Bash Lestrange

Narcissa had simply been caught off guard when he moved so suddenly! He had been in an almost catatonic state. It was not so scary as it was surprising and she watched the cloak go up in flames in her fireplace. 

A musky and earthy scent filled the room as the blood mixed with the blaze. Was he trying to dispose of the evidence or perhaps he was simply spiraling because of the blood that still clung to his body?

“Please do not burn the rest of your clothes. I will help you clean them.” Narcissa informed him as she sat back on her knees and observed him pacing the room. He looked more like a caged animal than he had previously. 

“It is alright. No damage was done, the fire will go down.” Narcissa dropped the rag back in the water. How much in a state he looked! She was not sure if he was going to spiral more. It was very tempting to ask him what had happened but clearly he was in no state to relive whatever memories were making him act like this. 

“Of course, what would you like?” Rising to her feet once more she left the rag and water behind to follow him into her kitchen. In truth, she was treating him more like he was on the ledge. His behavior was sporadic and clearly he was spiraling. What utterly horrible thing had he witnessed tonight? 

It was in a moment like this, when she could see the true effects of the fight that she was glad she did not partake in the fights. Her sister and her father hid their emotions so well. If they ever felt fear, it did not show. Of course, Blacks never showed true emotions. 

What the mention of her sister did to her! Rodolphus Lestrange was perhaps one of her least favorite peers. He had shown clear distaste and anger towards her since they were children. At first it had only upset her. Why should he care for Bella and Andromeda so much when they played? How dare he hate her for no reason! Rabastan had always been the kinder of the two. 

“Of course they were.” She responded. How cool her tone had become. She must have been distracted by something else because she had not seen them together. It was something she would have to question Bella about. 

Rabastan was stuck just standing in front of her awkwardly unsure of himself and what to do. He was uncomfortable with the state of his clothes, and he couldn’t think. Maybe this was a bad idea showing up here? Maybe he overestimated their friendship–– he didn’t have any true friends.

The worry flashed in his face for a brief moment before he pushed it away. 

“Whiskey.” he answered her with a dry, scratchy voice. The cold was starting to take its affect. No longer shivering, the cold had seeped into his bones. It would take a while before it went away. 

A normal person might have been able to pick up on her tone and her change in dynamic at the mention of her sister and his brother. Rabastan on the other hand, who was known for being oblivious at such things, didn’t notice. Talking about something else was helping. 

“Yah, though it was a pretty awful party, so who can blame them. I barely made it through dessert before I had to leave.” He confessed, trying to find something to say. 

The damage was already done, he’d broken the formality between them, it was weird to go back. 

Alastor was growing tired of this interaction, to say the least, but he wasn’t willing to hex Rabastan. Not until he put up a real fight. It wasn’t Alastor’s fault that Rabastan was too drunk for him to put up much of a fight at all, nor was he willing to just put an end to it because of the obvious difference in ability between the two of them that night. 

Instead, he allowed himself to continue the fight despite the fact that he wasn’t going to get anything out of it because he wasn’t done yet. Rabastan wasn’t the only one looking for a fight that night, and Alastor hadn’t had his fill yet. He was waiting for Rabstan to do something really dumb. 

“I never said I was an auror,” he replied evenly, tilting his head to the side as he regarded Rabastan with a measured disdain on his features. “You’re just incompetent enough to get thrown out of a bar by a total civilian.”

“I know yer kind, i can smell it on you.” He wrinkled his nose at him.

Rabastan teetered on his feet, the world starting to spin around him. He held his hand out menacingly towards Alastor, though it wavered with his dizziness. Regardless of the state his mind and body were in, he was determined to stand his ground. 

“Do you even know who I am?” He decided to try another route. “I can go whereever- in whatever place I so choose to.”

“Incompetent?!” A quick anger bubbled in him. He took a few steps forward and pulled his wand from his pocket, pointing it straight at Moody’s neck. Only, it wasn’t a wand. 

He frowned. Where was his wand?

Unable to believe Rabastan would have such issues with sickles made Lucinda roll her eyes. “Yes, a little change is a way to say thank you for the performance but that doesn’t mean you have to accept it. A charming smile and thank you would go so much further than that little girl giving you money she may not have to spare.” Lucinda didn’t know where the girl came from and although she didn’t have to worry about money herself, she was aware of the struggle. “Arrogance seems to be something you got from god.” She raised her eyebrows, shooting her blue eyes in his direction.

