inlimis.

inlimis @ 2008-06-29T13:18:00

2008-06-29T12:22:38Z

What: The Rosier Masquerade Ball
Who: All purebloods of note (and good reputation)!
When: June 1974
Where: The Rosier family's primary country property, France
Rating: Goodness knows! There's going to be at least a little scandal though, so we'll say PG-13+, to play it safe.

The sense of effortless grace and style that one was confronted with upon arrival at the Rosier château on the night of their masquerade ball was actually, as is often the case, anything but effortless. The normal running of the household had been disturbed for weeks, over both the items of great importance such as the guest list, catering, staffing and entertainment, and the most minor concerns such the lettering on the invites. It was vital that no trifle be neglected for such an important occasion, and indeed, none had been.

The grand ballroom was styled to match the theme of the ball, in black and white. Wispy voiles were hung at every tall window and at the large open doors at the back of the ballroom leading out onto a terrace and the gardens beyond, where little lights could be seen scattered in the tall trees and delicate flowers. Large panels inside the ballroom itself had been charmed into mirrors, to give an almost dream-like sense to the evening as the hall gradually filled with dancing couples and talking groups composed of the upper echelons of pureblood society.

Those who wished for more sustenance than the liveried staff offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres could provide swept across to the veritable banquet laid out in an anti-chamber to the right of the ballroom, intended to sustain guests until the late dinner. Those who did not wish to dance or felt the need to refresh themselves went to the gaming rooms and cloakrooms on the left of the hall.

A musical ensemble, masked and also attired in black and white, were set on a raised dais in the ballroom to provide music for those dancing, whilst a smaller quartet played in a gazebo set out a distance away in the fragrant grounds for those who wished to venture further afield in the still-warm evening.

As more and more guests arrived and were announced, and the ballroom, adjoining chambers and gardens filled with well-bred witches and wizards, a sense of excitement built. The bastions of pureblood society began to appear in full force, each family entry more impressive than the last. That itself would be enough spectacle for less-cultured members of society, but this was the crème de la crème and lesser members limited themselves to covert glances, envious and curious in turn. If those that had gained invitations through less than scrupulous means stared over-long, no one paid any attention due to their attempts to check the way many of their own gazes fell towards the great families.

Rosier balls and society events were without a doubt regarded as a highlight of every pureblood social calendar, and all agreed that this masquerade was even better than the last winter ball. The young Rosier ladies scattered throughout the hall were all exceedingly beautiful, and none more so than the hostess Madame Odile Rosier, on the arm of her husband (and heir apparent to the House) Thibaud. He cut a dashing figure despite – or perhaps because of, many ladies whispered – his age, which had only increased his dignity and not stolen any of the good looks of his youth. Their only son Evan, an exceedingly eligible young man by all accounts (with the family planned to fall to him in his turn), was dutifully guiding a fresh-faced young cousin through a complicated dance with enviable style.

The night of the Rosier ball was full of possibility, and it had only just begun.

inlimis @ 2008-06-28T01:00:00

2008-06-28T00:02:10Z

inlimis @ 2008-06-26T15:19:00

2008-06-26T14:35:14Z

Who: Andromeda, Bellatrix, Cygnus and Narcissa Black
What: Shopping!
When: December 1972
Where: The wizarding area of King's Road, London
Rating: PG

Over the years, it'd become a tradition of sorts for father and daughters to abandon Leverer House to the coolly frenzied ministrations of Druella, who, along with a small army of house elves, took it upon herself to transform the family house into something appropriately festive as the holiday drew near. As with everything, she accomplished the task seemingly without effort, but past experience had taught Cygnus that home was the last place he wanted to linger in when wreathes had to strung across bannisters, cards addressed and sent to the myriad of people -- some friends, most acquaintances, and a handful of people Cygnus quietly detested, yet for one reason or another were included in the Blacks' holiday greetings -- and trees procured, set up, and decorated. All of this, of course, had to be accomplished before the actual Christmas dinner -- and as Druella needed to finalize the menu for that too, Cygnus had decided that today was as good a day as any to accompany his three daughters on the annual holiday shopping expedition that would leave a noticeable dip in the accounts.

His shopping having long since been taken care of, Cygnus arrived at King's Road with none of the anxiety that could be seen etched on the faces of many passers-by. Diagon Alley certainly boasted shops to satisfy every customer, even the most discerning ones, but both the Muggle and magical sections of King's Road catered to a clientele of an entirely different sort, and the people here meandered calmly as compared to the ruckus of the crowds thronging in Diagon; it was quieter here, which was just the way Cygnus liked it. Holiday shopping was already stressful enough; why suffer the addition a headache and rude shoppers?

A quiet crack accompanied his apparition, and with the edge of his over-cloak brushing against the pant-legs of his trousers, Cygnus stepped out from a corner street onto the main road, where he'd agreed with Narcissa to meet. Bellatrix was usually his partner in supposed crime whenever family outings were arranged, but in this, his youngest daughter was the master planner, and he trusted her to have alerted Andromeda and (the probably rather reluctant) Bellatrix to the when and where of their meeting. Typically, he was early; nonetheless, he consulted his pocket-watch, then let it drop back into the folds of his cloak as he turned to survey the area.

inlimis @ 2008-06-21T22:11:00

2008-06-21T22:50:01Z

Dearest Mama,

How are you? And I mean that in the most general sense - do let me know what is happening of interest. Paris and London carry on much as they ever do, all bustle and noise and fumes and the signs of business and commerce everywhere.
Would you like to schedule a shopping trip?

I know you do not like me spending so long here working, but things are moving along quite nicely now. And Nott and I have an idea for a potions venture which will, I dare say, do rather well if only we can find the correct niche and the right clientèle. If it works, I will buy you every pair of shoes you could ever imagine wanting, and hats to go with them (do not tell Father this part of the plan - he may have a heart attack).

In only slightly more serious news, Eleanor Travers has been crying and wailing tales of fates too dire to discuss for the past week. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you Mama?

I will return home for a visit as soon as possible and remain, as always,

Your

inlimis @ 2008-06-20T19:30:00

2008-06-20T11:31:49Z

Who: Thibaud and a bunch of NPCs. Namely, cousin Appius, uncle Gregoire, and grandfather Pierrick.
What: Family issuez. (Womanizing is a chronic disease with the Rosiers, see.)
When: c. 1952.
Where: The ancestral Rosier home in France.
Rating: PG? PG13?

The wind was chilling as it weaved through the canopy. The leaves rustled as they blotted out the brightness, casting oddly-shaped shadows on the grass beneath them. The grass swayed, this way and that, lush and green as it surrounded the estate. The estate stood, proud and tall, amidst it all and spoke of the many years that built the soul within the wood and stone that made it thus: aristocratic and Pure. The skies blued in the mid-summer afternoon and as it hung overhead, providing the backdrop to an unremarkable yet enchanting day, the Rosier home—the acres and acres of French earth alive with history and name—was left with nothing else to be problematic over with the surrounding atmosphere but the crackling tension within its many doors.

Sunlight streamed through the high living room windows like an uninvited yet perpetually present guest. It reminded many of the home’s residents of dinner parties with relatives, of Aunt Clara, whose presence was a bubbly, chattering, nagging, annoying presence at the heart of it all, and whilst it made the surrounding walls alight with color, the conversations that transpired in its midst shadowed its efforts without so much as a casual sweep of dismal dialogue.

“You are not marrying her. Not again,” a thundering voice said. The walls would have had to peer in a little bit more to hear the voice’s edge but since the speaker, an old man with the visage of an all-knowing king, was standing conveniently near an equally all-knowing-looking portrait, the walls needed only to flinch as the edge they sought, cutting and sharp, seeped into the cracks quite clearly and painfully.

Lord Pierrick Thierry Rosier was standing, fists tight at his back, near the lively portrait of his late mother, the memorable Eliane Albertine. He was tall and gray-haired, as if time had manifested itself in the wrinkles of his skin, the sturdiness of his bones, and the unrelenting fire in his eyes. He was the picture of unbending character: held aloft by familial dignity; reined-in by many years of discipline; repressed by a simmering frustration that neither his dignity nor his discipline allowed to release. Only his voice, deep and cutting as it was, made every protest and disinclination route distractedly from his system. He did not sound at all pleased.

“And why not? If you worry about name, she has many French Purebloods in her lineage. Would you like me to draw up a genealogy for you? Trace from the 16th century to the present?” an insistent voice replied and this time, the walls did strain to hear the emotion underneath for it was slightly farther away than the first. It was their favourite voice: rational, mellow, and comfortable with itself. It sounded youthful and self-assured and they envied the armchair where the speaker was sat upon; it could hear every subtle intonation that spoke of the man’s spirit.

Appius, Lord Rosier’s eldest grandson, was simpering in his seat. He held a similar composed countenance and if he had aged many years would have been exactly like his grandfather: cold, pinched, and barefaced with misdirected morality. But he was young still and the crease on his forehead was not as deep, nor was his voice grave with age and pessimism. His chin was still sharp with daring and the youthful fire remained immune to time’s authority over its flame.

A harsh bark of laughter was what followed. It was abrupt, as if chopped mid-creation and the painting behind its source bristled in the familiarity of its unfriendly sound. “You have married her twice and need I remind you that neither marriage was fruitful? You have only succeeded in spending your father’s money in your lavish ceremonies and even more lavish divorces.”

A sudden movement tickled the wall’s surface. It was to the right of the room, near the unlit fireplace. The wall expected another voice—another that it loved—but the silence remained and only movement stirred the dust visible through the afternoon sunlight. If the wall had eyes, it could see the strength in this man’s spine. It could have distinguished the blue eyes as an intelligent and perceptive pair. These eyes, too, have aged but not a lot. They seemed tired and resigned and if the man had spoken, his voice, too, would have proven thus. But he had not spoken. Instead, he turned from where he looked out the window, and Appius glanced to him. Their eyes met and for a moment, father and son saw the glare of each other’s reflection on each other’s face. (They looked remarkably alike in every way.)

But Gregoire Maximilien was not like his son, neither was he like his father. “What do you want me to do?” He asked, instead, choosing not to impose as the other two have done. Always passive, he asked whenever he could, using inquiry as an infuriatingly effective strategy to implement both guilt and rationale. “Defend you? Condemn you? I trust you have grown in the past few years and after your failed attempts with this girl. If you choose not to learn, then who am I to change you?”

It worked and, like clockwork, Appius immediately felt the weight of guilt hang his head a little lower than it should be. He averted his eyes, passing over (rather, ignoring) the stony Lord Pierrick, and landed on his cousin younger cousin Thibaud.

Thibaud did nothing. He remained seated on an armchair beside Appius. His legs remained crossed at the knees, his hands remained on his lap, his eyes remained fixed on the portrait of his great-grandfather Lord Pierrick I which hung over the mantelpiece. He said nothing, either, and his silence made the walls miss his presence entirely.

Appius sighed at Thibaud’s inaction to speak his mind and shook his head. “I want to marry her. I have made mistakes, we both did, and that is commonplace in any relationship,” but whatever gentleness was in his voice ceased just as his eyes flickered back up to meet his grandfather’s. “It is my choice to make and you are not responsible for any of my actions or the lack thereof, sir.”

Pierrick sniffed in the haughty way he learned from his peers. It separated him from his subdued sons and his more reserved grandsons, but the arrogance and confidence compounded in that single expression only seemed to concretize the Rosier lineage even more.

“You are a stubborn boy,” Pierrick remarked and his tone was not fond. It was demeaning. It was a critic, and if there was anything else Appius hated in the world, it was the judgment of those who had no inkling of who he was. Pierrick, however, was unfazed by this fact (nor was he privy to it) and the dislike that marred his old handsome face was honest. “You never listen and look where your independence has gotten you. Already on your fourth marriage and you haven’t even reached thirty! Nameless, childless, and ill-represented by your brilliant actions. What have you learned all these years, Appius? Absolutely nothing.”

