InsaneJournal

Who: James Potter, Rabastan Lestrange, Angelina Johnson, and Molly Weasley
Where: The pub
When: Night
What: Catharsis; sort of
Status/Rating: In progress / Nothing too violent?



So Moony was eating Remus’s brain. Brilliant. And he knew Harry’s head was in the right place, but the notion of locking Remus up just inspired a knee-jerk reaction in James. He couldn’t help it. A small part of the back of his mind sort of kept waiting for someone to turn up and haul him off in the name of public safety. He didn’t doubt it might come to that someday. In the real world, anyway. Not that any of that had anything to do with the current predicament of Sirius, the damsel in exhausted distress, held captive by Moony’s overprotective impulses. Really shouldn’t have been all that surprising, actually. Remus had probably been wanting to exert a little control over their his or Sirius’s behaviour for years. Come to think of it, that might actually be a factor they hadn’t considered: too much repression was bad for the very soul. And Remus certainly seemed to have kicked that habit very lately.

Strictly speaking, James didn’t care about Sirius and Remus. Okay, okay-- he didn’t care about Sirius-and-Remus. He cared, sort of, but in a good way-- It didn’t bother him. He was happy for them. What bugged him was that they hadn’t told him. He still didn’t really understand why. Exactly how that could have gotten lost in the shuffle, he didn’t really know. In matters of life-and-death, which they’d more than gone over that first night, this was the ‘life’ part of that. It was important. And the fact that they’d left it out kept nagging at him. Had they been worried that he’d flip out? They ought to know him better than that. Then again, it was entirely possible that he’d managed to turn into a proper tosser over the next few years--

And that just brought him back to thoughts of Lily. And his fifth beer of the evening. Sixth? Whatever. The whiskey was the main culprit, and the beer was just a less offensive cohort. And together, they muddied his thoughts with the potentially loveless marriage he went on to have, the wife and son he’d failed so utterly, and a pair of best friends who felt they had to hide themselves from him.

Fuck that. Finishing off Beer #Whatever, he ordered another whiskey. He was so sick of being cooped up in his own head. He missed quidditch, where the objective was simple. Where it was just the physical, where he didn’t have to really, truly think about anything.


Rabastan left the restroom and dropped back onto his stool near the end of the bar. He feared he’d jostled another patron along the way, but three gin and tonics followed by several vodka shooters told him he didn’t give a flying rat’s arse. Rodolphus was busy all the time, his team had lost the first match and everyone was still accusing him of being a bloody fucking Death Eater. Rabastan snorted to himself as he downed another vodka shooter and signaled for another gin and tonic.

Death Eater his fucking arse. He’d not be giving away his future to another man, a slightly deranged man at that. Not that he’d be swearing allegiance to that younger man in the village claiming to be the Dark Lord. If Rodolphus wasn’t sure he was the Dark Lord, then Rabastan wouldn’t trust him either.

Rabatan took a long drink and used that as an opportunity to glance down the bar and see who he’d jostled. There was a dark haired bloke nursing a beer…James? Potter, from the game maybe? Yes! He’d been a Chaser on the other team. The team that won.

Rabastan growled to himself and turned to face the bar again. He needed a lot more alcohol if he was going to forget all the bloody shite that’d happened so far. Really, he was beginning to hate Lockewood.

James wasn’t entirely sure if Lestrange had been there before, or if he was a recent arrival. He’d certainly been centred enough on himself for the former to be have been the case. Either way, James noticed when he sat down. He knew the Lestranges. He knew about Bellatrix and Rodolphus. And, thanks to a few helpful stories, he knew about the Longbottoms. So James knew, or at least so he thought, exactly the sort of man Rabastan Lestrange was.

Lockewood kind of baffled James. From what he could tell, it wasn’t some sort of sanctuary. There wasn’t any sort of amnesty afforded. It was just... it was just some wonky place they all happened to be. Decent people and Death Eaters all mixed up together. It was fucking ridiculous. He didn’t understand why everyone was playing nice. Why they were pretending none of the fucking awful things that happened didn’t matter.

All of it was frustrating, and it just kept building up under James’s skin. All of him itched with the craving for some sort of release, some outlet for everything that just kept tightening in his gut. Sliding his empty glass along the bar in the direction of the host, James muttered, “What kind of fucked up place serves Death Eaters right alongside decent people?” Well. He didn’t exactly mutter. He wanted to be heard. He knew what he was doing, even if it was a bit easier to pretend otherwise.

Rabastan heard him. It was difficult not to, even as inebriated as he happened to be. He was pretty sure all the Potters were related, and Rod had said something about a Harry Potter finishing off the Dark Lord. So, this Potter must somehow be related to that Potter. Death Eater his fucking arse; Rabastan wasn’t daft enough to think Potter didn’t mean him. “The kind that resides in a magical village withdrawn from the flow of time herself,” he replied, somewhat to Potter, but mostly to his drink. His empty drink. Really, he shouldn’t have another, but he was determined to have at least one drink for every time he’d been called a Death Eater, or associated with the Death Eaters since his arrival. “Another, ta,” he murmured to the bartender, struggling not to toss it all back at once when he received his refill.