Rabastan’s rant about the arts and their importance resonated with Lucinda. She actually agreed with the jackass standing before her. It was a surprise, but a pleasant one. “I agree with you completely, Lestrange.” She allowed a pause between the two of them, letting that statement sink into his head. “Without the arts there are so many people – children in particular – who would miss out on the ability to express, well, anything and everything. There’s more to the world than politics and duels and war –” she stopped herself. “Where has the theater, music, paintings – where has all that gone since the war began?” Lucinda’s face actually dropped, not giving the fact that she mentioned the war pass by her thoughts affect what she had to say. It was important and she’d be damned if a war was going to make her stop from saying something so fundamentally important. “I’ve hardly picked up my guitar since – it’s been a long time for me.” 

Changing the subject, Lucinda found her seat and crossed her legs purposefully in front of Rabastan. “And yes, I know that rotten to be or not to be monologue is pushed into the ground anytime anyone does it. Just a little surprised you would know the same.” Lucinda gave a quirky smile.

“Lucinda. No miss. I’m not the formal type,” she said, peeking out of the corner of her eye. She was flirting. Shamelessly. But she had no idea why. He was a self-absorbed, never wanting for anything prissy boy. And she was flirting? With that?

“You only had one person to prove anything to?” Lucinda’s wide eyes laid on him and without a beat, “I think you wanted to win over everyone in this shop’s heart.” She leaned over the table and placed her hand under her chin. “I wonder what it must feel like to know you’ve won someone over. You must tell me how it feels.” Lucinda shifted, curls bouncing along. “Has anyone won yours over? Recently?”

She echoed similar sentiments about the arts. The war had decimated more than just funding and people’s free time. It took away an appreciation for finer things, the respect for an entire community, the emotional magnitude of the theatre. What good was it making people cry, who’d lost loved ones and were crying earlier that day anyhow?

There was nothing left in people’s hearts to give. And the actors felt it. That emotional disconnect like their audience was further away than ever before. This bloody war was ruining theatrical genius.

“Lucinda,” he repeated with a nod, a formality. 

He noted her body language, leaning in closer to him. He was still standing like a fool! There was no easy way to sit down now, without seeming like he was inviting himself to her table. 

“Them? Pfft?” he sucked his teeth and shook his head, waving the shop away with a hand. He decided he could be a little more obvious with his flirting. She was just a random girl anyhow, what harm could it do?

Last minute he chickened out, and decided to play it cool. 

“I already know they love me.” He defaulted back to arrogance. “Theres not much there between the ears, they’d have the same reaction to watching a quidditch match.”

Her question caused him to freeze up. HIs cheeks burned hot and his ears grew red. If there was any doubt before, it certainly was gone. He couldn’t help but think about Narcissa. She would never have been that blunt. He couldn’t tell if he liked it or if it turned him off slightly.

“My heart?” He cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed. “Uh me, no.. no one. I’m not with anyone–– I’m single. Dating. But not officially seeing someone. But if the right person comes along. I mean, I’m open to it.” He rambled on like an idiot. 

There wasn’t much by way of recovery from that embarrassment. “I’m sure you’re waiting here for someone.” he stated, his way of asking if she too was single.

@rab-strange​​

“Fucking hell mate,” Bash sighed in agreement quietly under his breath. He looked over to his father who gave him the stink eye, before turning to carry on a deeply serious conversation. 

Rabastan put an arm on the couch behind Greg, settling in. 

“Agh, fuck the ministry.” Rab made a face and shook his head. It would have been hard to explain what exactly annoyed him about the Ministry. Perhaps it was just his very clear exclusion from it. 

“Like how many times do we have to stop to define “western corridor?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. He was referring to the great “west vs. east” debate which had taken the upper Death Eaters over an hour to resolve. Was it really the western corridor? Well, if we went off the blueprints from 1782, then technically it was the Eastern corridor–– before the name got changed.

These types of nit-picky discussions were characteristic of Death Eater meetings. Personally, Rabastan could do without the bloody history lesson. 

“And Crabbe’s face––” Rabastan paused, eyes flashing up to a couple of nearby death eaters, who were wandering suspiciously close to them. Once he deemed it safe to continue, 

“Looked like a bloody tomato. Wanted to Kedavra my fucking brains out.” he hissed, unable to hold back a few laughs. He quickly suppressed them, realizing he was disturbing the peace. 

“I’m afraid that’s precisely why we cannot allow you into the vault Mr. Malfoy.”

Lucius’s eyes flared dark for a moment. How dare they stand in his way? How dare they stand between him and all the wealth that he deserved to have as his and his alone. He was tired of those who said he would be nothing without his parents. Those who said his name and power came only from the wealth passed down from the Malfoy family–wealth his father kept an extraordinarily strong hand on. Not that Abraxas Malfoy didn’t keep a hard hand on everything.