Outraged, Appius tensed in his seat. His face pinched in tight anger and grasping both armrests was all he could do to prevent an irreversible (and unforgivable) reaction. “I have learned more things than you ever had the bravery to face the certainty of. I am not a child, grandfather. I know that the decisions I make decide the future of his family and what I have decided is this: I will marry her for the third time before I make the mistake of marrying someone else whom—“

“And what?” Pierrick interrupted him with an equal amount of fervor. “Divorce a third time and marry a fourth? Your recklessness baffles me, more so than your ignorance. Every so-called mistake in your relationship means something far bigger for this family. Your marriages aren’t just trivial romantic pursuits, Appius. They are statements; they are the foundations of what—“

Appius interrupted him to return the favour, even rose abruptly in his seat to one-up the old man. “—of the certainty that the family I have with her will be for the rest of our lives, sir. I will not regret a few mistakes if they would mean the stability of our marriage, our children, and the future of this family for the rest of eternity. I make risks, grandfather, and they will be worth more than the most glorious wife yet a most disastrous marriage.”

As if in disgust—but mostly in his own stubbornness—Pierrick scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. His rationale was plain as day; how can Appius not see that?

Realizing that reasoning with his grandfather was a lost cause against an unwavering fort, Appius turned to Gregoire. His resolve began to crack but Thibaud, who was witness to it all, knew that Appius’ showing weakness was not because he was weak, but simply because it was Gregoire whom his cousin faced. “Understand, father, please,” his words begged but his words persevered. He sounded as persuasive as ever but this time, the undeterred respect he had for his father softened his defiant exterior.

Gregoire was unflinching as he looked back at his son. He knew he could do something to repair what Appius seemed to be incapable of doing himself. He had more power over his son than Pierrick did. He could easily seize the opportunity, strip Appius of his pride and lay his son bare and powerless before his elders. As the heir of the Rosier name, he could do that—with one sure strike at Appius’ pride, he could—but as the father to a plighted child, he dared not.

“I would like to. Believe me, I do,” Gregoire drew in a sharp breath to compose himself, and then exhaled with a silent sigh.

A wave of disbelief overwhelmed Appius’ strong face and he stood there, before the observant eyes of his cousin, vulnerable against the criticism of his grandfather, and helpless against his father’s innate power over his future. He wanted to speak but found that his breath shied to push the words from his lips.

“But this time, I won’t pick out your path for you,” and just like that, Gregoire seemed to seal his son’s fate and walked away from it all, sealing his own inward troubles with even more holes than it started with. His footsteps were heavy as he walked past the defeated Appius and did not so much as look at him as he left the room completely.

Pierrick followed his son, but not before flashing Appius a smug and satisfied look. His feet, in contrast, were terse and sure, as if what had transpired was nothing else but an impersonal, dispassionate business transaction of unworthy cause. He was obviously very glad.

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T15:51:00

2008-06-17T19:51:48Z

Characters: Narcissa Black, Bellatrix Lestrange
Description: A discussion of weddings.
Rating: PG.

Dear Bella,

They put the final touches on it today! And oh my goodness you need to come here and see it. It has to be the most beautiful wedding gown in the history of all gowns. Even Mother is completely enamoured by it and neither of us could find any fault at all.

I’m almost terrified to try it on again, as I don’t want the smallest thing to rip or get stained. Of course, most everything else is finished by now, but I still find myself to be terribly stressed. Nothing can go wrong now with all the planning that has gone in to this, right? Then I have absolutely no reason to worry, and yet, I still find myself doing so.

Fifteen days!

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T15:23:00

2008-06-17T14:41:22Z

Dear Father,

Business is going apace in London, as expected. The Parkinsons are actually being rather cooperative with regards to the patents you wish to place upon your charm - a little persuasion will be required, but that's hardly unusual.

I should return home within the week - I know you have been wanting to speak to me, can it wait until then? Pressing ahead with this contract is probably for the best, before the Parkinsons try to find even more room for leverage.

I hope Maman is keeping well and hasn't brought more hats than we can afford this week.

Your son,

EVAN

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T21:07:00

2008-06-17T13:09:36Z

Who: Odile and Thibaud Rosier.
What: Preparing for a party.
When: c. August 1957.
Where: Rosier home.
Rating: TBA.

It was another party, another night of doing absolutely nothing with absolutely everyone. It was a cycle, really, or, more accurately, a routine that people like him have grown accustomed to over the years and tedious as it seemed, Thibaud actually liked these parties. He was sociable; he appreciated a good conversation, even if it takes several people and several varying topics to make up one substantial exchange of opinions and half-truths. That night was such a night and even though the arm chair in the library called for him—as did some of his newly-acquired books from a recent trip to Germany—the reluctant he felt was too weak to overcome an actual eagerness to spend time with other people and, most of all, his very darling, and very pregnant wife.

Thibaud stood in the middle of the large closet. His large closet, or at least, the room that stored most of his clothes. He was already in his socks, trousers, and dress shirt. One hand was fiddling with the cufflink, and has been for the past couple of minutes. Put off by it, he threw it back in the box containing numerous other cufflinks and struggled to find the right pair. Thibaud should think it ridiculous that struggling to choose over his many cufflinks was a blatant and un-gentlemanly display of vanity but Thibaud, before the thought even occurred, had already thought about Odile and how women like her dress as comely as they do and he, as husband, should complement her meticulous sense of fashion. After all, that is what married couples do, isn’t it?

After his fingers dug in some more, pushing back ugly pairs, then expensive ones, then colored ones, then downright painfully plain ones, Thibaud sighed in exasperation. Turning slightly, he angled his head to the door whilst his eyes, persevering, wandered ever further into the steadily growing pile of cufflinks. “Help me with this, my dear? I don’t seem to realize that orange does not go with yellow—not if I would like to avoid looking like Poor Lord Avery with his poor Caribbean tan,” Thibaud called out, knowing that no matter how soft or loud his voice was, Odile was always there to help him figure things out with a sense of organization that only a woman—a wife--seemed to be capable of.

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T17:48:00

2008-06-17T09:55:39Z

Who: Bellatrix Black and Thibaud Rosier.
What: Two relatives getting reacquainted after six(?) years of not seeing each other.
When: Sometime in 1966.
Where: A Rosier relative's home.
Rating: PG or PG-13 ;)

The wedding was in three months and its pre-pre-nuptial celebration was already on the last remaining—and slightly listing—legs of a particularly long night. Bride and groom have long since loosened both corset and cuff links, best men and bridesmaids were having at each other’s availability, chasing the anonymity that went with a festive evening. Thibaud Rosier, principal sponsor of his second cousin’s third sister’s second wedding, was on his fifth drink and while the party droned ever on without any sign of ever stopping and toning down, he found himself retreating to the more spacious parts of the house. As he drifted farther away from the heart of the party—where the living room blared to life with contemporary music, liquor, and momentary lapses of pretentious formality—and his drink in hand, Thibaud heard less and less of who was dating who, of over-active lips, and of the inebriated middle-aged men chatting up inebriated adolescent women. He took a sip of his drink. The hallway that led to his cousin’s library was a bit narrow, with dark carpet cushioning his soft footfalls, but the walls were comprehensive: a history book in cracks, faded wallpaper, and animated paintings: he noted his father’s dignified chin in one, seated on a high-backed chair with his own cleft-chinned grandfather; the aunt that never stopped sending Yuletide presents until he was thirty-three, in an oval frame between bulks of mounted marble statues; a winged messenger; a slightly disgruntled youth in pink frills and silk bows. He sighed, sipped his drink, and let the warmth flood down his throat. His stomach loosened; his face slackened to idleness; his grip loosened on his glass. After a heartbeat and a subtle shake of his head, Thibaud wondered if the contentment he felt at that moment was either excitement or anxiety for the future of a family whose life only ever seems to exist in yesterday’s afterthought.

In plain terms, it all seemed unnecessary. But the Rosiers, Bellatrix mused, were known for their grandiosity of ideas and substantial lacking when it came to execution and other such practical matters. That isn't to say the party was sub-par (though the significantly sparse number of attendees was quite a faux pas, and no doubt her mother would talk her ear off about it come tomorrow morning); it was a fine display of wealth and grandeur and all things French, as one would expect. It just came off as a bit... gratuitous. An excuse (for what, she had no idea, but she was sure she would have such a revelation come her seventeenth birthday, or eighteenth, it didn't really make a difference), perhaps. The point of the whole thing appeared to be that there was no point. Oh yes, the wedding, three months into the future, ninety or so days, countless or so hours, minutes, and seconds thereafter. Bellatrix wondered with dark glee (the kind that rests heavy in the bottom of one's stomach and burns cold) what could happen in three months; the tragic, tragic demise of a buxom, blushing, soon-to-be bride? ...the valiant fall of a tall, trim-wasted and granite-faced groom? ...both? Or perhaps a simple realisation on the part of either party that the other is, in fact, quite insufferable (undoubtedly the most amusing twist of all twists of Fate). And then what would the whole show this evening be about?

The tulle of her gown (picked out with love by her mother, though she had stalwartly refused the first option, which had been a revolting shade of mauve and settled shakily upon this, the peach, which, she supposed, was meant to match a young, flushed girl's skin tone, but simply emphasized her pallor) rustled beneath Bellatrix as she shifted on the sill of the monstrous Gothic window, chafing the underside of her thighs. The dusty volume in her lap slid down into the V formed by her legs and her torso bending together, leaving dull, gray streaks along the gown's material. But that was of little concern to her, in light of the streak of shadow that had just appeared beneath the door frame, with muffled footsteps and a rattling of the Library's doorknob.

In all her feminine glory, Bellatrix Black cursed under her breath. All she could hope was that it was not a member of her immediate family. In her dreams, it would be a pair of lust and liquor-filled strangers, coming together to find a private place for the private moments they wanted to share with each other and, stumbling upon the most improper of teenage girls, the two parties could silently agree with each other not to talk about their existences to anyone. And then they would, of course, find another room and leave Bellatrix to her reading. But that scenario was an ideal one, with slim chances of occurring, Bellatrix knew. The chances were much greater that the party on the other side of the door would know her, chide her, and send her back downstairs. And, Fate being a cruel force that never favoured Bellatrix, it would most likely be her mother, under which circumstances that chiding would last not only tonight, but tomorrow, and the next, and the next.

She turned back her book. Yes, she would act surprised, as if she had been wandering around in a most innocent fashion, stumbled upon this place, and had hopelessly lost track of time. She could play benign, and play it well, as people in her circle expected little else of a sixteen year old girl dressed in peach chiffon.

Biding his time down the warmly-lit hallway, Thibaud reckoned that perhaps his distant cousin’s wedding was, perhaps, not so much a formality but an actual marriage borne out of genuine compassion for her fiancé. He could remember the odd little girl, skipping and bouncing around from one relationship to the other with no real direction, no real standard, no real notion of what husbands are supposed to be and what families are meant for. She had gone through Husband the First without hesitation. A vague courtship, a superficial physical attraction. Skirting the borders of propriety and downright promiscuity. She wasn’t happy with him after the first few months, that much Thibaud had observed even when her parents gushed, groaned, and gloated about the fantastic addition to their family. Husband the Second was different. He was eager to please, eager to accommodate, and the sparkle in his cousin’s eyes as she held his hand was something that neither her strict upbringing nor her otherwise colourful French heritage never managed to achieve in thirty odd years.

He chuckled to himself just as he reached the door to the library. Opening the doorknob, he expected only an empty room amongst his late uncle’s most prized collection of French, German, and East Asian literature, with his half-empty glass of scotch in one hand and his discarded tie in the other. When he entered, however, as the creak of door hinges and grunting of floorboards gave way to a permeating stillness, Thibaud found that the library was not at all empty. Surprise held back to subtle degree, he hesitated a while at the doorway, eyebrows raised at the woman he didn’t expect to see at all.

Her hair was the first thing she noticed. Unlike the crackling hearth, the candle-lit lamps, and the ancient spines of countless tomes, her hair was a striking sliver of darkness. He saw no warmth there but the fullness of it reminded him of a cocoon. Encompassing, heavy, and present. Her lips were next, full with youth. Her neck, long and elegant. The imagined slim figure beneath the generous chiffon garment. The hint of calves pressing against the fabric. Thibaud let in a steadying breath as a smile, gradual and friendly, softened his lips. He met her eyes. He let out the air from his lungs, steady and cautious, and, entering the library completely, the door falling shut behind him, only then did he wonder if this woman was a guest but a gift from several hours of liquor and celebration.

“I hope you don’t mind some company.”

Perhaps Fate was on her side yet.

