WHO: Rodolphus & Rabastan Lestrange. WHAT: A discussion on less loyal Death Eaters and anger management. WHEN: 2016. WHERE: Malfoy Manor. WARNINGS: None.
Solitude was less appealing after Azkaban.
Rabastan had relished it in his youth. He read alone, he drank alone, he flew alone. Now, too much time with his own thoughts transported him back to a gloomy cell, dark and dark with Dementors lurking nearby. If he wanted to read — and he did, because there were fifteen years worth of comics to catch up with — he read in the company of others. If he wanted to drink, he went to a busy pub in Knockturn and ignored the terrified stares. Now, he wanted to fly, and he was going to ask his brother to accompany him. But, he remembered, they would need to borrow broomsticks from Lucius.
Irritation flared through him. He hated to ask Lucius for anything, but didn’t Lucius owe it to them? Lucius could still appreciate solitude, Rabastan was certain of this. Lucius hadn’t lost fifteen years of his life.
When he found Rodolphus in the library, he didn’t feel any less irritated. And so: “How would you have felt if I had claimed I was under the Imperius?”
The question startled Rodolphus and he ran his finger down the page of the book in front of him, slowly, as if he was finding the place he’d left off at. When Rabastan surprised him with questions, he preferred to take his time before he answered. Sometimes, his answer depended on what mood Rodolphus thought his brother was in. Lifting his head to look at the other man, he quickly realised it probably wasn’t as good one.
“I would have been incredibly disappointed with you,” Rodolphus said, finally. He reached for a bookmark and closed the book over on it. “If you’re fighting for what is right, you must accept it is not always easy. You believe in the cause, you should be willing to say as much.” Rodolphus leaned forward. “What brought that on?”
Rabastan was silent for a moment, letting his hands fall loose at his sides, his fingers curling. His feelings were a messy snarl, a knot of wildly complex emotions that were difficult to vocalize. But then, Rabastan struggled to discuss less complicated emotions, too. “It’s Lucius. He…”
The words dissolved into nothing. Tension snaked through his jaw, his shoulders. He’s my oldest friend, he wanted to say. He’s my oldest friend, but—
Instead: “He fucked up.”
Rodolphus registered the curl of Rabastan’s fingers, the way he held himself, clearly struggling with what he wanted to say. He set his book aside, to show he was paying attention, and nodded, slowly, after Rabastan spoke. “Yes, he did, didn’t he? The Dark Lord is not best pleased with many of them.”
Neither was Rodolphus. Sometimes, it was hard to think of a number of them, living their lives, while Rodolphus’ was confined to a cell and the noises beyond it. The first time he’d seen sunlight, properly, it had felt blinding after fifteen years. The world had been too bright, too huge. Those who had not been loyal had been able to enjoy it.
Rodolphus’ fingers twitched and then a muscle in his jaw jumped. “They’ll get less than they would have. For their lack of loyalty. There’s a payment to be made.”
“They didn’t even look for him,” Rabastan snarled, startling a particularly skittish stack of books on a nearby table. It was infuriating. The Death Eaters who had avoided capture had had the freedom to search, the resources to bring the Dark Lord back. Lucius had power and influence, and he had used it to torment some child.
He scrubbed a hand against his mouth, his jaw. “He claimed Imperius and then did nothing.”
“He’s not as worthy as you are,” Rodolphus said, tone almost dismissive. Almost, but there was an edge to it, sharper than it should have been, hard and unforgiving. He knew that the Lestrange name had always been the best, the most worthy, the one to follow. The discovery that they’d been in jail while no one attempted to further the cause properly only added to that belief.
He looked up at his brother, who was practically vibrating with his anger. “Sometimes people we care for let us down. But he won’t be allowed to forget it, you know that.”
The sound Rabastan made wasn’t quite laughter — it was desert dry and devoid of humor. He was tense from head to toe, and quiet filled the air for a few heartbeats as he considered his reply. One of the many emotions swirling in his head was sorrow. “He deserves it. And we deserve to use his home, his broomsticks, the Dark Lord deserves his wand. But—”
He shook his head, slowly. “I thought we were both committed. It’s disappointing.”
“Hmm.” Rodolphus rubbed at his jaw, hand passing over stubble as he tried to sort out what he wanted to say. He should have thought more about it, but there was a hard anger in the pit of his stomach which he’d struggled to quiet or soften. It didn’t seem to want to go anywhere: it just existed, harsh, unforgiving. “Then he’s a disappointment. It’s not as if the Malfoy’s won’t continue on. You should know now that he’s going to disappoint you again and prepare for it. But don’t let him get away with it.”
Rodolphus sighed and stood. “He might listen to you.”
“Lucius only listens to Narcissa,” Rabastan replied, his voice flat. For a moment, it looked like he was going to continue, but he didn’t. A pause lingered between them for a moment before his gaze settled on Rodolphus’ book. “What are you reading?”
