le jeune prince l'etrange

With mere days it seems to the beginning of the new school term, Diagon Alley is a whirlwind of schoolchildren and harassed parents, pinched looks of shop keepers and hoots and hisses of newly purchased pets. Minerva does her best to navigate through the throngs of the shopping lanes, keeping an eye on eleven year olds running underfoot. It’s not much different than the waves of students flooding Hogwarts’ corridors between lessons and the astute woman succeeds at keeping herself from running into people with aplomb.

That is, until a train of young boys careen past from behind her and one catches her in the side as he passes, sending Minerva on a teetering spin that lands her on her rear end. The boy looks over his shoulder even as he scampers to keep up with his friends, eyes wide and uncertain, and only mildly apologetic. As she tries to pull herself to rights, Minerva hopes he has a fright when he sees her at the welcoming dinner on his first night to the castle. 

Horrible language from the smallest of people for the smallest of things. Disgusting foot traffic that was as never ending as it was unnecessary. And manners that seemingly everybody lacked at all times. Nighttime behavior be damned, Rabastan was too much a prim socialite for this type of behavior. But it was necessary to subject himself for the moment, if only because he was thinking of getting a second wand. Unfortunately, his plans were just a tad derailed at the sight of four hooligans rushing through the crowd - in the opposite direction of traffic! - and knocked over someone. The former Slytherin scoffed, looking to sidestep the fallen, when he sees and recognizes exactly who on the floor just had their hand trampled on.

Rabastan’s tongue was silver today, covering up every slip with sweet powder to conceal it from her. She never came out of a conversation with Rabastan feeling satisfied. He was as sly as she was, and he knew all of her tricks; Narcissa could no more best Rabastan than he could overcome her. She sipped her tea, wrinkling her nose at his suggestion. Any woman he married would have to put up with more eccentricities than the Black women’s jealousy.

“I’m certain that is your main concern,” she told him, “and it is a selfless one indeed. But you must understand…” Narcissa squeezed his hand affectionately, though as genuine as she was, there was always a hint of scheming. “We are your sisters in heart if not blood, and we only wish for your happiness. Remaining so long unattached can have a peculiar effect on a man’s humor.”

Jab returned, Narcissa smiled at him, reveling in her momentary success–surely, Rabastan would return something just as snide and stymie her again, but for now she could be pleased with herself.

hedonrab

Rabastan normally had little problem accepting small touches of affection from Narcissa but today his nerves seemed to be on edge. Her words seemed to fizzle out of his perception the moment she squeezed his hand and instead turned into a jolt of sensation racing up his limb. His cheeks warmed just enough to potentially draw attention but he at least made sure not to shiver. Remaining unattached seemed to have a peculiar effect on Rab’s everything, least of all his humor.

“Considering what marriage has done to yours, I’m better off, dear,” he quipped, halfheartedly providing a rebuttal as he felt his lapse in body control settle. He needed to get over what happened earlier fast. Probably after they’d finished tea and he’d had a chance hit the restroom. Fabian would laugh him out of house and home if he knew about this. This again, this was Cissa and Rab’s bias towards any of the three sisters was always something to tease him about. Nothing else in mind, he raised her hand and quickly half turned it, pressing a soft peck on her palm.

“They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty.”

A mix dedicated to the original followers, teenage boys dedicated to a powerful leader with ill intent. 

“Well, I’ve already had two,” He said, opening up a cauldron cake on his plate and delicately breaking a piece off as he spoke. “One was with magical education, who recommended that since Hogwarts was not looking for student teachers or any teachers at the moment, I would do well to apply for a position at Beauxbatons with my dual citizenship or invest in private tutoring.” His blue eyes rolled up to the ceiling as his exasperation at the recommendation returned to him, albeit briefly, before he ate another piece of cake and then went to shuffle through his papers. “And after that was a brief discussion with some members from magical creature control but I wasn’t trying to in there if I could help it.” Honesty, in this case, would best help him. Magical creatures were not a subject that interested most, if many purebloods at all, and it was luck that had Rabastan sending them an owl in the first place. That, and the possibility of working with a couple of friends but he could not very well deny how unglamorous their departments were. It wasn’t his fault he had appearances to keep when they didn’t.

“How many languages do you speak?” she asked thoughtfully, tapping her finger against her chin. “If you can greet Ivan in Foreign affairs in Russian, you’ll have an instant friend. The man loves to show off.” Pulling his resume closer to her, she glanced through it as she thought. “Also, get him talking about the abysmal season the Russian Quidditch team is having – he might break something, but commiserate with him and let him rant. Do not, under any circumstances, mention his daughter. She’s starting her seventh year at Hogwarts and is a bit boy crazy. I told him how pretty she looked in the picture on his desk and he slammed it down so hard the glass in the frame broke and I got a twenty minute lecture about how she wasn’t allowed to date before he realized I meant nothing at all by it.” 

She rolled her eyes at the memory. It was something she could see her brothers doing in regard to her – they tended to be a bit over protective and forget that she was an adult capable of taking care of herself. 