This, she knew, would be something she could manage. Bellatrix had turned with planned surprise as the door opened, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, feigning a bit of fright mixed in with her shock. But, as it would turn out, the theatrics were unnecessary, and she almost immediately dropped them when she noted the face of the interloper in her sphere of bookshelves and privacy. The eyes that were wide narrowed and her lips pursed together, boldly studying the older man studying her, where a normal girl of her age would blush and turn away, flustered. She noted the half-emptied glass (suspecting it wasn't the first) and the growing smile, and felt infinitely more secure than she had but mere moments ago.

It took her a moment to place the countenance; the dim light and the air, thick and stagnant with words and philosophy and mathematics and magical theory dulled her perception slightly. He was familiar in vague ways, as if she had known him in a lifetime past, or had come upon his picture in the Daily Prophet for something benign and not very noteworthy and had glossed over it without a second thought. But no, neither of those things was quite right. He must have been in attendance at a party hosted by her mother (whom he was, no doubt, related to), most likely at their home in France. Her mind wandered, bringing back with it memories from French summers for Bellatrix to pore over and study, much like the book she had been perusing before. She had to go back far before the connection was made; yes, a summer in France and one of the first parties her mother had permitted her to stay at until the end without the nannies putting her to bed. She had been ten, waiting patiently for the following week when she would turn eleven. It was the summer before she was set to attend Hogwarts for the first time. That was where she found the name to match the man before her. Thibaud, a first or second cousin of her mother's. It was only after this identification that she returned his smile, more out of courtesy than any actual feeling. He was one of her mother's, and when he reported back to her on this little interaction, nothing short of "a pleasure," "darling," and "quite intelligent and capable," would do.

But Bellatrix would be damned if she would lie to him. Of course she minded the company; she had left the gathering for a reason, hadn't she? Did he think she had retreated to the bookshelves looking for human interaction or an escape from it? Closing the book, she put it aside and stood, shamelessly sweeping her fingers over the dust gathered in the folds of her gown in a way that would have left her mother dizzy with embarrassment. When most of it was gone, her eyes found his again with that same, polite grin. She consciously did not respond to his request to join her.

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it? I doubt you remember me. Or perhaps you might remember, but most certainly fail to recognise. The last time we shared each other's company I was ten." Bellatrix left it at that, and her grin tugged at the corners of her lips, growing wider. Her greeting was certainly not disrespectful, but it was definitely a well-phrased challenge to see if the older man would succeed (like she did) in identifying her, or fail. Whichever way it happened to go, for that brief moment, Bellatrix - wrinkled, dust-covered, sixteen year old Bellatrix - had the slightest of advantages over him (without being imprudent, improper, or otherwise ill-mannered), and that was just how she liked it.

Did he know her? The question echoed lightly in his head and, almost immediately, his consciousness said no, he didn’t know her. That if he did, he would never have misplaced a name to a most youthful face and a most piercing pair of eyes. That if he did, the womanly lilt of her voice would be familiar and homely. (Thibaud had very good ears, which came from decades of listening to his father’s old records, and then his own eclectic tastes. If a voice were owned by a very remarkable person, Thibaud certainly would have known if it were friend or foe.) His smile mellowed slightly. After a beat, he finally moved from where he stood; the rattle of ice against liquid in his glass was the only sound he made. Otherwise, Thibaud looked all the calculating, curious, inquisitive, and wary Ravenclaw that he was most known for in his circles of friends, and sounded all the quiet, tactful Pureblood he was raised to be, as wondered, endlessly, just who this woman was.

“It probably has been quite a while. I have good memory,” which was, in part, true. For a time, in his fifth year at Hogwarts, he won a bet against Tacitus Nott in a game of dice and has earned the respect of Nott’s ilk since then. “And if I don’t remember a face then yes, it probably has been decades since we last met or,” his looked mellowed even further, until it was roughly edged with suspicion, any offense meant in context dimmed only by a subtle tone of tease, “We hadn’t met at all.”

He paused, eyes shrewd. He observed the young woman before him. Young, was she really. If she was young then Thibaud would not look at her thus. His eyes would not linger over patches of skin, or tender locks of hair, or the dips and swells of her flirting dress. His head would not be traitorous; his liquor would not rebel. If she was young, he would not think of her at all, but he was and in the five seconds that came between his intake of breath and the sip of his dark and heavy drink, his traitorous, traitorous head has already written her past with a disillusioned desire for little thrills and little anonymities. He exhaled, and swallowed. The tail-end of bitterness was blunt against the back of his tongue.

Then he shrugged, and whatever stiffness that pulled his cheeks taut and his eyes unfriendly abated. Nonchalance soon followed and Thibaud, no stranger to deception and social games, adapted a relaxed stance: his feet slightly apart; his hand in his pocket; his atmosphere carefree and warm. Despite the underlying suspicion and the danger of speaking with strangers, Thibaud could not find it in himself to panic. Any company is good company and if company was female, daring, and vocal, there were fewer things to worry about than clothes to discard and there was no need for fear, politics, and heritage; his father himself said so and Thibaud was inclined to agree.

No, of course he wouldn't recognise her. To ask such a thing of such a man was cruel, and Bellatrix knew it, especially as she stood there, standing straight and looking up into his eyes, eyes that flickered to and fro along her skin. He didn't want to, knowing that what felt like a short, not-quite-noteworthy span of years for him had affected young Bellatrix in drastic and innumerable ways.

Under normal circumstances, such a heavy gaze would have greatly agitated Bellatrix. Under normal circumstances, she would have responded to it in a manner that expressed said agitation in a most inappropriate way for a girl of her age and upbringing. But she found, without really understanding why, that this exchange was not bound by the parameters of normal circumstance. The older man and his actions did not ignite her temper, but left her rather entertained. She could deduce that Thibaud was benign for the most part but far from dull, like most benign men tend to be.

"I'm sure your memory is excellent, sir. Perhaps it was your evil twin or doppelganger I met, then?" She grinned wolfishly, extending her hand. "I'm Bellatrix Black. You're probably familiar with my mother, Druella."

He should be shocked, really, of the sudden twist of the situation. Thibaud, a man from the core of his bones to his extremities, has always been used to taking control of any circumstance. He doesn’t like unpredictability when it is to his disadvantage; he doesn't like being one-upped by fate and that moment, fate had certainly ploughed through his defenses and scored a Quaffle through his rings without difficulty. A part of him wanted to be repulsed by his corrupt head, but then he blinked and realized that the instinctive reaction of surprise and repulsion were themselves too surprised and too repulsed to actually kick in.

The dark head ducked, half-attempting to hide the sudden grin that broke in ripples on his face. A chuckle unwound in his throat. His feet shifted. The ice rattled against the class for the second time, piercing the permeating silence that was now, in contrast to earlier’s hollow pregnancy, was potent with a hundred thousand various routes to continue (or perhaps end) this most unexpected encounter. He shook his head, then, and raised his eyes to meet hers. The look on his face was sheepish but unapologetic.

“Are you really?” he asked after a breath, mostly in an attempt to shake off the odd unsettling discomfort that ran down his spine. He identified it as a shudder, and he could vaguely remember the last time he shuddered in such fashion. He could recall that such shudders were very very very disconcerting, they have been completely unwelcome from his spine for a long time; its reappearance was unsettling. “It has been a while, then. A very long while. I would gladly compare you to what I remember of you several years back but,” the hand that held the glass pausing mid-raise to echo a casual shrug, “So how long has it been, Bellatrix?” and took a sip, disguising the tightness of his throat with the tightness of liquor.

It was great fun to witness Thibaud's reaction to her revealing her identity. The scattered sound of ice clinking against glass, the shuffling of feet, the smile spoke something to Bellatrix that left her feeling giddy and oddly accomplished in ways she could not quite understand yet. What she did know was that there was something present in their brief conversation; she could recognise a force of sorts, a push and pull.

Bellatrix knew she pushed people. It was a part of her nature. She enjoyed driving people and situations in directions she chose, bringing them to points that she wanted to bring them to, and having things unfold at her will. Most times her disposition was strong enough that its figurative push went uncontested, leaving her without as much as a molehill to block her path. The rare times that she was met with that pull, that opposition to her indomitable will, the results were never, ever pleasant (case and point: her eldest male cousin). But this particular instance, it seemed, was quite the anomaly. Bellatrix felt that all was not clear in the path before her, but she was not angry. On the contrary, she found herself to be quite pleased... so much so that her own chuckle, higher pitched but still deep and rich in its own right, harmonized with Thibaud's.

"Yes, I'm quite certain of it," she quipped, smirking slightly still, wondering with amusement if she should divulge the actual number of years and age herself, or keep to vagueness and rough estimates, "As you said, it has been a long while. I hope the years have treated you well? It would seem so, but appearances can deceive, you know."

When he had finished most of his drink, he turned bodily and placed his glass on a nearby table. His eyes lingered over the perpetually fresh vase, then the family picture beside it (taken in 1950 in front of the sprawling French countryside, wherein several young girls and boys posed unsmiling and absolutely, painstakingly still even as the clouds shifted across in the sky in the background). His thoughts trailed off slightly but at the underlying jab at his appearance, Thibaud threw a pointed look across his shoulder. It could have been stern, if not for the spark of amusement in his sharp eyes and the complete lack of tension on his lips. This was because Thibaud liked Bellatrix, and that he could remember. He liked her when he had first met her and after those many, many years in between, nothing has changed.

Except perhaps for her height, and for the fullness of her cheeks, his mind kept on going, and would you please stop staring it’s incredibly rude and besides, your wife is only a few doors away. Be discreet with your indiscretions and not with your relative’s daughter, please and thank you. If he cared about his conscience at all, he would’ve defended him with the unspoken tradition of in-breeding among the Purebloods but he didn’t and instead, he turned towards her fully. His eyes were calculating but his body deceptively casual.

“Yes, appearances certainly can be. If you hadn’t had the quick thinking to introduce yourself,” he shook his head at the taboo topic he was skirting the dangerous edges of, “This paintings would certainly have something to talk about for the next decade.” A chuckle, dry and self-deprecating but not overly so that his courteous humility did any damage to his dignity. “You’ve grown so much and if I didn’t know otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken you for a Rosier. A black through and through, aren’t you?”

Bellatrix watched the older man even as he turned his attention elsewhere, grey eyes transfixed on the back of his head. When he gave her that sharp glance, it should have been her turn to look sheepish, perhaps move her gaze downward and grin, but that had never been her way. So instead she kept her eyes steady in that moment, steady on his, and raised a brow; it might have been a challenge or a simple, unspoken statement about her character. She made few concessions and even fewer apologies.

Likewise, if Bellatrix cared about her conscience at all (and also her reputation, which she very well knew was more important for someone of her gender and age... not that she could be made to give a damn, really) she would have responded to Thibaud's subtle indiscretion accordingly... coquettish, pink-tinged cheeks, a bit flustered, even. But she had already made quite clear that little of what she did was dictated by silly (in her opinion) rules of feminine etiquette; it simply didn't suit her. And so she took the bait Thibaud placed before her, and followed behind him (or perhaps jumped in front of him) on the figurative edge of propriety and taboo, "Quite true, but I suppose the question really is, which one of us would they be talking about?"

She would let that linger for a moment, just a moment longer than it should have, perhaps, before she steered the two of them into an entirely different area of the boundary they seemed to be flirting with, "I'd like to think I'm thoroughly Black. Besides, I'm not nearly well-behaved enough to pass for a French girl. Surely your... affiliates have made that clear to you? The ones that have made my acquaintance, that is."

Amused, Thibaud had nothing to reply to that. The crowd would perhaps talk about them with equal amounts of fervor and intrigue. Bellatrix was young and beautiful and his relative, for Merlin’s sake, how could he do such an immoral thing and with poor Odile left to look after their son, too. On the other hand, Thibaud was a loving father, a reputable Rosier, and would she please stop romancing men much older than her with lives of their own and families they have to raise. But Thibaud also knew that, secretly, the vine that bore toxic grape was the very source the crowd thrives upon and even though they spit out the seeds, mock the flesh, and skin the grapes raw, their love for it was addictive and unceasing, despite (and, even, in spite of) immoral old men and immoral younger women.

“A well-behaved French woman is incredibly ironic, I think,” he disagreed, but not with an unfriendly tone of voice. Amusingly enough, the French can be both: well-behaved and wild; worse, they can be both at the same time. Kidding aside, and after a moment of peeling back the innuendo to reveal the underlying message, Thibaud realized that the reluctance he felt right then—upon understanding what she truly meant—was the first ounce of hesitation he had felt since he walked in.