He had been called a let down and a failure for the last time. No one would dare speak to him if all that wealth, if all those magical accouterments held in the family vault were his. And he wanted them. He wanted all off them. He was going to clean out the family vault and have it all to himself. He could have everything the Malfoy name had to offer. It would be his father left with nothing, groveling to him for once. He wanted the money and all the power that came with it.

“Well fine then. I have the key.” He pulled the key from his pocket with a gloved hand. Had he stolen it from his father’s desk while the older man had been asleep? Yes. Yes he had. Was there any way for this infernal goblin to know that? No. No there wasn’t. And if he had the key to the vault, then there was no reason to be denied to the treasures that were rightfully his anyway. Or at least on normal circumstances, they would be after his parents’ passing. But he didn’t want to wait that long. He had no time for that.

“Sorry sir,” the goblin said, though he certainly didn’t look sorry. “We have strict orders from your father.” He said holding up a piece of paper with Abraxas’s large scrawled signature. “You are not permitted to enter the vault without his presence. Only your mother has that permission.”

His mother was allowed into the vault–the woman who married into this wealth rather than being born into it–he deserved it far more than she did, did he not? His temper reached a fever pitch. That was his money. Those were his belongings. He deserved them far more than his mother. And he wasn’t going to wait until his father was dead to get what was rightfully his. “This is absurd! I am Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy. There is no reason I should be denied access to the Malfoy family vault, particularly when I have the key you insolent-”

He’d drawn his wand but the very next moment it was flying from his hand across the lobby of the Gringotts. Lucius stared in disbelief at the goblin. “How dare-”

“I think it’s time for you to be on your way Mr. Malfoy.”

Lucius glared back at the horrid creature, snatching up his wand from the ground. “You’ll pay for this. You’ll regret this you horribly little creature.”

There was a shadowy cloud hanging over him today. He hated everything he’d written over the past few days. He hated himself for choosing such a hard path. Things would have been so much easier if he was the favourite prodigal son. 

He walked in to Gringotts, determined to take out a small fortune. Spending money might help; He knew it wouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but tell himself that. And if all else failed, a couple of potions might make this madness a bit easier to tolerate. 

Rabastan took his deposit and stuffed it into his pocket, returning the key to the chain around his neck. He glanced over to Malfoy beside him, smirking. 

He was feeling terribly vulnerable in all of this, and he wasn’t used to that feeling. Alastor was the kind of person who knew what was going on and was completely in control in almost every situation. 

But he wasn’t in control here. He was so far out of control it was making Alastor feel a little nauseous. 

Or maybe it was the blood loss. He had never been injured in this way before and Alastor was starting to feel like he was really going to die out here on this street and he was going to leave behind so many things that were completely and totally unfinished. It was enough to at last partially snap Alastor back into reality. 

As the other turned the spell more completely towards his wound, Alastor started to get a little clearer-minded—even as the pain grew worse, Alastor could deal with it if he could just gain a little more feeling in his fingers and a little more warmth in his body. 

He was almost ready to push off the other man, regardless of if he was a friend or a foe, knowing fully well that the only person Alastor could count on to take care of him was himself. He could deal with it on his own. 

As soon as the wand was pointed away from his eye, however, he started to feel woozy and cold again, swaying slightly where he was kneeling on the cobblestone pavement.

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

Alastor could see the light through the back of his eyelid on his good eye, but for the life of him, he couldn’t make himself open it. His entire face felt swollen and bizarre. He was about to make a suggestion, but it just came out as a groan. 

Then there was the searing pain—like bleach poured into an open wound. 

He screamed through clenched teeth, feeling his face burn. He shoved forward, pushing the wand away from his head as he already felt the scarring start to bubble and thicken the skin around his eye. 

“Who the fuck are you!” 

The grown man was squirming more than a two year old.

"Hold bloody still," Rabastan growled through gritted teeth. "I'm trying to. Help. You."

He grabbed the back of Moody's head to hold it steady while he worked. It was difficult, not only because the man was moving so much, but the obvious pain he was in was very distracting.

Maybe this hadn't been the right spell to use. Well too fucking bad, it was the only cleaning spell he could remember. The man ought to be fucking grateful he was getting any help at all!

Rab held it for another second before finally stopping the spell. If that wasn't clean, he didn't know what was.

He lit up his wand again to inspect the wound. The pressure from the cleaning spell had stopped the bleeding. It still looked gross, but better than when he'd found it.

"Accio blanket," he summoned, and waited for a spare fleece blanket to appear to him.

When it did, he wrapped it roughly around the mans shoulders. There. His work seemed done.