Amelia looked over the resume again, taking careful note of all the charity work he’d done. Honestly, she was surprised Lucius or Narcissa hadn’t given him more of a push toward one of their pet projects or departments, but perhaps he was looking to branch out. 

“I know some conversational Russian and Romanian in terms of Eastern European languages,” He conceded, knowing he’d failed to mention that on his written resume. It was hardly a be-all end-all of skill sets that would make or break anything but it was something he’d always considered a conversation piece, just as Amelia was hinting. In truth, all the Romanian he’d initially learned had been from Septima, which hardly made it suitable for daytime conversations between two men discussing work but he’d had the mind to pick up some more from other sources over the years. He could do Russian, he could do Quidditch. And he really could talk about this guy’s daughter so Rabastan really really hoped that said picture on the desk was still face down at the moment. To be fair, he was a sucker for girls whose fathers were just a tad overprotective; call it the rascal in him. “I shall make sure not to mention her,” He agreed with a small chuckle, knowing that if he ever had a daughter he would probably be the same way. Rabastan knew the type of young men that were in Hogwarts at that year - he’d been one not that long ago - so he understood very well just what this Ivan was trying to protect his daughter from. 

Key word was trying but of course, Rabastan could wait until she was graduated and he’d gotten the job before going into someone’s daughter’s room. If she was even attractive enough anyway.

Fabian was at work as far as she know, so she was not expecting anyone here until the afternoon at least when Fab would make his way back from work. The copy of Witch Weekly was her own, shockingly enough. She’d noticed it on a sales rack and picked it up when she noticed there was an article on werewolves inside. She wished she had never picked it up. Re- ading the article had only made her fuming with anger at the derogatory c- omments that had been deemed good to published by the makers of the magazine.

Turning away from the page in anger, her eyes soon landed upon a famil- iar face on one of the following pages. Rab. A nearly naked Rab. Eyes re- ad the page, barely taking in any of the information as her eyes kept on d- rifting back to the moving photograph on the page. Eyes still locked on the page, she did not hear the click of the door or the sound of someone appr- oaching from behind. The first she knew of Rabastan’s presence in the ro- om was when she heard him speak, causing her to jump where she was  sitting on the sofa.

Her head swiveled around quickly upon hearing his voice, closing the ma- gazine in an instant.

     “You?… What are you doing here? I wasn’t looking a- I mean I wasn’t r-      eading that… You!”

The hand which was still holding the magazine in her hand reached out, the magazine hitting Rab on the arm as she swung it at him like a bat.

Whack!

“What the hell, Doe?!” Rabastan yelped in surprise, rubbing the spot on his arm that she hit before listening to her rant. He eyed the rolled up glossy paper in her hand, wary of another strike, but his ears caught her plight. Werewolves? This wasn’t even about his naughty pictures, really? Rabastan relaxed his shoulders, shaking his head as he walked around the sofa and made to snatch the magazine with little effort. Of all the reasons to attack him, the fact that he appeared in the same issue as a derogatory werewolf piece was not what he expected. 

“You act as if I planned out the issue myself. Honestly, Dorcas, do remember I cannot edit things I appear in.” He reopened the booklet, skimming through it with expertise. Rabastan wrinkled his nose at the werewolf piece - indeed absolutely uneducated and containing little fact of any of the last twenty years of research or personal experience - but then caught sight of his pages, pleased that his earlier observation had been correct. His face was next to a bunch of sex tips. He held up to magazine with ease, a smirk on his face.

Her mind was back a decade past, fingers splayed upon heaving chest, the sensation of knees pressed into an unyielding wooden desk. His eyes are the same, bright and blue, wide as they stare up at her with the unfocused glaze of intoxication. One hand combs through his mused dark hair, neatly crested nails scratching lightly along the scalp to rest upon the nap of his neck and mess with the short strands there.

“I might just be amendable to such a thing.” From the corner of her eye she can see the bottle, lips skimming along Rabastan’s cheekbone when she leans over him to pluck it up in slim fingers. Without a hand to hold closed the soft woollen folds of her jumper it falls open to reveal deep burgundy silk. The skin is bare of all marks still, waiting for the touch of fingertips or the soft brush of admiring lips.

He’d grown since their tryst in Hogwarts, since he had been a mere boy of seventeen, but she was still the same mature professor that had won his heart. Septima fit even better into his frame than before - something he had never thought possible with anyone - and she seemed to relish their proximity as much as he did. Her fingers, typically stained with ink and smelling of parchment, eased into his hair and Rab resisted the urge to simply let his head fall back. Some old tricks never failed and the soft scratches on his scalp worked the same wonders it had years past. Suddenly, Rabastan was that seventh year student and he forced himself to stay still as she reached over him to grab at the wine bottle, her wonderfully delicious body bared for his eyes as her sweater opened.