It took a while for him to reply and as he took silent breaths with deliberate ease and calm, Thibaud eyed her carefully. Beyond the deceptive good looks, the perceptive eyes, and the poised countenance, Thibaud knew he ought not to mistake the silent female strength for something less than what he, a capable wand-waving, curse-breaking male, was capable of. Bellatrix’s words were not without weight and he found that perhaps the young woman—his mind played on the words: young, woman--before him now would bring about a change that they might just benefit from. “I’m led to understand and accept that the French, despite being on the other side of the channel and with odd nuances about them, are perfectly capable of being British. The British just say they prefer Italians to put up appearances but I’m sure the French will fit in quite well.” He paused, then seemingly in afterthought, added: “Who knows, perhaps their fancy bread might be the key to limitless economic power.”

Now the game had really started. Oh, yes, the banter before had been great fun, witty and challenging in its own right; any woman would have loved it. Bellatrix, however, was not any woman. She took what she could from such interaction, but there was something about talking business, and talking about it with men much, much older than she (old enough for the aforementioned banter to be considered borderline obscene, she thought with pleasure) that excited her in ways little else could. She felt quite fitted for such situations, as if she had been wearing shoes two sizes too small her entire life and now she had finally put on a pair her size, and she relished in them when they, on rare occasions, came around.

What she loathed, however, was the bloody wordplay. Certainly Bellatrix could appreciate the toying with double entendres and implied meanings when they were tied to frivolities like flirtation and other such innuendos. But things like blood purity and the Dark Lord she be discussed in as plain, no-nonsense terms as possible. Of course, this was not always possible. But impossibility did little to change her desire to proclaim exactly what she meant, or her heavy curiosity. A part of her (a large part that she struggled to keep in check, just then) wanted nothing more than to roll up Thibaud's left sleeve and stare in fascination at the Mark, touch it and familiarize herself with its texture, its inky, impenetrable colour, it's shape... ask him how it felt, was it painful, was it good pain, bad pain, no pain? Did he like how it felt? Her questions were limitless because, inevitably, one answer would birth ten more that she could have asked. And it nearly killed her to know she could ask none of them.

Bellatrix realised, as Thibaud finished talking and her mind found reality once more, that her heart was beating quite rapidly, her breath coming in staccato bursts between slightly parted lips. She paused to calm herself before she spoke. "Or perhaps fancy bread is the distraction that they wish the rest of the world to notice instead of something else. Like soldiers dressed up as bakers sneaking poison into those... fancy loaves. French wiles must never be underestimated, after all." It was her turn now to decide whether the afterthought should be left unsaid or not. It could potentially have a double meaning, but it was only a hunch, based on what she'd seen so far from Thibaud. If it turned out to be true, well... that would prove entertaining. If not, it would be a harmless witticism, wouldn't it? "I would have thought a man such as yourself, being a... lover of French culture, would have known that..." and then, realising just how much she was pushing the envelope, she added, "...sir."

He shouldn’t be talking about any of this at all, he thought to himself as soon as the words left his lips with, surprisingly, an unchanged timbre of confidence and calm. Bellatrix was a Pureblood, yes, and everything else felt right about her but discussing things (albeit indirectly) made him feel uncomfortable. Watched. As if the eyes mounted on the walls followed even the slightest twitch of hairs at the back of his neck. He had, after all, seen many men punished for their missteps, for the intentional sabotage of their own anonymity within their brotherhood. Though fully confident that Thibaud, with his involvement and contributions to the Cause would not befall such undignified manners of rebuke, his conscience—the part of him that was fully aware of how taut and thin the line he walked was—reminded him of the possibility with a pang at the pit of his belly.

As she spoke, and as both ears listened quite intently to every word she uttered, Thibaud allowed himself to approached the arm chair nearby and lower himself into it. If he were to sin against the only commandment he had sworn to, physically if not at all financially (but he’s never one to count his Knuts), by indulging a young child’s curiosity then he ought to do it sitting down. That way, the slight twitch of the limbs or the restless jerk of the feet would be disguised with as much dignity in his stance as possible.

Thibaud was painfully honest with mistakes and weaknesses, but when it came to matters that could afford neither truth nor failure; he always made sure that each was cloaked with simple, unassuming normalcy.

He did so with a slight laugh, an odd chuckle that could’ve been genuine, if not for the aversion of his eyes or the sudden shift of a forearm to an armrest. The trouble with speaking in code all for the sake of misleading the avid (and shrewd) enemy was the tendency to misunderstand and, hoping that with French loaves and French women, he could express himself appropriately. “I love the French. Never mind my being French myself but if the law were to permit me, I would marry as much of the French as I would like,” he began, looking over the table between them to cast a meaningful look at Bellatrix. “They,” you, his mind added, “Have so much to offer and if those things go so far as poisoned bread, plagued baguettes, and spiced tea, then the cunning they display simply proves Britain’s need to have them on board, don’t you think?”

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T06:39:00

2008-06-17T04:55:21Z

Characters: Alphard & Cygnus Black
Description: Sirius' removal from the family sparks some severe reactions, especially between the brothers.
Rating: PG-13.
Note: Back story for our boys!

[The handwriting is initially shaky and verging on illegible, but evens out toward the end.]

~~Alphard~~ ~~Alphard BLACK~~ Alphard,

You could not even begin to imagine where I've spent my evening.

You owe me so many explanations.

Cygnus,

If I had to guess, I'd say in the arms of -- oh yes, I forgot what I promised in my last owl. Anyway! I've no idea, where might you have been?

Owe you explanations? Of what, exactly? I've done nothing wrong.

No, you've done everything wrong, and now you are ruined for it.

All of this -- for Sirius?

You too?

Merlin, Cygnus, I thought you'd be different from the rest.

[Badly crossed out.] ~~You did nothing when~~

You were wrong.

I did nothing when .. what, exactly? Finish that thought.

I'm wrong? This entirely family turned against that boy when he needed someone most and I'm wrong?

Where were you when my daughter needed someone?

Is this.. this is what you're upset with me over? That you decide to throw your daughter out and I'm not the one flaunting after her, to rescue her from your rash decision?

Cygnus, Andromeda had more than enough support where her boyfriend was concerned. Sirius, however, did not. The one man I thought would understand and offer him guidance threw him out as well -- I did no wrong.

Don't you fucking dare pin the blame for that boy's stupidity on me.

If that boy is stupid then you, Cygnus, are the very definition of mentally inept.

And yet I'm still not the one who had his name torn out tonight. That dishonor, big brother, is all yours.

I'd rather not have my name listed in a family of barbarians, anyway. It's no dishonour to me.

Good night.

Are you tossing me out of your life as you have the others?

[No reply is forthcoming.]

CYGNUS. Stop acting like our sister and answer me.

You tossed yourself out.

If that's what you honestly believe, Cygnus, then I have nothing else to say.

What do you want me to say? That I understand?

Is that so much to ask; support from a brother I've been there for and who I'd hope to be there for me when I needed him?

Of course it is, Cygnus. Of course. If this is what is left of the Black family then by all means push me from your life as you have your very own child and nephew.

I'm sure Walburga will be thrilled to have you run to her for words of advice among other things now. Oh, how close you two will become.

inlimis @ 2008-06-16T23:42:00

2008-06-17T03:42:59Z

Characters: Andromeda Black, Narcissa Black.
Location: Leverer House; Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.
Description: Andromeda prepares for her Hogwarts departure and feels guilty about leaving her younger sister.
Rating: G.

Her trunks were packed and ready to go, full of books, her newest robes, an assortment of shoves, and whatever else she could manage to fit within them. She felt no jitters like she’d anticipated, partly because she was so excited to finally go to Hogwarts (because Hogwarts equated to immense maturity and sophistication in her eleven year old eyes). All she could do was think of the people she’d meet – they’d be fascinating and fabulous, of course – and the classes she’d be taking. Not many eleven year olds were as enthusiastic about learning as Andromeda, but Andromeda wasn’t like many eleven year olds, to make it fair. Hogwarts was going to be her chance to shine, to be whoever and whatever she wanted to be without the critiquing eye of her mother or the appraising eye of her father. She couldn’t wait. And even if she did come down with a case of cold feet, Bellatrix was going to be right there with her, so there was really no need to worry about anything.

…Which led her to a saddening thought of her other sister, Narcissa, who would have to return home with their mother and father tomorrow afternoon. Her face fell slightly, and Andromeda pulled her dark hair back over her shoulders. She could remember when Bella went to school and how upset she’d been, though she’d pretended to be unfazed by it all because crying was for babies. But even then, she still had Narcissa to keep her company. Who would Narcissa have now with both her and Bella out of the house? It occurred to her then that, on occasion, being the middle sister did have its perks. She’d never be the first or the last to go anywhere. She imagined the fair haired girl turning her back on her raven haired sisters and following Cygnus and Druella back through the platform. Perhaps Regulus and Sirius would provide sufficient company in her and Bella’s absence. It was a futile comfort, she knew it even as she considered it, but she was grasping at straws as hot, unnecessary guilt welled in her stomach. It occurred to her then that maybe being the middle child wasn’t always so rotten, that maybe it did have its perks. She’d never be the first or the last to go anywhere, so she’d never be alone.

With bare feet and held breath, Andromeda left her room and tiptoed down the darkened hallway to her younger sister’s door. The Black manor could be downright eerie at night when the shadows came out to play. Narcissa’s door was shut, but that meant absolutely nothing to Andromeda. She’d have knocked on Bella’s door, but she opened this one gently and spoke through the crack. “Cissa,” she hissed into the darkness, “Are you awake?”

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T04:20:00

2008-06-17T02:24:34Z

Characters: Gaultier Lestrange, Cygnus Black
Description: An apology of sorts.
Rating: PG-13 for possible language.
Note: Takes place after all the woe.

Cygnus,

Though it is obvious years now lie between what we once had in terms of friendship, I will be the first to admit it is that friendship I miss now more than ever. I am only partially at fault for what you might consider our falling out, and I hope with time you will realise that you are as much to blame as I -- but this is not what I owled to say. ~~I need someone to~~ Things are not going quite as well as I had thought they were, Cygnus. Things aren't going well at all. I wanted to owl you while I still had the chance: I want to apologise for things I have said and done that you found unacceptable, hurtful even. At the time that was my intention but it shouldn't have been. You didn't deserve to be put through that and I am very sorry you were, however brief that may have been.

I do not expect to receive a reply, but one would be welcomed; I just hope this owl finds you well and that in time you will learn to forgive my mistakes.

inlimis @ 2008-06-17T03:12:00

2008-06-17T01:15:35Z

Characters: Gaultier & Sabine Lestrange
Location: Lestrange home, French countryside.
Description: Gaultier makes a startling discovery about his wife's rapidly deteriorating health and Rabastan's absolute need to replace him.
Rating: PG-13, or something to that effect. It's woe, there will be..woeful things. *cough*

The absolute exhaustion accompanying a long week of business was wearing away at Gaultier much more than it had in the previous weeks, but the nagging feeling was one he had become accustomed -- for now, the need for sleep could wait; his wife could..would not. With a sweeping gesture Gaultier rested his coat on the back of the nearest chair, tossing the piles of paperwork on top of the other clutter arranged messily across his desk. Had he been in the right frame of mind the mess might have upset him so, however, Gaultier found himself to be entirely preoccupied in his thoughts.

To drown out the lingering silence (a feeling which Gaultier disliked with a passion), he a gave a sudden sharp and almost frantic cry, startling himself from the brief and unwanted reverie: "Sabine?" The echo of his voice carried throughout the seemingly empty house, reaching his ears again once he climbed to the top of the stairs. "Chéri, êtes-vous à la maison?" Another echo, and Gaultier couldn't help but worry. "Sabine?"