You’d think they wanted him to be a bloody fecking Death Eater, with all this nonsense that he must be one. Not one of his bloody potions had poisoned a villager, and he hadn’t hurt a fly since he’d shown up. Perhaps he should go with his brother to visit Longbottom—was he even still around? He glowered at James. If not, they could always visit the Potters; that would prove to be enough fun on its own, he wagered. Even if he hadn’t been the evil they’d thought him to be on his arrival, he seemed well on his way to becoming it anyway. Perhaps this place was the reason he turned to the Dark Lord.

Well that was just bullshit. Sure, James didn’t exactly know how old Rabastan was, but he didn’t much care, either. Nor did he particularly care about who was right and who was wrong. Because all at once, there was a scrambling curiosity along the base of his thoughts, eager to find out exactly how much it would take to get Lestrange to throw a punch.

The searing, thudding burn of a fist - his own, Lestrange’s, it didnt matter - colliding with muscle or bone was positively alluring. It had been weeks since he’d had a proper tussle. Never mind that what he was in the mood for at the moment went just a little beyond the typical scrapes involved with taunting Slytherins, but at least James had loads of practice. Especially when it came to working someone’s nerves.

James twisted a bit on his bar stool so that he faced Rabastan properly, letting the curl of his mouth turn as condescending as he could manage. “You know what that is? A sodding lousy cop-out.” Really, couldn’t he come up with a better loop-hole that the breakdown of the time-space continuum? “A Death Eater really ought to be able to come up with something cleverer than that. Though I guess it probably was your brother, getting the gold stars at tea parties with Voldemort.”

A cop out? Being ripped from one’s own bloody time and tossed into this queer little village that literally didn’t exist was a bloody fucking cop out? “Perhaps a Death Eater could come up with a better answer,” Rabastan replied, still more to his drink than to James, “And I’m not told a damn thing about their precious teas. Sod off, Potter. Your lot won that match fair and square. What the hell are you belly achin’ at me for?” He tipped back his glass and took a look at the wall of liquors behind the bar. Perhaps he should have a nice, stout ale next. Or another vodka shooter or six. As far as he could figure, the only quarrel he and Potter might have would be over the Quidditch match, but Potter had won that. Maybe he and his brother had tortured Potter’s family too.

Rabastan decided to try and head off whatever this was leading to. “Look, Potter,” he did not slur. No, he couldn’t have slurred. Rabastan turned a bit to face James, “Look. I don’t know what the bloody hell has crawled into your pants, but I’m not a fucking Death Eater yet, I lost the bloody match, my sodding brother seems to have gone nutters and he’s the only family I have here. So sod the hell off and let me drink my liver out.” He punctuated this with a noisy slurp of his firewhiskey, a bad choice if ever there was one. Rabastan turned back to face the bar, wheezing and hacking, wishing both that his throat would stop burning and that it would burn so much more all at once.

Well, that seemed like progress. Apart from the part where Rabastan seemed to go off about quidditch. Quidditch wasn’t something to fight over unless it was a matter of supporting rival teams, but that hadn’t been the case here.

Poor sod-- the only bloke of his family left, and he was going a bit daft. Perhaps a punch or two would actually set him to rights. Did some people a whole world of good. James Potter: friend to the downtrodden. And the touched. Wouldn’t his mum be proud.

“See, here’s what I don’t get,” James went on, as though Rabastan hadn’t said anything. To be fair, he hadn’t said anything of interest, so James reckoned he wasn’t too far off base. “Why would an otherwise.... partly decent bloke such as yourself,” ha! “would want to go about crawling on his knees in front of some other guy. A lunatic guy, at that. I mean, we are talking Grade-A, batshit crazy. Not that there’s anything wrong with the whole blokes-and-blokes-and knees arrangements, but come on-- I mean, do you get knee pads along with the Death Eater kit?”

Finally, Rabastan caught his breath and glowered into his drink. “I. Wouldn’t. Sodding. Know. You. Stupid. Arse. Hole,” he growled through clenched teeth, “I haven’t crawled on the floor since I was a tot, I don’t know what the fuck comes with a “Death Eater kit” and all I want to do is drink.” He slammed back the last of his firewhiskey, still a bad choice, and signaled the bartender that he was switching to ale.

After a pull of ale, which really only worsened the burn from the firewhiskey, Rabastan turned and full on glared at James. “What is with you lot? Why can EVERYONE ELSE HERE be from different times and not know about their past and get the chance to be DIFFERENT except for ME? I’m NOT whoever the fuck you THINK I am. I’m not from your fucking time, I’m not a Merlin be damned Death Eater and I don’t worship that mad Dark Lord. I make potions and I read and I go flying with my brother and I get good marks in my classes. I don’t worship the Dark Lord or kill mudbloods or hate many people. And I barely even know what knee pads bloody are for Merlin’s sake!”

“Well, if you were a little more familiar with the gear, maybe your team would have won?” James said, far too brightly, as though they were having some pleasant conversation and he’d stumbled upon a small revelation.

