WHO: Rodolphus & Rabastan Lestrange. WHAT: Three promises. WHEN: 1982; 1992; 2001. WHERE: Lestrange Manor. WARNINGS: Discussions of violence.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the open door to Rodolphus’ room. It was late — Rabastan had counted the ringing chimes and knew it was eleven, past his bedtime — but he was awake and he was bored. He had initially planned to explore his father’s study, which was off-limits, but the pale glow of light from his brother’s door was a trail of breadcrumbs he couldn’t ignore. Yawning, he crossed the hallway separating their bedrooms and did not knock before he peeked his head into Rodolphus’ room.
It was rude, but good manners were beyond his seven year old mind.
“I’m bored,” was his greeting, stifling another yawn as he stepped fully into his older brother’s room. “Can we play a game?”
Rodolphus’ surprise at the intrusion was obvious. He snapped his head up from the book he was reading, finger finding his place as he looked at his brother padding into the room. Rabastan was dressed in pyjamas and Rodolphus didn’t have to look at the time to know it was much too late for him to be up. He barely needed to know that his brother was trying hard not to yawn.
“What are you doing up?” Rodolphus asked. “You probably wouldn’t be bored if you were asleep.” Despite his words, he’d sat up, pushing himself into a position more appropriate for talking to someone than sprawled across his bed and, most importantly, he hadn’t shooed him.
Rabastan’s mouth curved. “I’m up because I want to be up. I was going to Father’s study,” he explained, plopping down in the middle of the bedroom floor, “but games are more fun.” He gave his brother an expectant look, as if he expected Rodolphus to join him on the floor.
“There’s nothing in there you’re supposed to touch,” Rodolphus said, parroting what he’d always been told. He caught Rabastan’s expectant expression and sighed. He was going to get down on the floor.
It took him a few moments to do it, but Rodolphus eased himself off the bed and walked around to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of his brother. “I don’t have many games here, you know. We can’t play exploding snap. Father will hear.”
There was a pause as Rabastan’s face screwed up in thought. He tried to remember all the games he knew. He glanced around the room for inspiration, his gaze snagging on a chessboard. A tutor was in the process of trying to teach him how to play, but he found it too challenging. There were some puzzles in the back of his comic books, but they were all the way in his room, neatly packed away in a chest.
“What if you tell me a story?” Rabastan asked, propping an elbow up on his thigh and resting his chin in the heel of his palm. “I want to hear about Hogwarts again. Ooh, or maybe—” He lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. “—maybe you can tell me about muggles.”
Rodolphus laughed and leaned backwards, his hands flat on the floor as he thought for a moment. “All right, I can tell you a story. I heard that the muggles in the village we went past over the weekend on the brooms were recently terrorised by a lot of violent crimes because one of them didn’t buy the right sort of teabags. Can you believe that?”
Rabastan raised both of his eyebrows. “I can’t believe that at all.” There was a thoughtful pause before he added, “What kind of crimes? Did they get beat up?”
“One of them got stabbed,” Rodolphus said, as if that wasn’t a terrible thing to be saying to a sleepy seven year old in slightly oversized pyjamas. “With a massive knife! Over teabags! They’re very rude and awful, see? They don’t understand proportionate retaliation.”
Rabastan nodded fervently, as if he understood phrases like ‘proportional retaliation.’ “But it’s good that the muggles were stabbed, right?” There was an avian-like tilt of his head as he imagined a muggle being stabbed with an extremely large and not entirely realistic knife. “Because muggles are bad and um. A blight. To society.”
A moment passed before he amended his statement. “On society.”
“That’s right!” Rodolphus said, enthusiastically, eyes bright and pride obvious. “They are a severe blight. They can threaten our way of living.” He leaned forward, fervent belief obvious, even though Rodolphus himself had had very few interactions with muggles. “Father once told me about how the third holiday home didn’t have muggle repellant wards and they got in and completely ransacked the place. They should have been killed for it, if you ask me.”
“Father said that?” Rabastan asked, eyes widened in horror and fear. Rodolphus’ story would have been met with skepticism without that addition. If their father had said such a thing then it must be true. He shifted, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Can muggles get in here? Are they going to ransack my room?” His voice became slightly more panicked as he asked, “What if they hurt Mummy with a big knife?”
Oh dear.