Knowing his wife was always one to answer, Gaultier began a quick search of each room, expecting the worst. It wasn't until he reached her own that a single piece of parchment found lying in wait beside her bed caught his interest. The addressed, his wife of course, was nothing more than glanced over -- it was a small detail that would later be dealt with. For now, upon spying the name of a doctor, Gaultier felt the need to know more:

Madame Lestrange,
It is with regret that I must inform you of the results of your latest clinic appointment. Sadly, they show that your sickness is of a wasting kind, and as yet we can give you neither the possibility of any cure nor a timeframe of the disease (due to the rareness of your condition). Please contact us at your convenience, but as soon as possible, so that we may schedule another appointment investigate the situation further.
Yours sincerely,

Nathanial Kansje
Head Medic, Taures Clinic

Perhaps it was the shock of it all, the idea of his wife being ill with some rare disease..or perhaps it was the idea that the entire situation had not yet been brought to his attention -- would it ever have been? Regardless, Gaultier couldn't help the sudden weakness felt in his knees, and rested himself with a hand to his mouth on the floor. There would have been a sob muffled there could he bother finding the tears, however, the tears never came. And neither did the words.

inlimis @ 2008-06-15T21:10:00

2008-06-16T03:09:33Z

who; bellatrix black and rabastan lestrange
what; bella makes the announcement she's getting hitched.
when; july 1974
where; the blacks' home in France
rating; PG-13, as this will, no doubt, end in an exchange of expletives and (possibly) bella lobbing a stiletto at rabastan's head. at least, this is what she tells me.

The sounds from the dinner filtered through the grounds of the Black family estate, growing ghostly and distorted the farther they traveled into the great, wide open and away from their source. By the time they reached Bellatrix, they were scarcely whispers, floating over to where she had retreated at the edge of her family's property. She had excused herself from the gathering some time ago, when the day first showed signs of waning. Now, as she sat facing west, the sun was a glowing crescent on the horizon, casting its final hurrah of orange light over the earth.

After Bellatrix left the gathering (al fresco, due to the pleasant weather) and allowed herself to fall away into her thoughts, she found herself at the edge of the lake that had seen her through summer holidays from infancy until now, aged twenty three years and carrying with her a scar on her left forearm and a (large, perhaps even a bit too large for Bellatrix's tastes) ring some inches below it. To say she was displeased would be wholly inaccurate; after all, she had (for the most part) chosen Rodolphus as her fiancé and (again, for the most part) chosen when she would allow herself to be given a fiancé. Her marriage plans had essentially gone off on her terms, and very few females in her position could say the same thing. She was fortunate, to an extent.

But was she happy? No, not entirely. That, she knew, was her own, personal problem to handle, which was exactly what she was doing (or attempting to do, or starting to do, she wasn't really quite sure yet) right then. Bellatrix didn't like change. Change made her uneasy because change opened doors for dangers that could not be anticipated. And unanticipated dangers could lead to unsavoury consequences. Bellatrix's normal response to change was resistance and, eventually, hostility. In this particular instance, however, she knew this change - betrothal, a proposal, marriage, et cetera, et cetera - was unavoidable. She had indeed avoided it for as long as she could, but now it was coming at her, head on. So she did the only thing she knew how to do (as falling into a fit of rage, it seemed, would not be an option)... she brooded.

Perhaps it was a need for familiarity that brought her to the lake. She couldn't be certain. But the time spent walking there had been devoted primarily to thinking on her childhood, on her memories, good and bad, and what they meant to her on the eve of this new... threshold she was about to step over. Bellatrix had always known her childhood had been better than most, and now she was reaching for it with a great, great longing. This was most likely why she did not find it strange when she removed her shoes, folded her robes neatly next to her, and sank her feet into the water, engagement ring and all. She imagined she must look quite foolish, wading in a lake in a black sun dress (the hem of which she had tucked neatly under her thighs to avoid getting wet, Merlin only knows what kind of fit her mother would have if she saw) but, in her state of deep thought and nostalgia, she couldn't really be made to care.

inlimis @ 2008-06-01T12:48:00

2008-06-01T11:48:59Z

WHO: Rabastan and Rodolphus.
WHAT: A follow-up to their last affectionate encounter.
WHERE: A Lestrange townhouse, London.
WHEN: Mid-1973.

Three months, Rodolphus had told his brother.

It was not in the way of that eldest son to make estimations about anything— distance, reactions, mathematics, time, however simple or elaborate— that was far from the truth. But on that particular day that he and Rabastan traded heated insults, with the issue of his schedule in mind, his words had differed from the facts by an additional two and a half weeks; an extremely odd thing, for him, yet there had been no air of concern over his prolonged absence. No concerned whispers or perplexed frowns; and no inquiries that may have been answered by anything more than a curt assurance from Gaultier that his son was dealing with an overseas business transaction. Few details asked for, no details given. Apparently the need for Rodolphus had been grave indeed, and none of his family’s properties had yet been given the honour of receiving him.

Until one evening. Finally.

He didn’t carry a suitcase. That was the first physical oddity— rushing through the door of his father’s lesser-used London townhouse, there was no baggage for Rodolphus to carry with him in either hand. He walked briskly through the entryway of the empty two-story, black hood settled over his head, seemingly to battle the rough weather of the thick midnight, with an angry backward kick sending the door slamming shut. A full eight strides did he take, long-legged and sharp to take him through the darkened foyer, before he stumbled. Were it another person, it may have not have been out of the ordinary; but for Rodolphus, even something as slight as a mis-step was alien. An oddity. A rarity. A thing that’d cause an uncomfortable hush in a crowded room of familiar faces. An obvious piece of evidence that something was wrong.

He leaned one hand against the side of the room’s archway, steadying himself with that quick, stiff reach— and after ripping the fabric from off his face, glistening with sweat along the brow, Rodolphus tilted his head back and grimaced. His eyes closed, his nose wrinkled, his lips stretched into a strong sneer, and when he began to walk in his dignified strut toward the kitchen at last, he left a handprint on the wall-paper and a dripping path at his heels, which in the moonlight, shone black and ominous.

The kitchen was empty; there were no house-elves for him to have grunted at, and while they may have been a help in such a situation, the prideful soul in Rodolphus was relieved to know that he was alone. Collapsing wasn’t an option, although his feet began to drag along the floor the nearer he fought to get to the sink; and after a second, lengthy pause, he began to diligently tear at his cloak, undoing it and bleeding on it wealthily with his left hand. He dropped it when he could, unworried, then fought for the black vest on black buttoned-shirt that was underneath; and rather than remove the garments entirely, he simply shook his left arm out of the sleeves and peered at his damage in the dim light. The pain was enough to make the stubborn Rodolphus bow his head and kick wildly at the sink’s lower cabinets so hard as to cause a dent in the wood; for in the flesh of his upper-arm, and along the side of his abdomen, was a violent patch of four bleeding burn-like wounds.

He didn’t care for artificial light; tired as he was, dishevelled as he was. Uncharacteristically, the hair on his head looked damp and almost unkempt— almost, but not quite. Lagging backward steps took him to a chair, and the limp landing on that caused an abnormally enraged Rodolphus to scowl a second time, and growl. Slowly, his right hand, his unhurt hand, pulled his wand out of the pocket of his slacks and settled on the edge of the table beside him; and as he fought off any urge to let his straight posture slacken, he studied the middle digit of that hand that was tellingly missing a band. He forced his aching left arm back into his blood-wet sleeve, and seemed to wait.

“Come on, Father,” Rodolphus hissed through grinding teeth. “Hurry up.”

It was the brother, not the father, who answered the rough-voiced summons.

Tense silence had settled upon the house, previously disturbed by Rodolphus' staggered entrance and now broken only by his hissed breathing. As he waited, it seemed as though the very foundations of the building joined him, the absence of the creaks and groans of old wood and stone indicative of some expectancy, a holding of breath until the second arrived.

And suddenly, as the minutes continued to stretch into the thick night, there it was -- the crack of a hurried apparation, a calling-card that was deafening in this unused residence, accompanied by the thud-thud of feet as they took two steps, bringing their owner closer to a wall that bore the most disturbing of impressions. Indeed, this was Rabastan, the unasked-for brother, dressed for an evening of entertainment, but with none of the mirth associated with the comfort of loose pursestrings and even looser women evident on his face.

Even in the near darkness of the foyer, the handprint's ink was easy to discern. Blood: and there was more of it, dripped across the floor like a scarlet trail of crumbs. Having tilted his head to follow its path with eyes widened against the lack of light, Rabastan did not even pause before walking with wide, floor-consuming steps through the hall and into the kitchen. The sight that greeted him there was one that did, for the briefest of seconds, hold him frozen in place, with only his gaze tearing away from the blood and the clothes discarded on the floor and fixing itself on Rodolphus.

Then, a single question, blithe words spoken in a forced voice, was directed his way: "You rang?" accompanied by a gesture: a raised hand, upon which a simple band of metal encircled his index finger. This simple object was the reason Rabastan had come here, having burned white-hot to warn its bearer that something was amiss with the one who wore its duplicate. Actually locating Rodolphus took more effort -- Rabastan had searched two other properties before this one, fighting a twisting in his gut that he knew was a panic that grew as his brother remained elsewhere -- and now, Rodolphus found, the fear first quickened by the sight of his blood was pushed away, to be ignored as well as he could as he approached him.

The clap of an apparition was recognised instantly by the eldest Lestrange, through the mist growing ever-so thicker and thicker about his mind as each minutes passed— and while his face no longer took well to emoting the softer things, for his jaw had a shape that gave it a look of being perpetually tightened, and his eyes took to a half-squint at rest as if in some form of barely restrained distaste, there was a great loosening in the skin above his eyebrows. His frown, the result of his hearty attempt at concentrating on the wall-space opposite him, had responsively been cleaned away in a sudden excursion of relief. For surely, with his father having arrived, Rodolphus’ current situation was sure to be remedied faster; and that part of him that kept him upright and fully conscious despite his blood-loss and his wounds, all those mental walls built in the honour of self-preservation, would sooner be able to depart and rest.

You rang?— But that wasn’t Gaultier’s voice, and as Rodolphus’ head turned to the side, he saw that it was not Gaultier’s face either.

At first, his younger brother’s presence was given the appreciation of an eerie silence. And then Rodolphus’ back slumped against the backrest of his chair, sudden enough to make it rather clear that it had been an accident as much as his near-tumble in the foyer. Quickly though, one bloody-stained hand pulled the hanging collar of his dampened shirt further across his chest— hiding any spurts of blood under the black of his garment’s fabric— and his other raised his wand. It was a disapproving flick that brought it pointed toward his brother, not a threatening flick; no fear of hexes might this gesture have inspired in his brother, not with the way he seemed to have trouble keeping his arm raised and straight, but there was something aggressive about it. Something of volatile temper.

It wasn’t a common thing to see Rodolphus lose his temper. He considered it an overwhelming weakness, one’s not being able to control themselves— to him, it was the most destructive sort of clumsiness. It’s what made him feel an unspoken superiority over other people, this outlook and restraint, but with the all-consuming dripping of his blood from the corner of his chair to the floor echoing in his ears, it seemed some of that iron suppression was buckling. In his voice was an unprovoked tension, but with his fatigue delivered hand-in-hand with it, the resonance was turned less harsh and more exhausted.

“Rabastan? No— no, not now, please,” said Rodolphus, steadfastly. Angrily. A speck of white in the shadow about his face hinted at the peeved baring of teeth as he had spoken. Regardless of if Rabastan’s eyes had adjusted to the light enough to see him do it, his head insistently shook, and he wagged his wand toward the door, like a father trying his best to dismiss his child from the room. “You aren’t supposed to be here— go home. The ring wasn’t meant to alert you.”

Rodolphus’ head tipped back, in either weariness or frustration, before he was able to continue on. He took a moment, leaning his elbow on the edge of the tabletop beside him, and not allowing himself to cringe in front of his sibling as he did so, despite his immediate impulse to do just that. Speaking through his grinding teeth, as evenly as he could, he said: “Back to your tea-party, Rabastan. Your father”— there was no pained groan here, but there was an abrupt silence, that with Rodolphus’ typical speech rhythms, should not have been there— “ought to be here soon.”

In childhood it had been like this, the younger running to the protection of a maternal embrace while the elder remained stubborn in his refusal to give in to tears he understood to be a sign of only weakness. And as the boys grew into adulthood, they became more fully what the mannerisms of the Lestrange children had promised for the future, Rodolphus surpassing their father's veneer of brutish indifference with a tight-jawed ease, and Rabastan, ever quick-tempered, employing a sharpness learnt on his mother's lap to find the vulnerabilities of others and trash them with a similar lack of effort. Gaultier, their own father, had always been as easy to read as a child's book, his own impatience for Rabastan's every action disrupting whatever hold he had on his composure and facilitating his son's provocations, which continued until the old man was red-faced and unsteady with anger.