Something was missing... maybe a bandage? He summoned a bandage, only his brain hadn't thought about the ones under the sink and rather just the toilet roll he had on the counter.

It appeared to him and he shrugged, unwinding a huge bunch to make a sort of pillow. He stuffed it into Moody's hand and forced him to put it over his eye.

Lucinda wanted to say she was surprised Rabastan stood up but she couldn’t. With his sense of pride it was pretty obvious he would do anything to perform.

A smile couldn’t help but shine on Lucinda’s face at his comment. “I’ll have to pay for a ticket? For all you know I could be your muse.” Without meaning to she winked with that girlish grin. Everyone needed a muse, no matter what or who it was. Surely she wasn’t his but she caught herself wondering if she would want to be. The thought caught her off guard. This guy was so self-involved. Why would she want any part of that?

Rabastan obviously got into character. She wasn’t an actor but knew the feeling before singing and playing her guitar. Performing was like letting out a side of yourself that was precious and vulnerable, even for the most prideful.

Her eyes couldn’t tear away from him. How could she? He was performing for her. For her. His eyes were attached to her. Lucinda wasn’t expecting that. She expected Rabastan to soak up the other patrons attention, circling the room so he could see all eyes on him. Upon finishing he responded to the uproarious applause. But Lucinda wasn’t one of them.

Cradling her face softly with her hands she finally felt her red cheeks wondering how long they had shown. There was a bit of embarrassment on Lucinda’s behalf but she wasn’t one to hide her emotions. Usually. However, just because she was blushing didn’t mean anything. Right?

It’s not that Rabastan was the best she had ever seen but his passion was palatable. It was obvious how much he reveled in his art. So, okay, maybe that made him pretty good but she wouldn’t admit that.

Lucinda was about to speak until she saw Rabastan accept the sickles. She wasn’t keen on the fact that he took it so easily. He didn’t know the girl’s situation but knew his. He should have shown an ounce of humility. It prompted Lucinda to stand up and take the money from him. She turned the wide-eyed child. “You keep this, sweetheart. Save this up and you can see a full play. It will be worth so much more.” Lucinda patted the girl’s head and glanced at Rabastan with a smile. “I doubt she’d get a free ticket and every performer loves a full house.”

She stood up strong and tall. “I was expecting to be or not to be.” Lucinda put her hands in her back pockets. “I couldn’t help but notice that in a room full of people you were playing to an audience of one.” She could feel heat in her pale skin but it didn’t bother her this time.

He could see the same look on her face that he got from most of his audience. She must have enjoyed the performance. Rabastan’s chest swelled with pride. Not for himself, but for his craft. For the art. It always made him happy when he could feel the audience buzzing with excitement, momentarily transported away from their mundane lives for a while. 

Just as quickly as the sickles were placed in his hand, they were taken away. He frowned, giving Lucinda a look but remaining silent. He wasn’t about to argue like a beggar over a few sickles. He flashed the little girl a smile, and she bounced off happily to her parents. 

He returned his frown back to Lucinda. The money, regardless of the amount hadn’t been the point. It was about the recognition, the “giving thanks,” the acknowledgement of his art form. That was something not many people understood: actors, audience members, and certainly not his father. 

“No, you’re wrong.” he shook his head. “She is exactly who I’d give a free ticket to.” his frown curled back into a smirk. This woman was insufferably judgemental, but he definitely didn’t hate it. Might be the only thing they had in common. 

“We’ve got to get the younger generation interested in the arts, otherwise it will die with old age.” he said prophetically, and it was clear he believed every word. It was a duty he didn’t take lightly.

“Ha!” He bursted a laugh. “One of the most over-used monologues from the play. When there are a dozen more with greater meaning and emotion.” he shook his head and sighed. People tended to latch onto what was trendy, Shakespeare included. 

Her comment caught him a bit off guard. Was she flirting with him? His eyes narrowed curiously at her, trying to quickly read her face and body language. 

“Well miss––” he left a pause for her to insert her name if she chose to. 

“I had a great deal to prove and a heart to win over.” he decided to flirt back and test the water. “Only thing left to know is: did I succeed?” he flashed a grin. 

How she all thought it was some kind of joke! Purely for show perhaps to have him flirt with her in this manner. Narcissa was not even aware that he was being quite serious and she was merely encouraging him. 

Narcissa found it very amusing as he pulled out the golden snitch with such an impressive flourish. It was so very different when it was still instead of flying around the field. She had tried to keep up with it as she watched through gilded binoculars earlier that day. 