Rodolphus realised his mistake too late. He shook his head a few times and then moved closer, quick to reach out and squeeze Rabastan’s arm. He moved until he was sitting beside his brother and hugged him, voice much softer and firm as he said, “No, of course not. They can’t get in here. It’s warded by the best wards that have ever existed. No muggles can even see us properly.”
“Do you promise?” Rabastan asked, voice wavering, looking up at his brother with the same wide-eyed expression. “Because I’ll get Dotty to give me a knife so I can stab them first.”
Rodolphus paused for a moment and then shook his head again. “I’m so sure you don’t need to do that. I’ll pinky promise you.”
Rabastan gave his brother a tentative smile as he raised his hand, extending his little pinky for Rodolphus. “Okay. It’s a promise.”
Rabastan was determined to avoid his summer assignments for as long as possible. He had little interest in three foot long essays on the merits of the Disarming Charm, and his readings on dark creatures were dry and dull. Defense Against the Dark Arts had long been one of his favorite classes, but the curriculum had recently lost its luster. Now, through his older brother, Rabastan had access to the dark arts, which he found superior to all other magical forces.
Lazily draped over a chair in one of the sitting rooms, Rabastan only stirred when he heard the approaching footsteps of Rodolphus. By the time Rodolphus entered the room, Rabastan looked like an attentive schoolboy: he was sitting straight up in the chair, his eyes gleaming, with a heavy textbook splayed across his lap.
“So?” he asked, eager and curious. “How’d it go? What’d you learn? Was he there?”
“He’s not always there,” Rodolphus responded, amusement threaded through his voice, making it warm and rich. He laughed lightly, letting the door close behind him. Although Rodolphus knew his parents were supportive, he wasn’t sure whether they’d want to hear the minutia of Death Eater training. “Sometimes, he has very important work to do — I train with some others, as well.”
Rodolphus moved further into the room, buoyed by his training, humming with excitement and enthusiasm. It was obvious from looking at him. “We learnt so many things,” he said. “We were doing fire curses today. I couldn’t show you those now.”
Rodolphus’ excitement was infectious. Rabastan laughed as he leaned forward, propping his elbows up on his knees and resting his chin against balled fists. He liked fire curses — there was something appealing about the sheer destruction they caused. But Rodolphus was right, they were not suited for a study inside Cronus Lestrange’s manor. Rabastan looked around at their surroundings with a forlorn expression. He should've anticipated this and met his brother on the grounds.
“What can you show me?” he asked, his eagerness obvious. It was uncharacteristic of him; Rabastan worked hard on his insouciant attitude.
The difference didn’t go unnoticed by Rodolphus, who smiled first at his brother and then at the room at large. It was better not to remark on it but it heartened Rodolphus. Maybe his brother would follow him, once he was able. “I can show you how to shatter and twist bones,” he said, obviously relishing the knowledge. “They can be crushed too. It’s quite interesting. You’d probably like the crushing.” There was a violence in his brother than Rodolphus understood, but which often seemed more pronounced in Rabastan. He’d taken to mentally cataloguing the spells he thought Rabastan would care for more.
“I want to learn that one,” was Rabastan’s immediate response. His voice was stubborn and demanding: Rabastan could be as inexorable as the tides when he wanted to be. It was a trait he shared with Rodolphus. He rose to his feet, discarding his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, and pulled out his wand.
Then, with a grin, “I’d like to learn the Unforgivables, too.”
Rodolphus’ smile was quick and sharp, a flash of teeth. “You want to try them on me?”
“The Imperius, yeah,” Rabastan laughed. “I'd have you admit I'm superior to you in every way.”
“I don’t think any Imperius you could manage would be strong enough for that,” Rodolphus said, his eyebrow lifting. A smile lingered on his face and he twirled his wand for a moment, over and over. “I can teach you how to make other people say it, though.”
Rabastan absentmindedly traced a circle in the air with his wand as a thoughtful expression passed over his face. “When I join the Death Eaters,” he said, with a slight emphasis on ‘when’, “that will be the one I use the most. Although the Cruciatus sounds useful, too. I wish I could use them at school.”
“Please, Rabastan,” Rodolphus said, smothering a smile, “please tell me you wouldn’t use it on your teachers.” There was a warmth in his chest, an affection and even pride that his brother was going to follow in his footsteps. They were going to be Death Eaters together: they’d help make the world a better place. Rodolphus could see it very clearly.
He could also see Rabastan using unforgivables on his disliked teachers, too.