But it was Rodolphus Rabastan watched, intent all his life on his brother's face, studying it, trying to read what lay beneath the stern frown and how it tightened or curled away in a toothy grimace as Rabastan found those buttons Rodolphus hid so well. It was Rodolphus Rabastan knew like no other, for what sort of twin would he be if he didn't? A wordless, unacknowledged understanding existed between them, but even so, Rabastan often took an almost clinical interest in Rodolphus. The reasons were varied, at odds with his insistence to be free of his brother's shadow -- and made him one of the few people who knew things were wrong before the signs appeared.

Now, standing an arm's length away from him, Rabastan gazed down at his brother, studying him -- his drooping head, the way his words faltered in an unnatural rhythm -- and feeling the panic he'd fought since the ring first glowed with heat rise up. His chest constricted, and had the kitchen been properly lit, the horror that crawled across his features would be obvious to Rodolphus. The shadows were a small mercy: the fear so visible on his face did not cross into his voice, nor cause his hand to shake as he pressed it against the collar Rodolphus had just adjusted.

His fingers, when he pulled away, were wet.

In the near darkness, his hand glistened black with blood. He stared at it, then, suddenly, a hissed growl escaped him; his hand closed in a tight fist.

This was his brother, and they had harmed him.

"Too late." This was his reply to the observation that he wasn't supposed to be here, his voice rough with anger but otherwise steady. If not Rabastan, then who? Gaultier, who at this hour was no doubt in some drunken coma? -- no, there was no one else.

"I'm here now; deal with it, Rodolphus." He relaxed his fist, rubbed his bloodied fingers together, then reached for his own wand. The lightest of twitches sent light streaming across the kitchen, and for the first time, he saw the condition Rodolphus was in. "Come to fists with some girl, then -- Bellatrix, was it, for touching your things?" he continued, curtly, as he crouched down. A firm hand grasped Rodolphus' shoulder, holding him in place as he pulled away the collar of his shirt to examine the damage the beneath.

Light.

The sight it revealed must have been an unsettling one; in some ways, it’d have been a finer choice for Rabastan to have kept Rodolphus’ appearance a thing of mystery, which only the distant flecks of moon and starlight through the windowpanes only suggested to, for his appearance was a ghastly thing. It was the instant ache in his eyes that caused him to belatedly pinch his lids closed and jerk his face away from the lit wand, seeking the depleted shadow that he was better adjusted to, but it could have just as much been the anxiety of seeing the true state of his own injuries. His skin was a sickly pale— save for the patches about his eyes, that seemed almost dark enough to be bruised— and his clothing was drenched in that accursed crimson, as well as his arm. The open burns the tugged collar of his shirt betrayed were furious and bled with alarming pace; dripping and dripping and dripping, still.

His consciousness, surely, would not last long. Rodolphus Lestrange was only mortal, after all.

In the time it took for him to readjust his stare, the pain of which could only be tolerated with his eyes constricted into tired, reddened squints, his brother had safely placed a stabilising grip on his shoulder without opposition. In a rare display of lenience, no doubt stirred by his progressing sluggishness, Rodolphus neither leaned away from his brother’s hold nor fought to remove it entirely. He arm went limp. His wand was effectively lowered. His wounds were perfectly able to be studied by the undoing of his shirt-buttons, and with Rodolphus’ heavy-blinking stare turned downward, it’d have seemed that the anger he’d embodied a mere moment before had been extinguished as quickly as it had arisen— and his little brother’s presence was accepted.

Until, very belatedly, he may have happened to catch Rabastan’s latter words.

Rodolphus may have had an uncomfortable drowsiness in his movements, to the shift in his eye-line and the tipping of his chin, but in that instant, upon his face came a sharp spark of lingering energy. His white lips stretched downward in their corners and fiercely puckered. That sneer, so visible in the illumination of Rabastan’s wand, had a near-murderous quality when placed upon Rodolphus’ blood-caked form. It seeped into his lowered voice, raspy and razor-sharp. “Do you think you’re funny?” A pause— Rodolphus’ face inched closer in, and his eyes shrunk into even beadier slants. He had lost his temper again.

“Does it look like that’s my fucking problem, Rabastan?” He may have been able to gather up just enough strength to stand up, but Rodolphus couldn’t stand the thought of his brother seeing his undignified stumble away from his chair. Instead, one hand raised to abruptly grip his brother at the throat— it wouldn’t have been a painful thing, were it not to be fended off. But a gesture meant to bring silence? Surely. “Does it seem to you,” he down-right yelled and slurred all at once— a feat which caused colour to slowly rise in his cheeks, “that my current issues have been brought upon by an altercation with a woman? Bellatrix? You are a fucking petty child— how are we family?”

Only now did he fight against his brother’s nearness. Rodolphus’ hand retracted, only to shove out again to push Rabastan away— but while his intentions were insistent and enraged, he was certainly not at full strength, and not able to distance himself as powerfully as he’d have liked. “I have more on my plate than you could imagine— my—“ he took in a sharp breath through his teeth, “world is no tiny pig-pen. I would rather bleed as I am than have you hovering over me, taking all you can for the right moment where you can stab at me with it all twisted into some pathetic joke. You want to help me, baby brother— bring me your father. Bring me Rosier. No, bring me Malfoy. Or a fucking house-elf. And get out.”

— His moment of crazed spite had passed. Rodolphus cringed in his seat, and trailed off in a ramble to himself; still frustrated and cross, but not quite so coherent. He seemed to have been talking to himself rather than Rabastan, babbling under his breath, “Some family. I work. Bellatrix? I have better things to deal with than women. I always have to be the smart one. Always the smart one. I work hard. What do I do this for? If I say move then… fucking move—”

Pain took his words away. His groan was barely able to be suppressed, but he managed for the most part, keeping the sound as a contorted grunt at the back of his throat; and Rodolphus’ palms swept inward fast, toward his stomach, as he collapsed noisily against his chair. The back of his skull nearly slapped itself on the surface of the wall behind him, so limply did it thwack backwards.

The hand lashed out and caught his throat, the once iron grip of those fingers that held him now faint and sticky from the blood that was leaving its crimson stain everywhere. Rabastan fell silent, the shock of the weakness in Rodolphus' hand forcing the words he meant to say in mocking defense of his previous question to stall in his throat; and they were instantly forgotten as Rodolphus continued to mutter and growl. There was no one else, he'd wanted to say; their father was comatose in a pool of piss and whisky, no doubt, useless as he always was whenever Rabastan needed him; and Malfoy, who the fuck wanted a Malfoy in situations such as these, Malfoys who were more concerned with the state of their appearance than the desperate needs of a wounded comrade? Interesting, though, that he had not included Bellatrix in his hoarsely delivered list of individuals he thought better suited to aid him than Rabastan, and that her name only crossed his lips when he rebuffed what he thought was Rabastan's perception of the cause of this situation.

Then that same hand moved to push him away, and though there was no force to the shove, Rabastan moved an obliging step backward, rolling his shoulders as he did so so that the robe he wore over his tailored garments dropped from his frame, sliding down his arms and toward the floor before he finally pulled it from his hands and deposited it on the table in a heap of dark material. Now his fingers began to work on the buttons of his sleeves, moving with impatience and tearing them from their corresponding holes so that he could roll up the white cloth -- cloth that now bore bloody stains -- to his elbows, exposing the skin beneath to the cool night air.

Rodolphus was still muttering -- always the smart one -- his every sluggish move and change in expression tracked by Rabastan. When he groaned and clutched himself in pain, a single long stride brought Rabastan back to his brother's side, where he leaned over him, one hand gripping the back of the chair, the other taking hold of Rodolphus, fingers splayed across his jaw in a tight grasp that brought the collapsed man's face toward his. "Too fucking hard, Rodolphus," he said in a heated mutter, the shake he gave his brother serving to emphasize his words. "You work too hard, and then you get to bleed to death in the privacy of your home. Nice. Your associates are shit."

With that barked assessment, Rabastan readjusted his hands, bringing them under Rodolphus' arms, fingers digging into the hard flesh as he hauled the other man to his feet. "This shit better be worth your fucking blood on the floor," came the low and heavy growl; now he was the one babbling, his breath coming quick and heavy from exertion as he hauled Rodolphus toward the table and pushed him unceremoniously down onto its surface. "Work hard and die alone -- honorable. So that's where your duty lies, you stupid fuck," the yell was accompanied by a violent tearing sound as he shredded his previously discarded robes with the tip of his wand, "-- no one here but me, and this is the welcome I get. Some family -- right."

His rushed words were accompanied by brisk movements: the rapid dragging of his wand as he reduced the garment into long strips; the firm shove downward to keep Rodolphus pinned in place; and the abrupt pull by his hand to tear his tattered shirt away, exposing the full extent of Rodolphus' wounds. "Butchers," came the single word, uttered with such vehemence to make it an expletive. The bleeding continued, coating Rabastan's hands as he began the difficult task of binding them, pausing regularly to apply pressure and affix a minor spell that would check the flow of blood before continuing on, sliding the strips obliquely down from the opposite shoulder and across his chest, then around his back and up again.

Finally, it seemed Rodolphus’ energy had tapered so badly that he could not longer rebuke his brother’s assistance. A good thing, it was, for as Rabastan’s arms instructed in from his chair, to his feet-- which he could barely manage, his once-sturdy plant on the ground now replaced by something weak and sway-worthy— and finally to the table, there was no struggle from his own pale limbs to cause a struggle. Another low, angry growl escaped Rodolphus’ mouth when his face knocked a second time against the wood of the tabletop, this landing having been no more graceful than any of his gestures leading up to it; in the near distance, which in his ears sounded dreadfully further away than it should have, he could barely hear the gentle clatter of his wand when it rolled off onto the floor-- and then the ripping off the haggard cloth across his stomach. Aware of what was happening enough to be humiliated by his own fragility, as men like Rodolphus, who strived to be more like stone and less like flesh, were supposed to be; the young man crushed his teeth together and pinched his eyes closed to avoid witnessing his own mending.

But, eventually, as the bitter stir of his brain began to arouse memories of Rabastan’s fresh remarks, Rodolphus attempted speech again; his tense sentences separated by his shallow expulsions of breath. That same lethargy twisted around his voice-- his scarred, throaty voice, which while hindered somewhat by his limited lip and jaw movement, betrayed ever-so-much more feeling than his everyday monotone would have even dared.

“What welcome”-- he paused to cringe. The muscles in his chest and stomach knotted as a carnivorous sting swept out from one yet-unbound, angry wound, but after stubbornly grunting and slamming his fist against the table in frustration, Rodolphus relaxed again. --“could I ever give you? All you do is mock. Your sarcasm... it’s ceaseless... and I’m tired. I work hard. Maybe too hard. But fuck you-- fuck you and our mother, and whoever else who might look down through their noses at me for it. Why would I work as hard as I do? Because I enjoy it?” He paused, swallowing a mouthful of saliva and a liquid more metallic, dripping ominously in from the sliced corner of his mouth, and then answered his own questions, “Because it is my duty, yes. Because who else will provide, if not me? You? You wouldn’t. You don’t understand, or you choose not to, either which one, I don’t know. Its ironic how the very people an individual is taught to be the way they are, can punish them for the transition. This family. Fickle.”

His was a faraway ramble, still-- perhaps more than a little inebriated by his blood-loss-- but it was as heartfelt as any of Rodolphus’ words could ever be; which truly wasn’t much at all. But for someone as adapted to his intonations as greatly as Rabastan, they could hear, under the gravel of physical pain and scratched vocal chords; some trace of a younger boy who had never been quite so guarded. His eyes rolling open so he could glare drowsily at the ceiling, he concluded: “This is honour, Rabastan. Yes, I will die this way-- I will work hard and die alone. One day. You can seek more glory in your final hour; you have the luxury of it, I don’t.” He’d have shrugged if he’d been capable of it. “Congratulations.” And even in his wistful state that made it difficult for anything to be readily controlled, like a fire suddenly extinguished, that emotive glimpse was gone.

Instead, it began to look a frightful struggle for Rodolphus to keep his eyes open by choice-- his lids, without permission, began to gloomily flicker over back-rolling orbs.

-- “So don’t wonder why I don’t give you that proper greeting you’re so entitled to, brother.”

There was a slowing of his hands as Rodolphus spoke, palms that had moved with agitated speed brought on by panic now coming to rest on one wound that still bled freely as he listened to what his brother had to say. Even as worry left its obvious mark on his expression -- cheeks sallow, the skin of his forehead taut in a mask of fear -- this revelation of Rodolphus', of his resentful feelings expressed so unguardedly in a tone that was as close to petulant as it ever could be; this revelation angered him.