The rest of it, James found a bit dull. People were the choices they made. James, clearly, went on to fail quite spectacularly more than a few times, but at least he had the dignity to not whine on about it. Surely they weren’t so terribly far from Rabastan’s backbone-- it had to be in there somewhere. Just needed a bit of a nudge was all. James was sort of ethically opposed to hashing it out with someone who wasn’t interested in a fight, but that didn’t mean he had any qualms with doing his best to get someone interested.

So he moved closer, sliding onto the empty bar stool between them, adopting a keenly contemplative expression as he said, “But seriously-- seriously though. I just... It baffles me. I mean.... if Voldemort gave you a pair of socks.... would you get to go free?”

Why more purebloods didn’t seem to spot the Death Eater-house else parallels from metres off, James would never know.

“Oh do fuck off. I’m not a bleeding house elf. Look at my fucking arm if you don’t fucking believe me, you stupid prick,” Rabastan half shouted, hastily and clumsily unbuttoning his sleeve and yanking it up his arm. “See? There, you daft bugger, no fucking Mark t’be seen, issthere?” He shoved his forearm practically under James’ nose to show him the clear, unmarked skin. “And you bloody well know there’s no covering that Mark. So sod off,” Rabastan sneered and yanked his sleeve back down, not bothering to rebutton it.

He lifted his pint and thought he murmured, but he was likely mistaken on that account, “But I heard tell from my brother that old Sirius was thinkin’ o’ scurryin’ home to the Blacks an’ takin’ the Mark like a ‘proper Pureblood heir ough ta’ right before you and your wife were killed,” Rabastan snickered a bit into his ale as he took a drink; after all, that was what Rod had said. Whether it was true or not was no concern of Rabastan’s.

James was almost relieved. Well, he would have been relieved, had any other emotion not been drowned out by the reflexive sort of anger that came so easily whenever stupid people started saying stupid shit about Sirius. And shit like that-- the mere idea, the vaguest of references to the notion that Sirius had ever been any sort of traitor? No additional excuses necessary.

Had it been any other topic, James might have started with a shove, just knocked Rabastan off his bar stool, or just batted his drink out of his hands. James’s fist went cracking through the air between them. The trick, he’d discovered, to being able to land a punch after having had a few drinks was just to practice, after having had a few drinks.

Rabastan’s face didn’t QUITE move fast enough, and James managed to tag the side of his mouth. He slammed down his pint and tripped backwards off of his stool. “You bastard,” he shouted, flying forward, fist cocked and ready. He’d discovered that, if one was going to resort to fisticuffs, especially while inebriated, it was best to use ones entire body to throw a punch.

James was on his own feet by the time Rabastan came barreling at him. There was a fleeting instinct to evade, but winning this particular fight wasn’t the point. The point was that he’d earned a few punches, at least, and he’d just happened to find someone who deserved a few himself. But Rabastan was a few more drinks along that James was, and his fist landed about James’s shoulder. It smarted, but it hardly had him seeing stars. For his own part, he let his shoulder roll with the punch, taking advantage of the close quarters to slam his other fist upward into Rabastan’s ribs.

He shouted because bloody fucking hell those were his RIBS and they kept his goo on the inside. “Fucking hell,” he grunted. He staggered back, clutching his stomach, and breathed hard for just a second. The he straightened up and drove straight for James’ midsection. An eye for an eye, right? He managed to wrap his arms around James and throw them both to the floor. Merlin, he was so mad he could hardly believe he’d been as drunk as he’d been just moments before. He quickly tried to straddle James to keep the upper hand.


Angelina had been eyeing the two men warily throughout the evening. Though it was probably her bartender-ly responsibility to cut people off once they’d had too much, she found it increasingly difficult to do so in a place like this. As far as she was concerned, people needed all the booze they could get.

Of course, that didn’t mean she was willing to put up with brawling. Her back had been turned when the first punch had been thrown, but the fight soon gathered her attention. If she’d been in the Muggle world, this would have been the time to grab the bat and jump over the bar, but there was no such item available. “POTTER! LESTRANGE! NOT IN MY BAR!” she shouted. She realized that probably wasn’t going to make much impact, so she found herself quickly hustling around the edge of the bar.

A moment’s pause had her calling Molly Weasley, an exceedingly brief conversation, before she rounded on the two men acting like buffoons. “BREAK! IT! UP!” She demanded, reaching for Rabastan’s collar (how many times did you get yank a future death eater around?) “GET OFF!”

Fucking finally. James had hit the floor with a satisfying thud, and the ensuing scuffle conveniently occupied pretty much all of James’s attention. He got the general gist that someone else was sort of getting involved, but seeing as to how it was neither a Marauder or James’s father, he didn’t pay the intrusion much mind. James did, however, take another swing at Rabastan, one corner of his mouth dragging into a messy smirk. “Hey! I’m not done with him, yet!” And sure, maybe there was a bit of a taunt in that. But honestly, some girl coming to Lestrange’s rescue? Had to be embarrassing for the bloke.