“Oh, it’s a book on how they’re using runes in conjunction with other spells and the advances they’ve made,” Rodolphus said, lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I missed a few things while I was staring at a prison wall. Funny how that works.” He sounded bitter, but he didn’t care. “It’s not a self improvement book.”
Rabastan rolled his eyes. “Thank Merlin for that.”
He did not share his brother’s interest in self-improvement books (or, for that matter, self-improvement), but he did share Rodolphus’ love of runes. He did not have the same talent for it, but that didn’t lessen his appreciation for the subject. Rabastan situated himself in a plush chair across from his brother and extended a hand. “Let me see.” His mouth twisted into a smirk. “I’ll leave notes in the margins for you.”
“I don’t want to see crude sayings in runes, Rabastan,” Rodolphus said, firmly, as he reached for the book and placed it into his brother’s hand. “I’ve quite enough to translate without that.”
“Hey,” Rabastan said, eyes bright with amusement. He idly thumbed through the book, keeping an eye out for any chapter that looked especially interesting. “It’s important to know how to write ‘go fuck yourself’ in Sondrio. It’s a valuable life skill.”
“I’ll put it on your tombstone at this rate.” Rodolphus heaved a sigh, but reached for another book to keep him occupied. “I think you’ll enjoy that from the afterlife.”
“I’ll put it on your tombstone, you mean.” Rabastan tapped the book thoughtfully as he arched an eyebrow. “Or do you really think you’ll outlive me, old man?”
“You’re going to get into a barfight one day that escalates and goes horribly wrong. I’ll outlive you.” Rodolphus hid a smile behind the book he’d chosen. This time, it was a self-improvement one: specifically, one about harnessing your anger. He deliberately tilted the cover towards Rabastan.
Rabastan’s eyes narrowed. “I see what you’re doing and it isn’t necessary.” He didn’t need a book about harnessing his anger: he channelled his anger in every action he did for the Dark Lord. Every duel, every Unforgivable, everything. It was what he had to do to keep his anger from overwhelming him. But he didn’t voice this thought. Instead, he made a thoughtful noise low in his throat.
“That’s a good one for you, though.” Again, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “You and your temper tantrums.”
“I do not have temper tantrums,” Rodolphus said, raising an eyebrow. He had leaned back in his chair slightly and he deliberately moved back and down, relaxing his spine, adopting a more casual air. He was aware of the tightrope his temper walked, especially recently, the tendency it had to blaze into flames at a provocation he could have let slide years ago. There were many ways in which Rodolphus was no longer the man he had been.
His books told him that it was important not to dwell. The reality was it was hard not to.
“But I occasionally have problems with my temper,” he admitted, because honesty was a policy he believed in. “I’m looking to sort that out. I’m sure you could help.”
Rabastan could relate. These days, it didn’t take much to ignite his temper, to set off a flare of anger. Sometimes, he felt like one of those muggle explosives, ready to go off at the lightest touch. A thoughtful frown pulled his brows together, his mouth thin. “Flying helps me,” he admitted, shifting in his chair. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re welcome to join me, if you want. I was actually going to go out this afternoon.”
“At least it helps you,” Rodolphus said, tilting his head, a faint smile on his face. “I’ll take it that everytime you want to go out flying you’re rather angry from now on.” There was a pause, as Rodolphus deliberated telling Rabastan that this wasn’t particularly news to him, that Rabastan was maybe not as mysterious as he figured. He decided against it. “I support that decision though.”
“Don’t get carried away,” was Rabastan’s blunt reply, and the corners of his mouth curled into something approximating a smile. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Sometimes I go flying just to have something to do.”
Rodolphus made a thoughtful noise and then he stood, shaking his head. He was smiling, a light teasing edge to it, and said, “No, Rabastan. I think it’s solely an emotional outlet for you now. I’m so glad you have one, though.” His fingers curled on the back of his chair and he grinned at his brother. “I know how you are.”
“Fuck you,” Rabastan shot back, but there was no heat to his words. Then, in an impression of Rodolphus’ loftier voice, repeated, “‘I know how you are.’ I know how you are, so I rescind my invitation. You can’t fly worth a damn.”
“I can fly fairly well,” Rodolphus said, rolling his eyes. But, in the interest of honesty and self-awareness, he couldn't help but add, “You’ve always been better than me. I suppose I should tell you that. Will it help your mood?”
Rabastan made a noncommittal noise, though the vague smile that spread across his face indicated that he was pleased. “I don’t need your praise,” he said after a moment, rising to his feet. Then, somewhat impatiently, “Now, do you want to go flying or not?”
“I promise not to praise you anymore,” Rodolphus said, heading for the door. “Follow me, then.”