A good thing, too, as Rabastan did not know how to act in anything other than anger. If allowed to run unchecked, terror would cripple him entirely, reducing him to a frozen mass capable only of watching as Rodolphus bled out in front of him. But anger overrode his fear, anger directed first to those who had reduced his brother to this pitiful state; and now stoked further by Rodolphus' words, bringing strength to his hands as he channeled the searing energy into halting the hemorrhage. The initial panic had subsided and he now focused on one laceration that would not stop bleeding, bearing his weight down on it as he wadded a balled-up strip of material into the gaping wound. As he mopped up the blood, a wet, visceral sound became the backdrop to Rodolphus' halting speech, and continued uninterrupted as the older man fell silent.

Finally, coldly, he spoke: "I don't understand? You--" the vicious tone was accompanied by an abrupt and heavy push against the wound; "you don't understand. I mock because you don't give a fuck -- not about anything that isn't your duty." His fingers tightened in a convulsive movement around the padding, squeezing it for a long moment before he released a slow, shuddering breath and carefully peeled away the crimson-soaked material. It fell to the floor and was given a kick as Rabastan began the process of binding the injury.

"I was never asked," he continued in a rough mutter; "you never asked. Insist, yes; demand, so I'd grow to fucking hate the thought of it, and you for requiring it of me." A pause as he knotted the ends of the makeshift bandage and smoothed his hands over it, then finally looked at Rodolphus' face, upper lip curling in an angry sneer. "So much hard work, Rodolphus, and you never thought to simply fucking ask me."

The last words were a growl hissed into Rodolphus' ear, as Rabastan had leaned down and taken hold of his jaw, twisting his head from side to side to gauge the extent of any facial and cranial injuries. He found nothing serious, but his grip nonetheless remained on Rodolphus, fingers stretched over the line of his jaw and digging into his neck, as though he wanted to throttle or shake him. "Too proud, brother, is what you are," he finally said, then released him.

Rodolphus' cloak lay discarded on the floor. Rabastan retrieved it, letting it drape over the crook of his elbow as he hauled Rodolphus up, swinging his legs over the side of the table. As he steadied his brother's form, he continued to speak, the words low and rushed -- "You'll never ask me, you stubborn shit; you'd rather choke to death on your own blood then accept my help. I see it now. Fine." -- the ire that lay behind them spreading to his hands as they roughly pulled the cloak over Rodolphus' broad shoulders. Once bundled up, Rodolphus' arm was tugged over his shoulder, while Rabastan swung his around his brother's waist.

"Side-along," he simply said, and with a grunt, dragged him to his feet

“I can’t beg. You’d have been too satisfied.”

So was Rodolphus’ reasoning, voiced after a very long moment; so long, in fact, that it may have begged an inquiring thought as to whether he had heard any of what his brother had just said. He had spoken long after Rabastan’s initial burst as he tended to his wounds-- as diligent as a nurse, all things considered, but not quite so gentle-- and after the hiss to his ear caused Rodolphus’ head to instinctively, and groggily, turn against the tabletop and roll onto it’s side; only for his brother’s hands to straighten it out again during his quick check for facial wounds. Rodolphus’ had been a faraway silence, complete with slow, jittery-blinking eyes and greying, stationary features-- until he realised he was being pulled up. His answer was released from his mouth in a pair of tense mutterings, separated by a long pause, before his being coaxed into moving brought a groan forth from the back of his throat. It’d have been an almost childlike thing, were it not for the pitch of that voice, nothing a youth could manage.

His fingers could barely clench themselves into taut fists-- such was the extent of his exhaustion, he could feel the aches, dulled somewhat by Rabastan’s efforts, but could not respond to them as physically as he might have liked otherwise. No more punches against the tabletop, no more kicks to cabinet-doors, no more other small acts of destruction that were so rare from him-- Rodolphus could only grind his teeth together and peel himself up-- doing his very best not to sway from side to side, as much as his body felt to him as if it wanted nothing more than to let him collapse to the left and let that be that. -- But no, he wouldn’t have his younger brother needing to figure a way to carry him.

Rodolphus still had some of that precious pride of his, yet, to stubbornly hoard over.

Side-along? Making his eyes open properly-- a feat better said than done, for those lids struggled under innumerable, invisible anchors-- Rodolphus broke out of his severe bearing to shoot Rabastan a simple, bloodshot look that incredulously declared: Are you serious? But the unspoken question was a rhetorical one; his lips pressing together and nostrils flaring with obvious concentration, Rodolphus ushered life into his legs and feet. The right, slippery with revolting scarlet, sketchily slid two inches to one side before Rodolphus caught himself, and forced enough of his weight on the limb to prevent what could have been an inconvenient tumble. Cowering forward with his shoulders hunched, his chin drooping, and his arm locked around Rabastan’s shoulder, Rodolphus took his time to carefully steady his footing.

And after he did so, with his damp hair swinging benevolently over his down-drawn forehead, the young man grunted out a delayed “I give a fuck.” It rung untrue, so lacking in insistent or emotive intonations, like verbal cardboard. “In my own way. I wouldn’t”-- Rodolphus breathed in sharply, and exhaled in an opposite manner, shaky and slow-- “have accepted the way things would be for me, did I not. My blood wouldn’t carpet the floor.”

His head shook, just once. That’s all he was in the mood to disclose on the matter of his extravagant indifference.

Sharply, he said, "Save your fucking sincerity for when you're not bleeding all over me."

Rodolphus was dead-weight, a bulk of limp muscle that swayed and tottered against Rabastan, who was leaner than his brother -- not by much, but the difference was significant now that he was the injured man's sole source of support. The look of incredulity that was directed at him following the announcement of their intended manner of exit went entirely unnoticed, so preoccupied was he with ensuring that neither would accidentally lose their grip on the other: his arm on Rodolphus' waist flexed around him, fingers anchoring themselves by grabbing a fistful of the material of his trousers, while the arm that had been thrown over his shoulder was now clasped in a vice-like grip.

Only when he was certain that the spell would not tear them apart did Rabastan glance at his brother's face, his own expression tightening into one of concern that could instantly shift into a mask of unadulterated terror if Rodolphus finally passed out from the loss of blood. While he didn't give much credence to the almost drowsily slurred words coming from his mouth, they were without a doubt better than no words at all. Assured Rodolphus was still conscious, still responsive to what was going on, Rabastan jerked his head in a nod and expelled a shaky breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

"Side-along," he said again, this time with more force backing the word. Destination, determination, deliberation -- Rabastan had all three. Rodolphus, as the passenger, would certainly feel the discomfort of being torn from one place to another, but Rabastan had mastered this form of travel years ago and felt none of the supposed concern that'd been the cause of his brother's disbelief. It was the only logical way to get them out of here, as this house was not connected to the Floo network; apparition would land them in the entrance hall of their parents' estate, just past the outskirts of London, where the family's healer could be instantly sent for.

With a slow inward draw of breath, Rabastan steadied himself. "We're leaving," he muttered and, with a final clenching of his arm around Rodolphus and a barked order for him to hold tightly, executed the spell.

With a crack, they disappeared.

inlimis @ 2008-06-01T12:38:00

2008-06-01T11:47:09Z

WHO: Rabastan and Rodolphus.
WHAT: Brother, better thyself
WHERE: Chez Papa & Maman
WHEN: Early 1973.

The day arrived overcast and wet, dampening even the song of the local birds. Grim even under the sunshine of summer, in this grey light, the Lestrange estate was positively bleak, a sinister place of weathered stone and unused turrets; Muggles, unable to see it as anything but a ruin, often claimed to have spied light flickering dimly from one of the many windows. They thought it haunted, and while generations of Lestranges had made it their seat of power, with the current Monsieur running his affairs out of his east wing study, the description was apt. The stark branches of the trees that dotted the endless grounds split the very sky, and in the dead of winter, the estate was, if possible, more imposing than ever.

Rabastan loved it here. As a child, no corner was unknown to him, no room left unexplored, the coldly delivered lectures he'd receive from his father leaving him well acquainted with even Lestrange Sr.'s darkened chambers. Now, a young man, still fresh-faced from Hogwarts, rather than declare his independence by taking up residence elsewhere, Rabastan had returned home. His rooms were his again, and the kitchen staff quickly recalled their young master's love of sweet things and served up his morning coffee with a tray laden with pastries. During the day, he kept his mother company and avoided his father's; in the evening, he'd disappear for hours, returning only as the servants first began to rekindle the fires in their masters' separate rooms. Rabastan had seen little of his brother in the months since leaving Hogwarts; no doubt Lestrange Sr. knew of his doings, but as Rabastan could count on one hand the occasions in which he had conversed with his father since arriving, he was all but oblivious to his brother's activities. Besides, other things weighed more heavily on his mind.

His maman was ill. He was sure of it. Vicious with all but her youngest son, the mistress of the house was still the exquisitely coifed, icy woman of Rabastan's childhood, but the iron grip she had exerted on the running of the estate was beginning to slip. The signs weren't obvious -- his father, he was convinced, hadn't noticed, the stupid fuck -- but the hollowing of her cheeks, her waning complexion, her quiet cough concerned him. Like a little boy, he trailed her around the house, followed her around the gardens, sat with her in the parlor, where he stared fixedly at her as she deliberated her next move in chess. Sometimes, he sat up with her and read to her until she finally slept; on nights such as those, he would return to his room robbed of his desire to procure evening entertainment and fall into a fitful sleep.

He was, this late morning, asleep in his bed, a hand thrust over the edge of the mattress and hanging limply in the air. The room was dark, the curtains tightly drawn -- until now.

“Wake up.”

Low and gravely— but still young, despite his subtle attempts to seem otherwise— Rodolphus, for indeed this was no other, drew his staunch hand sharply across the window. His fingers clutched onto the fabric of the curtain; and while there may have been a comfortable dimness before, as his arm swept across in a purposeful jerk, it was replaced by a stream of light. Light fettered by rain and cloud, but light nevertheless. Rodolphus squinted in the face of it, his thick brows pinched together in a habitual frown, and after giving the familiar front grounds a brief scan he let one finger press against a cool cusp of steel in one of his palms. Smoothly cut, without even glancing downward, he used the side of the kitchen blade to raise a slither of apple to his mouth.

These days, eating breakfast and walking at the same time had become second nature. But while Rodolphus may have had time to take a seat and acquire a rare, complicated morning meal from the cooks, his mind was on other matters— that of his brother, his aimless brother, who wasted his days lounging about the house in the day as a pet to his mother, whose sickness he was both oblivious and detached from, and slurped his nights back with however many whores. Or so Rodolphus assumed. Perhaps there was some speck of envy behind the crossness of his visage— as soon as he graduated, Rodolphus had been swept off in a veil of steely purpose, and there had been no holiday for him, no deep breath before the plunge, but he hadn’t expected or hoped for such an intermission either. He was very aware of what was next for him— what dark step he was to plant his foot upon once he graduated and was far from Dumbledore’s unreadable stares— and he went through the motions with an iron jaw and a sense of natural obligation. The men at his sides, sometimes twice his age, were often impressed; and it never took them long to forget how young he was.

Formal robes became him, now. Out of one uniform and into another— a businessman’s wears— Rodolphus turned on the heel of one shining dress-shoe, and those eyes of his, bright and sharp, rolled toward the bed where his brother lay. He took a few steps forward, each movement smooth, each movement planned; and as he planted himself down on a nearby armchair, his foot raised to roughly nudge the side of the mattress just once.

Louder, fiercer, he said: “Wake up.”

In a movement born more out of instinct than any real expectation that this feeble gesture would keep the light from searing through his eyelids, Rabastan flung his arm across his face, while the hand that had dangled so inoffensively over the mattress' edge suddenly clenched. But the pillow those fingers so reflexively sought was on the other side of the bed, and so Rabastan contented himself with forcing out two words that, even despite the sleep thickening his voice, were as curt as Rodolphus': "Get out."

The damage was done, however, and Rodolphus showing for once some respect for his wishes would do very little to improve what was shaping up to be a horrible morning. By the smell of things, his hearty breakfast never made it to his room; no doubt Rodolphus, crunching away at what was surely an apple, had determined to impose on him his sparse diet, just as he'd decided to begin his day at an hour only schoolboys should be acquainted with. In vain, Rabastan clung to the last remnants of sleep -- but, fleeting, they evaded him, and he was left blinking against the skin of his crooked elbow, now fully awake.

