t say I blame you. You must have to put up with some of the most tedious people.”
Once Noëlle withdrew her hand, Rabastan straightened up in his seat. His expression, however, remained unchanged. “The Obliviators know their place,” he said. The Death Eater had made his intentions clear on the first day: he would rule over the office with a heavy hand. His grin faded a few degrees as he continued, “It’s the DMLE that continues to cross the line, but that isn’t my purview.”
A beat, then: “This must be boring.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Noëlle replied, even though she had taken the slight pause as an opportunity to take another large sip from her wine, subtly signalling to a waiter that it was time for a refill. “But I’m sure you don’t want to talk about work all the time. You should tell me more about yourself instead.”
“What,” Rabastan began, eyes meeting hers with a steadiness that might have been unnerving, “would you like to know? Most of my life is public record.”
While some people’s confidence may have wavered under Rabastan’s stare, Noëlle just smiled, though her gaze dropped slightly. “I’m sure there is more to you than what the public records say. Your hobbies, your life ambitions, your fears, your favourite colour.” Her foot grazed his ankle. “I want to get to know you.”
This time, Rabastan couldn’t help but react: there was the slightest elevation of his eyebrows as he leaned back in his chair, laughing uproariously. “You don’t need to lay it on quite so thick, Noëlle.” He idly swirled his wine around its glass. “We’ve known each other since we were eleven.”
Noëlle choked on the sip of wine she’d just taken, for once caught off guard. Once she’d recomposed herself her eyes narrowed at him, posture straightening, but a serene smile forced back on her face. “True, but I believe we’ve both changed a great deal since we were eleven, Rabastan. Even if some of your interests seem to be on par with that of a first year.”
“Fair,” Rabastan conceded with a shrug. “I don’t think my interests are juvenile, but I realize I’m in the minority. What about you, though? What are your interests?” He made his smile quick and rakish as he quickly tacked on, “Besides gold.”
Her eyebrows shot up and Noëlle was left temporarily speechless, but a rare genuine laugh followed and she relaxed in her chair. Rabastan might have been on to her, but he was still here so hope was not lost.
“I also like diamonds and other precious gems, for your reference,” she replied, smirking into her wine glass. “But as for other interests, I’ve tried many different things over the years. Different husbands introducing me to different things, but the main ones would have to be travel, attending Swivenhodge matches, it is far superior to Quidditch, sorry to break that to you, shopping and reading novels that don’t have pictures in them.”
“Swivenhodge?” Rabastan echoed, arching an eyebrow. There was a smirk on his face as he asked, “The one where they sit backwards on their broom and toss around a bladder? That Swivenhodge?”
“Yes,” Noëlle replied, meeting his eyes with an unwavering stare, daring him to say anything further about her preferred sport. “My third husband was a fan and after being unwillingly dragged to games I learned to appreciate it.” She picked up her wine and leaned back in her chair. “They've moved with the times and no longer use a bladder though. I think you'd quite enjoy it if you gave it a chance. It's almost like quidditch with only the beaters.”
Rabastan tilted his head to survey the woman sitting across from him, his amusement obvious. Reaching for his glass, he drained what was left of his wine before motioning to their server for a refill. The server, who was regarding their table with barely concealed terror, scrambled forward with a bottle of wine, hastily filling both of their glasses.
“I’ll look into it,” he said, his interest genuinely piqued. He watched Noëlle intently as he took another sip of his wine. “Was your third husband your favorite?”
“No, my first was,” she answered honestly, picking up her now filled glass. “But there's always the possibility that the 8th could finally be the one to dethrone him.”
Rabastan’s smirk crooked into something almost soft. “I’m surprised you aren’t ready to give it all up. I would’ve called it quits after the first few—” Died, he almost said. “—ended abruptly,” is what he settled on.
“What can I say, I'm a romantic.” Even she couldn't keep a straight face at that though and she let out a short laugh. “There is something to be said about finding someone new who finds you beautiful and watching them fall in love with you though,” she answered honestly again, not sure if that was the wine’s doing or feeling less pressure to impress now that Rabastan had already called her out on her actions. “And a new wedding every few years leaves no doubt in people's minds that yours are always the best.”
With a wry smile, Rabastan said, “Ah, so that’s what it’s really about.” He paused long enough to take a sip of his wine and shoot their server an expectant look, a look that plainly read where is our food? (The server scurried off to the kitchen.) “I don’t have very fond memories of weddings. There’s always some old crone flapping about and trying to marry you off to their great-niece or granddaughter. They’re like sharks, they can sense eligible bachelors like blood in the water.”
His smile glimmered with false innocence as he added, “Not that you’d know anything about that.”
“No, nothing. They tend to find me.” She gave the server a tight lipped smile and a polite ‘thank you’ as he finally set their dishes down on their charger plates. “I believe you're the one who asked me out.”
“I did.” There was a ruminating pause that gave him enough time to pick at a filet of smoked salmon. “I like the risk.”
Noëlle quirked a brow as she chewed, a small but amused smile on her lips. “Perhaps we need to work on your attitude towards weddings then.”
“And you’re still willing to try?” It was a joke, but there was an undercurrent of incredulity in Rabastan’s voice. He was difficult. He was abrasive. He had spent several years in Azkaban. He decided not to mention any of these things, instead settling on—
“Despite my enthusiasm for comic books?” He stabbed at one of the crisp fingerling potatoes lining his plate. “Which, for the record, aren’t just for children.”
She picked up her wine glass again, focus on the liquid she swirled around instead of on him. “I'll keep my options open, of course,” she told him, meeting his eyes now. “But it’s getting harder to find people who aren't up in arms about the mistreatment of muggleborns all the time, and you have some desirable traits, so I can let the comic book obsession slide for now.”
One brow lifted as if in challenge. “It isn’t an obsession.”
“The framed page in your office suggests otherwise.” Her tone was even and cold but she let a foot move back to his side of the table, bumping against his as she turned her attention back to her meal.