“Hmm.” It was a thoughtful noise from Rabastan. Non-committal. His brow furrowed as he contemplated the question, mentally flicking through a rolodex of his most irritating professors. “McGonagall is so uppity,” he said, aiming his wand at the Transfiguration textbook on the floor. “She’s always after me about one thing or another. Lecturing me about my language.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “You call a mudblood a mudblood once and it’s the end of the world at that place.”
“You are foul-mouthed too,” Rodolphus said, a frown twisting his mouth slightly. “Perhaps that’s hard to argue with. Though mudbloods should be called by their proper names. We don’t want them getting ideas.” Everything was said in a smooth tone of voice, casual but firm. Rodolphus’ beliefs were finely etched and deeply felt: no mudblood should think they were anything but.
“If there’s one thing I hate about Hogwarts,” Rabastan began, thoughtfully tapping his wand against his thigh, “it’s that the professors generally encourage mudbloods to rise above their station.” His tone became more reverent as he added, “That’s why the Dark Lord is so important. He’ll put a stop to that.”
“Isn’t the new Herbology teacher married to a mudblood?” Rodolphus asked, his lip curling with obvious disgust. “I tried to find out once, but I don’t want to ask her — she looks like a mudblood lover.”
“Would you like me to ask?” There was a wicked upturn of the corners of Rabastan’s mouth as he threw himself back down onto the chair. When he spoke again, his voice was stiffer, loftier, more respectful. “Hello, ma’am. I was wondering if you were married to mudblood scum.”
Rodolphus barely missed a beat, a normal smile skirting across his features, before his expression changed. Shoulders dropping, he pitched his voice higher and said, “Why, sir! I’m most pleased to tell you that I am indeed married to mudblood scum.” There was a beat and then his voice returned to normal as he added, “That’s when she would giggle, I imagine.”
Rabastan grinned. “I love the enthusiasm, but I have to dock ten points for not committing to the girlish giggle.”
“I thought you might want to do it for me instead,” Rodolphus said, a sly grin on his face. “You’re much more committed to the dramatic staging of things.”
Rabastan touched a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Me, committed to dramatics? You’ve confused me for Lucius.”
An eyebrow lifted and Rodolphus warred with himself not to let out a burst of laughter. He didn’t try too hard. The sound was loud, delighted, and he shook his head as he circled a large armchair and then finally sat in it. “I don’t think so, Rabastan,” he said. “I think the two of you are very fond of each other for a number of reasons — one is you speak to each other’s dramatic souls.”
He shook his head slightly, as if completely thrown by any other idea, and physically shaking it off.
The smile immediately slid off Rabastan’s face, genuine offense getting the best of him. Leaning back in his chair, he leveled a withering look at his brother. “I’m not dramatic,” he groused, aiming his wand at Rodolphus. “Compared to Lucius, I’m the grounded one. He’s the one that gets all fussy over the cleanliness of his robes and—” He slipped into a surprisingly good imitation of Lucius Malfoy. “Excuse me, did you know that I’m a Prefect?”
The impression brought a laugh out of Rodolphus. It was too easy to imagine Lucius, happily boasting, reminding everyone of his very shiny badge. “Yes, I suppose compared to Lucius you're very grounded.”
Somewhat mollified, there was a smirk on Rabastan’s face as he said, “Compared to you, too.”
“My feet are firmly on the ground,” Rodolphus informed his brother, tapping his heels against the floor with a grin. “I’ve got Lucius and you beat, I think.”
“I could crush them,” Rabastan offered, aiming his wand at Rodolphus’ right foot with a guileless smile. “Once you show me the spell, that is. They’d still be on the ground but, you know, not quite as firmly.”
“I’m going to show you the spell so you can crush other people's feet,” Rodolphus said, laughing and shaking his head. “You must crush responsibly, Rabastan. You have to promise.” He looked at him with the wide-eyed look of someone fully expecting a verbal promise, remaining silent as he waited for Rabastan to comply.
Rabastan raised his pinky and waved it in his brother’s direction. “I promise. You know how trustworthy I am.”
(In reality, Rabastan was as trustworthy as a snake, but that was neither here nor there.)
Rodolphus’ eyebrows shot up, disbelief apparent, but he nodded and then stood in one swift movement. “Come on, then,” he said. “I’ve not got all day. You’re loitering now.” He was laughing as he made his way to the door, not looking back but sure that he could feel Rabastan scowling. It created a bit of a bounce in his step.
It didn’t matter that the Dark Lord was dead, his cause was not.
