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Rodolphus Lestrange should have stuck to gardening (dogofwar) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2009-08-30 00:46:00

RP Log: Rodolphus & Damocles
WHO: Rodolphus Lestrange & Damocles Belby
WHERE: The Lestrange residence, St Ives, Cornwall.
WHEN: This afternoon! 2PM to be precise.
WHAT: Drinking, chatter about dragon maulings, & general first impressions.

***********************************


It was not the brightest of days the house by the ocean had seen. In fact, by two in the afternoon the grey clouds growing in the east had infected the rest of the sky, causing the outdoors to seem dim and leeched of colour. Though rain was always a threat during the season (and for the better part of the week had been a grim reality) it only made itself known as a drizzle, enough to make one damp and chilled but not necessarily out-and-out wet. But for all of this Rodolphus didn't find himself begrudging the weather this dreary bent, if only because the cool air meant that work in the garden wouldn't leave him too sunburnt or otherwise out of sorts by the time his guest arrived.

Not that he was overly concerned with how he himself would be evaluated. He knew his family name spoke for him (and understood that it was probably the breeding that went along with it that inspired Mrs Belby and Mrs Lestrange to matchmake for their children) and he knew too that Damocles was probably aware of the fact that this meeting was an excuse for his measure to be taken. And although that was true, and although Celeste had mentioned the word panicked when she spoke about him, Rodolphus was not as precious about his sister as some over-protective brothers might be. He merely wanted to look into the eyes of the man who might marry her (according to his mother) and see precisely what looked back.

When the appointed hour came he strolled back from his garden to the front of the house, boots shifting from the soft, forgiving earth onto the crunch of the gravel that lined the path to the door. His sleeves were rolled up, his collar undone, and his brow was furrowed as he finished wiping the sweat from it with one forearm.

It was summer, which usually meant it was too warm to justify a coat, but here Damocles was, wishing he was wearing one as he apparated to the estate and began his march up the driveway. In one hand he clutched the bottle of single-malt whiskey (as per Celeste's information), aged to perfection, or at least to Rodolphus' tastes. It was his anchor, a tool to keep him rooted to the earth and not carried off to sea by a rogue gust of wind; as tempting as it was to make that happen. It helped though, to some small degree as such things could when one was facing the rather imposing task of meeting a woman's eldest brother.

At the end of the path, Damocles spotted a sturdy looking man waiting for him. His clothes were askew, highlighting Damocles' own excessive tidiness. For although the invitation said casual, it appeared he was incapable of such attire. Everything had been starched and ironed to perfection, but at least he had forgone the tie. That, it seemed, was the smart wardrobe choice. Perhaps it was the only one.

"Rodolphus Lestrange, I presume," Damocles acquired when he finally came face to face with the man. He was shorter, but broader, strong, and confident. The resemblance with Celeste was immediately apparent from the first real glance. The cumbersome task of extending his right hand in introduction while maintaining eye contact was next, something that Damocles accomplished with grace that had been obtained through years of practice. "Damocles Belby."

The eye contact was met straightaway, even from a distance. It was maintained as the older man began the long purposeful strides to reach his guest, whose extended hand was clasped in a firm, solid shake when he reached him. Though there was an initial moment or two spared for a short inspection -- Rodolphus took quick stock of the visitor's neat clothing, his patrician features, even the bottle in his hand -- which was done with a set jaw and a narrowed eye, but when he finally opened his mouth to speak there was a smile there. A no-nonsense, polite smile, but a smile all the same.

"Belby," he repeated as he shook Damocles' hand. "You presume correct. Good you could make it on such short notice."

"My pleasure," Rodolphus' grip, he noticed, was firm and steady, much like the rest of his appearance. This relaxed Damocles, which was unsurprising as he himself possessed many of the same attributes. The Lestrange scion was as rooted to the ground as he was, at least by his calculations. "Celeste has mentioned you many times, and with quite fondness, so I admit a certain amount of eagerness to make your acquaintance as well."

The handshake broke as Damocles raised the bottle of amber colored liquor and presented it to his host. "For your cellar," he explained politely. "I was told you have an affinity for a good single-malt."

The bottle was swept up in the grip that had recently held Damocles' hand, and the liquid therein was given the same sort of brief scrutiny the man himself had been given. Rodolphus turned it in his hand with a light motion, eyebrows knitting, before his approval was communicated with a single look and a lopsided, subdued smile. So far, so good. "Good stuff -- though what say we spare it the cellar?"

Which, evidently, was less a question than an instruction. After clapping the taller man on the arm (his method of delivering a wordless thank you) Rodolphus turned and began to head back towards the house, clearly expecting the other fellow to follow. It was only when he opened the front door, trading the stony, ivy covered walls for the dark, wood covered interior, that he glanced back over his shoulder. "She tells me you'll be attending your grandfather's birthday celebration tomorrow. How old is he?"

