#(bazlestrange1)

Nic had never been to Lestrange manor. He’d only ever met the younger brother in person, too, and not often; he hadn’t taken the Dark Mark, after all. That was reserved for the pureblood elite, the zealots. Those who contributed more than the occasional bit of chaos. Not that Nic was complaining; he had no desire to shackle himself to someone who called himself a “Dark Lord.” It just so happened that the Death Eaters were the best outlet for his worst impulses. 

That didn’t explain why Rabastan had invited Nic into his home. He’d loitered outside for a few moments before he simply couldn’t stop himself from entering unannounced, quick hands and spellwork easily swinging the door open. 

He’d just finished making every other portrait in the hall just slightly crooked- he’d heard Rodolphus Lestrange was a bit of a neat freak- when there was movement in his peripherals. His hands shot back into fists at his sides as he glanced over. 

“It wasn’t me,” he said, despite the clear evidence going all the way back to the front door.

@bazlestrange

The Slytherin common room was dim, the light on the walls a combination of sconces and the wavering green waves that came from the wall of glass just across from the fireplace, where the black lake stretched out with all its mystery. Every so often you’d catch an upperclassmen teaching a gaggle of first-years sign language so they could communicate with the mermaids who sometimes swam up to tap the glass. Other times there were study groups, or even wild parties when Slytherin won a quidditch match or a wizard chess tournament. 

Now, however, at 2am on a Wednesday night, everyone with half a brain was in bed. Whether they were asleep was another matter entirely, but the fact was that the common room was empty, so there was no-one on earth to interrupt Lucius or his thousand-yard stare. 

The letter from his parents burned a hole in the couch next to him, but he hadn’t opened it yet, afraid to. That would mean having to confront the whirlwind of emotions beating just behind his ribs, pressing behind his eyes, stabbing each of temples in a rhythm. 

And then someone cleared their throat, and Lucius was pulled from his empty musings with all the grace of being shoved into a freezing-cold lake. 

“I- I’m sorry, what?” he glanced over at the intruder, still blinking away the imprint of the fire behind his eyes.

Rudolphus resisted the urge to tap his fingers against the desk: the clock on the wall had ticked five past. Five past five. Five past when his brother was supposed to be here. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he was disappointed enough to heave a sigh and pull open the desk drawer to the left of him. 

If Rabastian was going to keep him waiting, he might as well get some work done. He methodically placed each different front page draft across the space of the wide oak desk that was the crown of his spacious office, each bearing a slightly different layout for what the next morning’s Prophet would look like. He scowled when he saw that one of Gilderoy Lockhart’s puff pieces had been snuck above the fold on one of the drafts. It was all according to plan, of course; push the gossip columns, the society pages, take people’s minds off of the politics. That didn’t mean that Rudolphus liked having to do so. The Prophet was a propaganda machine, and he ran it well, but one day he’d make it a legitimate business again and be proud to run it. 

He went about with his quill noting changes, striking pictures, resisting the urge to send howlers to his page designers. 

He found himself resisting a lot of things, lately. It was harder to keep his composure as the war escalated, as people tested his patience, as cracks began to spread through the spun-glass image he kept in the back of his mind, of the world he wanted to create. That world couldn’t exist without his younger brother. Of course, their relationship had been... strained, at best, of late. 

It was time to repair that. If, of course, Rabastian ever decided to show up. 

He didn’t glance up when the door swung open, waiting. 

“Mr. Lestrange?” It was his secretary, her blonde hair spelled into a perfectly revolting coiffeur. 

Rudolphus looked over at the clock; it was now twenty past five. 

“Your brother is here, sir.”

He rose from the desk and crossed to the bar cart along the far wall. He poured himself a shot of firewhiskey, downed it, and looked down at the streets below through his window. 

“Send him in.”