It was something that Rodolphus kept repeating in his head, trying to make it seem true. Of course it mattered that the Dark Lord was dead. The blow had been horrific and crippling to many, but Rodolphus knew that it wasn’t going to be forever. Their cause was too important, too necessary: they couldn’t let a small child ruin that.
Not everybody seemed to agree. Silence had permeated from a number of their ranks and Rodolphus stood, fingers curled around a glass of brandy, contemplating it. They wouldn’t stay silent, or go quietly. There wasn’t a question of it.
He was vaguely aware of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned towards it, expecting a house elf but seeing Rabastan. “Oh. Are you interrupting my brooding, Rabastan?” There was a vague smile on his face.
There was no trace of a smile on the younger Lestrange’s face, however. Rabastan looked wild, like a dangerous roused animal. There was a vicious anger thriving inside of him, feeding off his sorrow and fear. The Dark Lord couldn’t be dead, certainly not at the hands of some child. There was one refrain thundering in his eardrums: we have to find him, we have to do something.
Slowly and deliberately, he made his way across the room, closing the distance between them. “What are we going to do now?” he asked, his voice harsh.
“I’m going to finish this drink,” Rodolphus said softly. “You may have one if you want. Where’s Pongo?”
The house elf appeared immediately, a crack cutting through the air. Even though Rodolphus’ back was turned, he could feel the house elf’s stare. “Get Rabastan a drink,” he ordered and the elf disappeared. Rodolphus took a sip of his own and looked out the window again.
“We’re not going to let them win, Rabastan.”
Rabastan accepted a tumbler full of amber liquid from the house elf. He did not want a drink but he took a sip anyway — it was a smoother brandy, with none of the harsh burn he liked. He stared at Rodolphus as he sipped his drink, holding the glass with a white-knuckled grip.
“We have to find him,” Rabastan said, stubborn and insistent. “We can’t do this without him.”
“So you don’t think he’s properly dead?” Rodolphus turned his head to look at his brother, a deliberately neutral expression on his face.
“Of course not,” Rabastan replied hotly. “No child could kill the Dark Lord.”
A small smile curled at the corners of Rodolphus’ mouth, but there wasn’t any particular mirth in it. There was nothing funny about this situation, nothing Rodolphus felt like grabbing onto to look at positively. If they were saying, if they were so certain, that the Dark Lord was gone then why were they? There wasn’t enough information. He finished his drink.
“We’re going to find out,” he said, sounding confident. “But we have to be careful. If they think He’s going, for whatever reason, then they’re going to be looking for us. They’ll be more assured of themselves.”
Rabastan’s free hand flexed. “Let them look for us. I have a feeling they won’t like what they find.”
He was not worried about the Aurors. Wrath roiled through him without restraint. The prospect of a duel, the promise of Dark curses and blood and, if he was lucky, fists on skin, was a jolt of lightning to the core of Rabastan’s being. They would take on the Aurors and they would win, there was no doubt about it.
He took another sip of his brandy. “We’ll take them down. We always do.”
“Of course we do,” Rodolphus said, strongly. He set his glass down, abandoning it on the windowsill. He could see nothing but rolling grounds in front of him, trees and plants, the long expanse of sky. It was dark now; he knew by daylight they’d know more, they’d clutch at plans, they’d find somewhere to go from here. The lack of knowledge twisted through Rodolphus, uncertainty making him feel like plates were shifting under his feet.
“No matter what, we’re not giving up,” he said. His gaze cut to his brother. “You wouldn’t even dream of it.”
Rabastan nodded. He drained the rest of his drink before saying, “We should start with friends of the Potters. Someone has to know something. We’ll get it out of them by hook or by crook.”
“Pull it out of them,” Rodolphus said, with a terrible smile. “They don’t stand a chance. Me, you, and Bellatrix, at the very least, will do it.”
“The only true loyal servants.”
“Of course we are.” Rodolphus’ voice was smooth and certain, but he clenched his fist at his side. There was a horrible energy thrumming through him that he had to figure out what to do with. He tried to remember everything he’d read and he took a deep breath in and held it. “We promised to be. We’re not going to let the Dark Lord down now.”
Rabastan exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “No, we aren’t.”
He walked forward, joining his brother at the window. He put the empty glass on the windowsill as he gaze swept over the massive grounds of the Lestrange estate. There was something dark and foreboding about their home now, but he ignored it. It was insignificant. “We’ll make them all pay. It’s a promise.”