A drink would be most welcomed, yes, Damocles decided as he set off behind Rodolphus. He maintained close proximity to the older man, but enough distance to show his respect for being welcomed into his home. His hands were clasped behind his back as he surveyed the house. It was an automatic reaction to appraise and date the building, and mentally praise its structural integrity and foundation. It was a beautiful manor, from what Damocles could see, which only added to the intimidation factor, now that he knew what he was standing in.

"Yes. Your sister has agreed to accompany me to his ninetieth birthday," he gave a slight nod. "If I may be so bold, you have a structurally fascinating home; it is quite splendid."

At the mention of the house Rodolphus glanced around him, as if he hadn't yet bothered to form an opinion himself on the structure he lived in. Truth be told the location had been Bellatrix's choice, and while he admired the same qualities that Damocles did -- the aged but indestructible quality to the place, the broad door frames and the dark floorboards -- he still had yet to grow into the notion that it was his. That would come in time, he reckoned, when he had a proper family. When the war was through and the future a bit less murky.

This time his thank you was expressed as a vague grunt. "Where is it that you live?" He asked as he continued towards the back of the house, bottle absently grasped in one swinging arm as he took the required corners. "You have your own estate now, I assume."

"At the present time I do not," came the reply from behind Rodolphus. "A full estate is much too large for one man living alone I've found, much more suited for family life, so for now I opted to purchase a flat in London. It is spacious enough to provide respite without the problem of there being too much unused space. An unorthodox decision, I realize, but the situation suits me quite well I've found."

"Wise," came the one word judgment on that particular decision. Rodolphus cast another look over his shoulder, once more appraising the other man, before taking a quick turn into a doorway to his left. The darkness of the corridor was traded for a (comparatively) bright room, what appeared to be a cross between a study and a parlour. Where the walls weren't taken up with long windows they were hidden by bookshelves, and the wealth of the light, muted though it was by the cloudiness outside, fell on a desk towards the room's far end. Nearby however was a sofa and a pair of wingback chairs, and beyond that a lowkey, modestly stocked bar. It was this last that he headed towards, already opening the bottle in his hands as he spoke.

"Best to keep to what you are willing and able to manage -- so long as you don't become too comfortable," he added, gracelessly overturning two glasses and matter-of-factly filling them. "How do you find the city?"

Damocles studied the room the way one would study a fine piece of art. It of course possessed the same architectural features as the rest of the house, but that was not what he was focusing on. Like any true Ravenclaw, his heart belonged to the books. Quite a collection lay on the shelves, and it was quite possibly as large as his own. He dare not inspect it further however, as he believed invading a man's books was a grievous offense. What a man read revealed provided a window into his soul, his very being, and to barge in and thumb through titles was more invasive than crawling into his bed unannounced.

"London is a fine city," he commented, his focus still mainly on the large shelves of books. "She is full of surprises, much like Hogwarts, but with her you know that most of the surprises will be there the next time you look for them. There is always something new to discover, and she is never boring."

His guest's attention to the bookshelves was duly noted (and Rodolphus shot them a glance himself, feeling for a moment almost possessive) but all the same he attempted to distract him with the offer of a drink. The glass of amber liquor had been extended to Damocles as he had turned away from the bar, where the bottle still stood at the ready, as if the promise of a refill was assured.

"You a poet, Belby?" He asked with a grin.

"I'm afraid not." He accepted the glass gratefully with a sheepish smile. "A lover and patron of the arts, and reader of poetry, but my quill was never able to produce anything of merit in that area." Damocles raised his glass in informal toast, "Thank you for opening your home to me."

The toast was met with a ginger raising of his own glass (and requisite sip), before he replied. "Good. Best to be wary of poets. Too easily addled by the beauty of something to see how it truly is -- have a seat."

The command might as well have been meant for himself, for as soon as Rodolphus spoke the words he had turned to claim one of the chairs himself -- and immediately become comfortable within it. His opinion of Damocles Belby so far was largely favourable. The young man was inoffensive, well-mannered, and -- reasonably -- well bred. The only thing at odds with this assessment was that he couldn't quite reconcile the even tempered, polite young man in front of him with what he knew of his sister. Would she be happy with someone like this? Or leaving aside happiness, which was largely incidental to marriage anyway, would she be reasonably content?

"You're a healer," he said after a short exhale of air, the heaviness of his tone making the words seem almost like an accusation.