Burgundy. Of all the bloody shades of silk she had to pick to wear the night he visited unannounced, it had to be red. Not bright obnoxious Gryffindor scarlet or the odd red that consumed Muggle traffic lights but the dark wine hue that had been one of the first intimate pieces he had ever seen her wear. The shade of red that complimented her forest eyes just right and forced her skin to a certain paleness that Rabastan had failed miserably in resisting the urge to mark it up before. He was sure to lose to the urge tonight again. His tongue poked out of his mouth as she tilted her head back with the bottle, his bright blue eyes drinking in the sight of her smooth neck and skin. The thirsty gaze she rewards him with fills him with such hunger, he’s wholly consumed by the thought of possessing Septima once more.

“Lovely,” He murmured in response, unsure if he was talking of the vision she made on his lap or the prospect of her sharing drink. The kiss started slow, a show of respect to her for starting the intimacy herself as he allowed her to control the pace. The taste of wine filled his senses - as delicious as he knew the vintage to be - and he had an overwhelming urge to drink more, as if she were the source of life and he a dying man. He swiped his tongue out, licking at the last bit of wine from her skin, and the hands on her waist tightened roughly before Rab raised one hand to hold the bottle and used the other one to wrap around her frame and turn them around quickly, taking care to not throw her down unto the cushions like he wanted to. He peered down at Septima, her dark hair framing her wine-flushed face while her legs remained wrapped loosely around his thighs, and felt that stupid punch to his gut he always did when he thought of how he loved her.

And so, on a whim, really, she had headed off to Gringotts, which she was quickly regretting. Her eyes widened at the large crowd gathered in front of Gringotts as she entered Diagon Alley, taking a step back as she took in the panicking and angry witches and wizards. She sighed, her head dropping a bit as she began to make her way to the crowd. At least after she found Septima she could also check her family’s vault and make sure nothing had been taken, thus deflating two trips into one. Still, it didn’t quite make up for having to deal with this crowd.

She scowled as she entered among the fray and was promptly (and accidentally) slammed into by a taller wizard, who muttered a quick apology before moving on. This happened a few times as she tried to find her way through the crowd, keeping her head low and her arms close to her body as she finally got to the door of Gringotts. Why do they all have to make such a large crowd in front of the door? she asked herself as she entered the bank. Her eyes instantly began to dart around, looking for the familiar figure of her mentor among the wix and goblins. 

Alyssa hadn’t gone very far into the bank, choosing instead to stay near the walls and empty areas and search for Septima, when she heard a man very nearly shout (or, at least, she felt it was a near shout) for Septima. She turned her head, staring intently at the man who was harassing the goblin about Septima, her lips pursing as she listened to him. Why did he need to see Septima so badly? Surely he could just ask one of the goblins to bring him to his vault if he wanted to check it? And surely he didn’t need to be yelling at the goblins. Personally, she liked the goblins. They were frightening when she was younger, but they were also the best at what they did. 

"I assure you, Mr..." 

"Lestrange," Rabastan supplied tartly, inwardly relishing the wince the goblin made as he realized who he was dealing with. Granted, he wasn't Rodolphus, wasn't directly in charge of the estate the majority of the time but he was technically second executioner and currently in use of said title with his brother away. It helped that his family was still so financially connected to France as well as England because it meant that quite the funds were handled through Gringotts but they'd threatened time and time again to leave when things weren't to their liking. Add the fact that Bellatrix Black's vaults and belongings had been added to their family's and it was quite a lump some of capital that the goblin was facing at the moment. Leverage, it was great.

"Mr. Lestrange, apologies. Yes, she is here but surely you simply need to see your vaults to assess that nothing has been taken.”

“I still wish to speak to her,” Rabastan answered, visibly calming as if the answer he’d received was the right one. Of course Sep was there, she lived at the bloody bank more than her own homes. “There are certain questions I have and I am well aware that she is, in particular, the only person to answer them. Madam Lestrange is over there handling the rest of the business concerning our vault items.” He gestured to where Bellatrix was also exchanging words with a goblin and the one in front of him paled even worse than before. No, nobody actually liked dealing with an irate Bella, that was for sure.

His next sentence explained everything and she found herself grinning back at him. “That’s wonderful! What departments are you looking into?” she asked, glancing at her watch. Thirty minutes, his interview would correlate to the end of her lunch break so that made things easy. 

“Well, I’ve already had two,” He said, opening up a cauldron cake on his plate and delicately breaking a piece off as he spoke. “One was with magical education, who recommended that since Hogwarts was not looking for student teachers or any teachers at the moment, I would do well to apply for a position at Beauxbatons with my dual citizenship or invest in private tutoring.” His blue eyes rolled up to the ceiling as his exasperation at the recommendation returned to him, albeit briefly, before he ate another piece of cake and then went to shuffle through his papers. “And after that was a brief discussion with some members from magical creature control but I wasn’t trying to in there if I could help it.” Honesty, in this case, would best help him. Magical creatures were not a subject that interested most, if many purebloods at all, and it was luck that had Rabastan sending them an owl in the first place. That, and the possibility of working with a couple of friends but he could not very well deny how unglamorous their departments were. It wasn’t his fault he had appearances to keep when they didn’t.