“May I?” Narcissa inquired and slipped the orb from his fingers. Her cool fingers brushed against his and she inspected the snitch ignoring her classmates cooing at Rabastan. Certainly they were making quite a scene of themselves and she hoped she was never like that for any man. 

“I did. I was at the game.” Narcissa replied and how amused she was. Did he think anyone in the house had missed the game? She still found his entire behavior amusing, but held on to the snitch for now. 

How he buzzed from thought to thought! Narcissa giggled and released her own drink to him. “Thank you. I am glad the prefect is not trying to stop us.” She should not have been given a drink in the first place and now Rabastan was going to get her another. It was all quite exciting to her.

He watched her fiddle with his snitch, a smirk curling his lips. The other girls faded away from view and all he could see was her. 

Of course she’d been at the game! 

“Oh right,” he blushed and brushed his hair away from his face nervously. 

Rabastan grinned cockily and took her glass. He held his hand out calling to one of his friends for the bottle being passed around. They obliged him and he smirked at her. 

“He’s been ‘round a couple times, but I told him to piss off,” he said proudly. He felt untouchable and he made a point of wanting her to know how much power he had. He was like a knight in a tournament, fighting for her favour.  

“Now you gotta tell me how strong you want it,” he flirted, pouring the pinkish-red liquid into the cup. 

A couple of the other girls looked at the cup enviously, unsure how to ask him for some. 

“And yah know, if he or any of them give you a hard time,” he moved a little closer to her by mistake. “You just tell them its mine.” his eyes widened earnestly. He didn’t want her to get into trouble on his account. 

He could smell her perfume. He hoped his breath wasn’t bad.

It was perhaps second nature to Narcissa to close up when she felt exposed. The three young Black sisters were taught at such an early age how to hide their emotions. The proper chilliness she often radiated was as much a way to protect herself from others. She had exposed herself when she asked about her sister and had incorrectly read his response. Narcissa thought he was more shocked and disgusted to suspect that she inquired after Andromeda’s well being. 

How strange it was to see and suspect that he had cared for her well being after the attack. Surely Bella was the only one who was truly worried. Not even her own father was concerned enough to do more than send one of his assistants to make sure she was unharmed after the attack. “I simply am surprised you really were concerned. Thank you.” Perhaps she was also a little touched to know he had been concerned. 

“Yes. I was visiting my father earlier that day. It was truly a bad stroke of luck that I was there when the attack happened.” Narcissa informed him. She had been trained from such a young age to let such comments as it was far too dangerous for her to be there roll off her. How used she was to others underestimating her for her gender alone. “It is okay, I came out mostly unscratched. That is more than can be said about many.” Her wrist still hurt from Lucius’ mending spell but she counted herself lucky.

All at once he let his hands fall away and she was left untouched by him. Narcissa was growing terribly annoyed with his continued instance that he should not have come. “You are not a bother, Rab.” She informed him. “How could you have rang beforehand? I do not mind your coming and I am glad you are safe.” With her hands now free, she stuck the rag in the pot once more and removed it to continue to clean him off. 

Yet, it was as if he noticed the blood once more and he stood up suddenly, the chair sliding back against the hardwood. With one flourish he tossed the cloak in the fire. “Merlin!” Narcissa had not been prepared and quickly moved aside out of his way. 

Rabastan was aware that the sudden movement had probably caught Narcissa off-guard. Hell, the realization that he was still in blood drenched clothes had been enough for him to scare himself. 

He watched the cloak go up in flames, the yellow and orange casting a strong reflection on his features before eventually dying back down. It was done. 

“Sorry,” he turned back around to glance at her from over his shoulder. His cheeks lit up pink again. He might not have gotten up just to burn the cape. Putting some distance between them had also been on his mind. 

It felt safer being several metres away. Her gaze wasn’t so intense from over here, nor were his feelings as strong. He might have to spend the entire night on the opposite end of the room, he thought bitterly. 

“Could I get a drink?” He managed, his voice scratchy for some reason. Possibly because he was tired. Or maybe it was the beginnings of a cold from the weather. 

This interaction would be so much easier if he was drunk. He wouldn’t have all these stupid thoughts and feelings. They belonged in his notebooks, not in his head. How was he supposed to impress a woman like Narcissa, if his head was constantly going off with stupid ideas?

Well there wasn’t much chance of impressing her in this state, he reminded himself. 

Hadn’t he given up his thoughts about the youngest Black sister long ago? Were it not just mere teenage fantasy? Those questions were enough to send his mind going again. Images of knights on horseback, no perhaps more contemporary, maybe a wizard visiting another country. Reunited love after a great war, the protagonist realizing he still has feelings for a girl from his childhood. He needed a pen and paper.