As Damocles settled in to his own chair and slowly sipped his drink. He could not deny the fact that he was enjoying himself thus far, and that his fears about meeting Rodolphus were unwarranted. He had expected an imposing figure (on which point Rodolphus did not disappoint) ready to scare off any potential suitor for his younger sister. So he was pleasantly surprised at the man sitting before him.

"I am, yes," he rested the glass on the arm of the chair, "I work in Creature Induced Injuries, in the Serious Bites ward. It is a challenge, and a reward unto itself."

Rodolphus kept his focus fixed on the man opposite him, though the vague furrow to his brow spoke less of criticism than mere interest. When Damocles mentioned what section of St Mungo's he worked in, something seemed to spark behind his host's eyes. "Tell me, what's the greatest challenge you've had to endure so far?" A slight grin edged onto his features, enough to pull at one corner of his lips for a moment or two. "Be specific. I assure you I don't possess a weak stomach."

The liquid in Damocles' glass swirled around as he contemplated his answer. There really were many instances to choose from, and all were bad if they ended up in that ward, but he tried to focus on some of the more gruesome cases. "I must say," he began after the long pause. "That the worse was this was one case involving a dragon."

"Now usually dragon injuries do not end up in our ward," he straightened in his chair. "Usually the injuries are serious burns and not bites. But what makes this case so very special was that there were both bites and burns. It appears that the dragon wanted to 'play with her food' for a bit. So his entire body was covered in burns, and his entrails and blood were spilling everywhere. No one quite knew how exactly we needed to proceed whether we should focus on his bites or his burns."

He sipped his whiskey once more. He remembered the event as if it were yesterday. "Eventually though we were able to figure it out."

There was a short, silent spell as the weight of the story sunk in, and during it Rodolphus helped himself to another sip of whiskey (it was good, a fact he neatly filed away for later consideration) . Though demands of family and business alike had meant that he'd followed other pursuits, he still had interest in magical creatures -- primarily of the lethal variety -- and so the attention paid to Damocles a he spoke wasn't false in the slightest.

"Evidence that animals can be just as cruel as the rest of us," he said finally, his tone dry and his expression grimly amused. He cocked his head to the side slightly. "You must have nerves of steel. I can imagine they prove an asset when dealing with my sister."

"Your sister is a remarkable woman," was the immediate reply. It was true. Damocles would not have said so if it were not. "She is very unique, and I mean that strictly as a complement. She is intelligent, beautiful, and knows what she wants and is not afraid to try and obtain it."

The swiftness of the reply was reason for some small amusement, but otherwise Damocles' words were accepted as what they were; the truth. Referencing Celeste as a woman and not a girl was an equally wise move to make. Rodolphus considered her grown, and he disliked implications that she wasn't.

"Not to be unfair to our sex," he began, his already deep voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur, "but frequently such qualities in a woman are met with unease, even fear, from her male counterparts. I feel I need to correct you on one point, however," and here he lifted his drink again, pausing to finish his thought before stealing another sip, "Celeste will not try to obtain something, she will obtain it. I suggest you make peace with that now, early on."

Damocles tipped his glass and head to the other man, a gesture of gratitude. "I am beginning to catch on to this," he said after another sip. "She very much knows who she is and makes no apologies for it. I find it a quite refreshing change from the usual girls who may be stunningly beautiful, but are unable to hold down a conversation. Celeste is different, and I very much enjoy that about her.

This admission was accepted with a nod of his own head, an indication that the reply was adequate, before another half smile twitched into being at the corner of Rodolphus' mouth. He rested his arm on the chair's armrest, absently swirling the liquid in his own glass for a moment or two. "Has she challenged you to an arm wrestling match yet?"

The question came as a surprised to Dam, who let the corners of his mouth turn upwards. "No she has not. Is this a warning as to what I should be expecting the next time we are out?"

His own smile widened, close lipped, before he took another sip of whiskey. Even when he perked his eyebrows, his eyes beneath them seemed heavily lidded, narrowed to some degree in thought. "It should be an ongoing concern," Rodolphus informed, semi-gravely. "If you're out of form, you need only to say the word. I could probably do with the practice myself, and you seem an adequate match."

Which was about as glowing a stamp of approval he was liable to give during a first meeting. He was glad for Celeste's absence (or indeed the absence of any other member of his family, wife included) as they would only have served as distraction, possibly even souring his opinion of his sister's suitor. As it was his good opinion had been tentatively bestowed on the young man in front of him. Damocles Belby was grounded, and for a young woman so in love with flying, Rodolphus decided this was precisely the sort of influence his sister Celeste needed.

"Well then I shall be sure to keep that in mind," Damocles chuckled, feeling completely at ease with the situation. "And I might have to take you up on that offer, as long as you promise not to crush my hand. I need it for work."