#c: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.”

Rabastan, 

My apologies for not writing sooner. It seems as though I had no sooner wrestled you to safety than other elements in my life decided to cause trouble. 

I hope that the program finds you well. Don’t make that face, and don’t deny that you’re making it, if you care to write me back. 

This was the best solution for everyone. Specifically for you, for your continued health and wellness, as well as for my peace of mind. Contrary to appearances you are actually the most important thing in my life. It would cause rather a lot of problems, and not an inconsiderable amount of emotional stress on my part, were you to die.

This incident has forced to reevaluate much of our relationship. In that light, I have taken certain steps so that, moving forward, we can prevent something like this from happening again. 

Firstly, you should know that I will never forgive you for making me watch your cat. He is old and lazy and frequently sits in my lap as soon as I have decided that I need to stand,  making me late for more than one appointment. I have also had to resort to taking him to work with me, for fear that Bella may take out one of her worst impulses on him, and he has positively dominated a good corner of my office, and my best chair. I am currently writing to you from the uncomfortable chair I keep for those who displease me, and your cat looks absolutely unrepentant. I’m not sure what I expected from the beast, but it wasn’t this level of entitlement. 

Second, in anticipation of you taking him back when you return, I have purchased a kneazle kitten for you. I doubt St. Paul has many years left in him, and you could use something young and energetic to take up your time and keep you from descending into dark thoughts. One of the medi-witches overseeing your case told me that animals can be crucial to maintaining good mental health, so I have acted on her advice without consulting you. You have a kitten now, and you cannot return him. 

(Bastille, I swear on the Virgin Mary that if you do not burn this letter immediately, or share this confession with anyone, I won’t give you St. Paul back...)

Thirdly, I have also gotten a kneazle. Specifically, the mother of your kitten, as I have hardly the time or energy to look after a baby. She is La Belle Madonna, and I blame you entirely for her presence in my house. I confess she was impulse purchase, when I realized how much I will miss your fuzzy orange demon, and I am still unhappy at finding myself both susceptible to impulse and small fuzzy animals, both weaknesses which I did not believe I suffered from.

Lastly, I have taken it upon myself to institute a new family tradition. We are the legacy of the Lestrange family, and it is time we started acting as a united front. You, Bellatrix, and I, will therefore have dinner together once a month. This is non-negotiable, and in addition to the weekly meetings I’ve already set up with your psychiatrist for you.

with love, 

Rodolphus