#ralestrange

Dated: 9 April, 1979 Location: Various

5am.

An alarm bell sounded from the end of a wand, Barty silencing it after a beat with a short wave. Tremblay Manor was quiet, the only interruption the steady singing of a bird outside. The sun was still sleeping as Barty made his way to the pitch, body moving automatically, each movement filled not with passion but instead structure and order as he began to run. When he showered he didn’t shy away from the icy stream of water, allowing it to numb his skin.  

6am.

Sitting at his desk by a window with a strong cup of coffee in hand, the sun began to rise in the window. It was beautiful but Barty didn’t notice. On the desk were several orderly stacks of notes and at the front of the spotless surface an organized itinerary for his day, each hour carefully noted and accounted for. To the side, an ancient tomb older than the rest lay open, borrowed earlier that week from the library that Marceaux had showed him. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a spider, spindly legs making their way across the windowsill. With a flick of his wand the creature froze and then began to contort in pain, each movement at the whim of the wizard. He took another sip of coffee, enjoying the game for another few seconds before growing bored. The spider didn’t move again.

8am.

Barty walked into the Great Hall just as mail was beginning to be delivered. He didn’t raise his eyes or look for his owl— he wasn’t expecting anything from home. Instead he passed by the Slytherin table first to drop off a book that Narcissa had left at the Manor the other evening, lingering just long enough to earn a sharp glance from Rosalind that he matched with a quip. When he returned to the opposite side of the hall he took a seat at the end of the Ravenclaw table alone, notes for tomorrow’s debate in hand. His lips moved silently over the argument, meal in front of him barely touched. When a group of students from Slug Club passed they called out his name and Barty lifted his chin with a short wave, manifesting a smile on his lips like a clown with a paintbrush. Fucking idiots.

9am.

Charms: Advanced Behavioral Charms. Barty sat at the front of the classroom. He knew the spells they were covering but his hand took notes automatically, brow narrowed in concentration. He rolled his eyes at the sound of a witch murmuring to another classmate about their plans for that night, eyes lifting expectantly as if waiting for the professor to call them out. He gripped his quill in muted annoyance. Of course Flitwick didn’t notice. He imagined squeezing her throat until she stopped and this brought the first genuine smile of the day to his lips.

11am.

Defensive Magic: Curses, Jinxes, & Hexes. Barty turned to his partner, forcing himself to remain silent as he watched the wizard’s sloppy wand-work. The man continued to ramble on lightheartedly about the last Puddlemere match and Barty laughed as if it came easily to him. The wizard’s mother worked alongside his father in the Council of Magical Law and he felt the weight of those invisible eyes heavy on the back of his neck. Barty adjusted his grip on his wand, using the quick movement to silently adjust the incorrect marks on the paper they were set to turn in together. Better.

1pm.

While the school rushed to the Great Hall for their lunch hour, Barty waited outside of Flitwick’s office with a mock schedule in hand for his proposed courses the following year. In his mind the meeting was merely a formality, more for the professor’s sake than his own. Barty had planned out the majority of his three years at Hogwarts while he was still at Cambridge. He remembered sitting next to Pandora in the study at his home, mapping out each year while she played piano, light and sweet. It felt like a lifetime ago.

2pm.

Barty found Frank Longbottom in the library with a fabricated expression of friendly surprise. He knew he would be here: he had memorized the other wizard’s schedule carefully. Positioning himself at the former Head Boy’s side, Barty began to work on an essay, not unusual for the pair. When he shared his pot of ink with the older wizard he offered a smile that he had seen the wizard give him hundreds of times before. It was carefully rehearsed and unassuming, nearly perfect by now. He felt a muted swell of satisfaction and continued on with his work, idly wondering what it would take to strip the other man of that grin. 

3pm.

Charms Club. Barty had long-since bored of the club and Gawain Robards’ voice. As a second year now they had taken to pairing him with some of the newer members and his patience was steadily growing thin. He was better than this club— better than this school. His knee bounced in his seat and he counted the seconds as they dragged on. 

4pm.

Dressed neatly in his uniform Barty stood at the edge of the pitch, watching as his team members slowly arrived. Hollie was late – again. There was a weight to his limbs that he refused to acknowledge. Eyes narrowed he scanned the group of girls, counting that they were all in attendance before raising his voice. Practice always started with a measured number of stretches. He wouldn’t risk any injuries if he could help it. There was nothing that would throw them off from their path to the Quidditch Cup faster than being down a member and losing wasn’t an option. 

6pm.

Barty stilled as he passed by Wimbourne House on his way home, eyes lifting to the top of the hill by habit now. He wondered if Vivian was inside, glancing to the window as if waiting to see her silhouette there. Barty’s gaze dropped as the Head Girl existed the house instead and the wizard quickly plastered on the same false smile from before with a short wave. It came with more difficulty this time. 

7pm.

Dinner with the Warlocks Junior Chapter. He had begun to wonder if Lucius’ hair products had started to effect his brain. An older wizard turned to Barty with a question and his smile lifted before stilling just as quickly on his face. A request for his father. Of course. His jaw hardened and he continued on unaffected. Allowing to drift his gaze across the table in search for a distraction he locked eyes with Aiden, holding the glance for a beat too long for anyone who might have been looking. Later, maybe. 

9pm. 

Barty leaned back against the base of a tree, his wand resting in his hand as he guided the blaze of an enchanted fire to the left and then to the right, idly bending it to his will. The spot that Rabastan had found to camp was quiet, a secluded valley nestled deep in the Highlands. There wasn’t any need for protective wards or charms, the nearest village not reachable by foot. And yet silently, the wizard longed for an unsuspecting someone to stumble upon the small clearing alone. His eyes fell on a droplet of blood lingering on the back of his hand and he didn’t rush to clean it.

“So, you’re really not coming back?”

Finally free from the tension at her table and the bizarre warnings from Fenrir, Amelia was hoping she could sit in peace for a while. They'd started the dancing portion of the evening and she felt no need to make awkward small talk while attempting to avoid getting her toes stepped on or having someone stare down her dress -- not that there was much to see there. The point was, a little solitude, people watching, and some wine were necessary if she was going to make it all the way through this party. 

After getting the wine, she moved across the room and took a seat at an empty table and hoped that all it's original occupants would be having too much fun dancing the night away to request their chair back. Amelia picked up the place-card in front of her to see who's seat she'd commandeered. "Rabastan Lestrange... hmmm, probably not a dancer..." Odds were good she was going to have to move.