Rodolphus' presence wasn't an entirely unpleasant surprise. In the school's all-enveloping walls, distancing himself from his brother was a feat that he'd managed with some success, fooled, perhaps, by the company he kept, into thinking himself separate from him despite each knowing where the other was at almost all times. Leaving Hogwarts had stripped away that illusion of independence; they were set on different paths, no longer gratified by the simply knowledge that they were within the same building. And Rodolphus was secretive; keeping track of his whereabouts was all but impossible. In the absence of one, perhaps this was why Rabastan remained so stubbornly, so childishly on his parents' estate -- so that he could be found.

Still, whatever satisfaction he took from Rodolphus' nearness was overridden by an intense irritation. That harmless hand that hung so quietly over the side of the bed had twitched to life, and in the absence of a pillow, it lashed toward the next closest thing. Fingers closed roughly around the polished leather of Rodolphus' shoe, one deliberate tug bringing it -- and, if it didn't slip off, all that was connected to it -- closer, providing Rabastan with the momentum to sit up. Sheets slipped away from him, and he fixed a bleary-eyed stare on Rodolphus.

"Out," he repeated, releasing his foot.

Rodolphus had a very precise way of dressing himself. Routine, while an addiction that became tiresome to some men, was something he— like his father, whose own handsomeness was a characteristic wrought by a sense of perfectionism as well as fortunate genes— typically took some care in. His tie was always tight and smooth; the shoulders of his black over-robe, each brushed down and neat. The same slickness was afforded to his shoes, so polished and clean… and well-tied. Gripped as it had been for that single pull by Rabastan, there was no chance of it sliding off; instead, having had his balance injured, Rodolphus fell back into the armchair less elegantly than he expected, with an unworried, half-grumpy groan.

It didn’t take him long to settle both legs down, though— to relax his elbows on the armrests, and slide his knife through another curve of green-skinned apple. As if his brother’s words had been a request rather than an order, something to which he only had to answer to depending on his own inclination, Rodolphus hardly looked like he was preparing to rush for the door as another piece of the fruit crunched beneath each stern snap of his jaws.

“Why?” came his reply to his brother, eventually— spoken in a clear, low-pitched monotone that was as one with Rodolphus as his very shadow. His brows raised the barest, barest measure, and his knife-hand flicked slowly outward, toward the rest of the room. “Why?” he repeated, unhurried, as he did this. “Are you busy? Is your schedule too full today? Do you have plans?... No?”

— “No,” Rodolphus answered his own question, his tone turning less trivial in an instant, though not hardening completely either. “No, Rabastan, I don’t suppose you do. Why is this?”

Regarding his brother with an unreadable, studious look, Rodolphus paused for a time and then shook his head. Again, he answered his own question: “I really don’t know.”

Rabastan remained quite still, the only indicator of agitation lying in his hands as they twitched in his lap, bunching the sheets into tight little balls and releasing them, only to worry at them once again -- and again, as the smile that forced its way across his features developed an unpleasant quality. So he was to be lectured, was he? Rodolphus had deigned to grace him with his presence; to adopt their father's alarmingly monotonous tone of voice while questioning him on how he chose to lead his days; sitting, there, in his chair, in his tailored robes and passing judgment on him?

Infuriating. And not to be borne.

All at once, he tossed aside the sheets, shoving them away with one well placed kick, and then got out of bed. Hair tousled, under-dressed, his skin prickled in the morning air, the nip that had developed as the fire in the hearth died during his slumber adding a sharpness to his movements. One step, two; and then he was by his brother's side, lashing out with a hand to steal the remainder of his apple. That the knife Rodolphus wielded so deftly could be turned on him without a moment's pause barely registered; the apple was his now, and prize in hand, he turned and stalked, barefoot, toward the window Rodolphus had just uncovered.

His teeth snapped down on the fruit's browning flesh; his eyes, narrowed against the grey light, studied the grounds he knew so well. "This speaking to yourself," he finally said, almost in bemusement; "it's a new development. I don't like it."

There was something in the way the sheets were shoved back— Rabastan clearly wasn’t one to visibly dilute his anger, or so Rodolphus was able to spy, in the study of that quick kick, in the cross fixture of his half-sleepy features— that made the older brother’s lips slide into a firm sneer. His shoulders pressed against the cushioned backrest of his chair; not in surrender, no, but in some form of mild frustration— as if this meeting was suddenly that much more difficult for him to focus any energy on. That slump, perhaps, made it easier for Rabastan to snatch at his apple, but in the tensing of Rodolphus’ other hand, his knife-hand, which suddenly jerked itself downward when its first impulse may have been something completely different, it would seem the lack of fight was just as much a conscious decision as it was a surprised reaction.

But, certainly, there was a sharp look that followed his Rabastan as he walked to the window; a brow-furrowed look that seemed to say that he ought to be more careful, that he ought to grow up. It was brief, at least, for Rodolphus’ head turned itself back around— his eyes settling upon the wall beyond Rabastan’s bed— a moment later. He was quiet, then, but neither considerate nor thoughtful of air. Rather, Rodolphus was quite a cold slate.

And then he moved. His left leg shifted, comfortably perching the side of his ankle upon the edge of his right knee; a relaxed, if urbane, pose.

“You don’t?” he asked— a rhetorical question if ever there was one, as there was hardly an inquiry behind the flat intonation of his young bass. “I don’t know how I formed this new habit. It’s a wonder. Perhaps—“ his finger idly tapped the blunt side of his knife, without a use with the apple having been taken— “it’s the result of disliking having to talk to others at certain times— of disliking having to answer particular questions so regularly. Would you like to know what kind of questions these are?” Rodolphus only quietened for a beat before following his line of thought directly, his voice gaining the slightest measure of feeling as it droned on, still so purposefully measured and unhurried in pace, “Rodolphus, what plans does your brother have? Is he still staying at your family’s estate? Is he seeking a profession— if not, then why? I hear he was at a Morthalius party with some new mistress, either one intoxicated… has he no aims? Has he no direction? No need of purpose?”

— “The womanizing, or the rumours about such things, at least, I don’t care about.” Himself again, Rodolphus’ emphasised that point with a stiff rising of an index finger. His face turned away from Rabastan in his peripheral vision, and his eyes closed. “That is your business and I trust you to be smart. But what is this? You wake up to pastries and croissants at noon, or later. You loiter, you lounge about this place, marinating in what I can only presume is your own laziness— your own self-indulgence.”

Suddenly, Rodolphus sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his fingers. In his tone, then, was a weariness; a hoarse irritation. “Is it that you enjoy making me into this dreary nit-picker? Do you think I enjoy it?”

If Rabastan had been listening to the elder's speech, there was little outward sign, for he remained as he was: facing the window; enthralled, perhaps, by the ghostly reflection of an uncombed and tousled man -- an image of himself, so mediocre when held up the sharp picture of steely ambition cut by his brother. Tellingly, as he spoke, Rabastan had stopped eating, and the utter lack of crunching, the silence that seemed to amplify Rodolphus' almost toneless voice, gave him away. Yes, he listened, as he always did -- listened to his brother's words of firm disapproval, face a featureless slate as he stood there, the apple lying forgotten in his hand.

Then came the final question. Do you think I enjoy it?

-- Crunch. Sudden and loud.

He turned away from the window, brows knitting in a frown when he beheld Rodolphus. The words, when they came, were hateful, but his voice , rather than elevate into a typical throaty growl, remained steady: "'What I do is my business--'" and here his tone had lost all modulation, approximating his brother's deadpan; "and I never required your meddling: not in school, and certainly not now."

He pushed away from the window, the steps he took long and measured, bringing him closer to the reclining Rodolphus. "So I indulge myself -- what of it? My plans are my plans, and I don't need to prostrate myself to senile old men to prove myself. You are welcome to that singular pleasure; I know where my place is."

Now standing by Rodolphus, he emphasized his final words by firmly nudging his brother's slanted left leg with his knee. "Do you think I care about what your friends may think about about me? I don't -- neither should you. I want nothing to do with your plans, nor with you, so this discussion is over. Now get out."

”Meddling.”

The word was repeated with an understated cruelty that all other uttered syllables before it had been blessedly spared of. Rodolphus’ leg moved in its loose poise when it had been nudged; and toward that appendage now did he glance, his stare growing squinted and dark, before he turned his head toward Rabastan. His hand had left his nose— his expression clear, so easy to be seen, in all it’s increasingly expressive measure. Rabastan would have known, as few ever could, that Rodolphus had buttons as any other individual; save, of course, that they were a great deal less easy and unguarded to strike. But there were hints— in the faintest flash of his eyes, in the subtle tightening of his jaw— that something in Rabastan’s reply had struck an unfortunate chord.

His elbows pounded against the armrests of his chair— in one brisk movement, Rodolphus was standing at his full height, arms at his sides, heels turning him to face his sibling properly. “Prostrating myself to senile old men, is that I do? This house you sloth about in every day, it comes from forefathers who did the same thing, I suppose? The desserts you eat, the wine you drink, the fucking sofas you nap on, it’s all the fruit of work you think so low of.” When at first his voice seemed calm— calm in that peculiar way of his, which may have been level, but certainly wasn’t comforting— it grew louder, and louder, bit by bit, a morsel of controlled anger rearing its black head all the more. By his last word, Rodolphus’ pitch was short of a yell. He was angry; there was no doubt about that.

Then an abrupt turn took him away from his brother— one hand gripping his knife, safely at his side, while the other patted at the back of his hair. There was a smile on his face, toothy and bitter, and the throaty cusp of an incredulous chuckle escaped it. “Yes, I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he said, moving toward the door in his refined, straight-backed stalk. “And your time-consuming deeds. Forgive me for intruding upon your rest, I realise one must need so much energy when they are a leech.”

Opening the door with a strong pull and pivoting enough on one foot so as to be able to look sideways and see Rabastan clearly, Rodolphus concluded with icily eloquent enunciation: “Goodbye for three months or so, Rabastan; I'm sure you'll continue to enjoy your crumpets while I am gone.” And so Rodolphus announced his lengthy departure.

With a harsh sneer to his lips, and one palm still gripping the doorknob; he inclined his head to his brother in a proper, but cynical, farewell.

"I'm sure I will."

The words were uttered after the briefest of pauses, almost matching Rodolphus' for sharpness. In the time it took Rodolphus to break away from his threatening loom and go to the door, Rabastan's face, mercifully hidden from the other's line of sight, underwent a series of changes, lips slackening in a crude, open-mouthed grimace, blood rushing to the broad plane of his cheeks -- and draining again, leaving him sallow-faced with poorly repressed fury. The apple (what remained of it), grasped by tightened fingers, suddenly seemed to him too tempting a projectile, and as he shifted his stance, held his arm rigidly away from his body, so that the fruit was kept benignly out of the line of fire.

He'd struck a cord with his brother, he knew, but the words had tumbled out almost of their own accord, spurred on by the realization that Rodolphus had no idea why he was really here. If he was so blind to the malaise of the woman who had brought him to this world, and so closed to the fact that Rabastan would find parting with their mother unbearable, then he was entitled to only the bitterest of words from him. His buttons, too, had been touched on -- and well. Three months weren't enough, as far as Rabastan was concerned.

Rabastan moved then to take up the armchair abandoned by Rodolphus, the stiffness of his limbs hinting at the levels of control that were required to keep him from lashing out and destroying something. Legs planted firmly apart, it was as though Rabastan was actually grounding himself, attempting to find some kind of anchoring; and the knuckles of his hands went white as he dug his fingers into the leather. "The crumpets and the sofas and the maids I fuck on them," he said suddenly, spitefully; "I'll enjoy them. Be sure of it. You -- you enjoy your groveling; you are so good at it, after all."

"Purebloodedry > everything else."

2008-06-01T10:45:00Z

" Thus Best Society is not a fellowship of the wealthy, nor does it seek to exclude those who are not of exalted birth; but it is an association of gentle-folk, of which good form in speech, charm of manner, knowledge of the social amenities, and instinctive consideration for the feelings of others, are the credentials by which society the world over recognizes its chosen members. "
-- ETIQUETTE IN SOCIETY, IN BUSINESS, IN POLITICS AND AT HOME

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