#rodolphusx

There was a wall in Mary MacDonald’s office at the Ministry that people tended to take notice of upon entering. It was covered in things like Daily Prophet articles and wanted posters with messily written sticky notes and colored strings tacked on. In the center of it all there were four moving photographs of four different subjects.

All were Death Eaters.

Given that she was head of the Investigation Department, it was rarely ever questioned. After all, if you made a living out of tracking down dark wizards why wouldn’t you have a bulletin board dedicated to information you had gathered on them? But once every blue moon a curious soul would ask the obvious question: why those four? Were they particularly dangerous? Were they privy to information that the Ministry needed? What set them apart?

The answer was simple: personal vendetta.

She hated those on the wall above all else. They were the ones she would focus most of her attention on whenever there was a lull in the work day, a spare moment to take advantage of. They were the four that had caused the most damage to her and her friend’s lives, and for that they had earned a place in what one may justifiably claim to be a hit list. Unfortunately, following the start of the Second Wizarding War and the mass breakout from Azkaban, they also seemed to be the four most elusive ones. Mary felt no greater frustration than on those days when she would glance at their photographs and realize she wasn’t any closer to finding them than she had been a week ago.

The end of the Second Wizarding War brought about a dramatic change to the wall’s content. In between all the grief and anger and self-loathing she battled with after suffering yet another wave of heavy losses, she managed to take notice of one thing: three of the four were no longer issues; they were now either dead or had been imprisoned again.

Only one remained.

——-

Lodge Hill. What the hell would the Lestrange brothers be doing here?

Lips pursed, Mary walked alongside her partner, wands at the ready. Technically, this wasn’t their job. Tracking Death Eater’s whereabouts and informing Aurors about it was more along the lines of their actual purpose, making for few field assignments over the years, but the Ministry was overwhelmed at the moment, struggling to repair the damage Voldemort and his followers had caused, and it wasn’t as if their training hadn’t involved roughly the same caliber of intensity as the Aurors. It had been hell, that was for sure. She had scraped up the necessary marks in school to qualify, but had initially lacked the ambition and total focus the training required. Skivving off at Hogwarts so often had done her no favors in that respect. But she had managed to redeem herself in the eyes of her superiors near the end of the program, scoring a job in the department. It had served as a good outlet for her frustrations and she had come out of it a stronger witch, something she could be grateful for.

They trekked through the familiar territory, more so familiar to her for its proximity to a certain graveyard, wary eyes scouring the land for any sign of the dubious pair.

"Are you sure you got the right place? What would the Lestranges be doing here?" she asked doubtfully, glancing over at the man on her right.

"Positive," he assured her. "And beats me. Perhaps they’re here to pay their respects."

Mary shook her head at his wry smile. Right. “I reckon that’d require some form of a conscience. Oh, but who knows? Maybe them torturing the Longbottoms into insanity was just a fluke. Maybe they’ve changed.”

He snorted at the blatant bitterness in her tone. “There’s a better chance of the Chudley Cannons winning a game this year. Hey, d’you reckon —”

It happened in an instant. There was a flash of red light, a loud crack, and her partner was on the ground, out cold. Mary whipped around to catch sight of Rabastan Lestrange and quickly deflected a hex. The controlled approach he exhibited in their schooldays still appeared to be intact, as he dealt out precise curses with a cool and rigid air about him. Their spells painted the afternoon sky a multitude of colors, neither one of them seeming willing to surrender even as they suffered gashes on their arms and legs as a result. She felt a a stab of pain shoot across her temple and retaliated with a hex that made him stumble for just a fraction of a second. It was all she needed. "Petrificus totalus!"

Rabastan’s body went stiff and collapsed with a loud thud. Breathing heavily, Mary conjured up further restraints for him, holding her injured side. Her partner appeared to be fine, merely stunned. But where was Rodolphus? Why were they even here to begin with? Somewhere so unprotected, so easy to surround, so —-

A look of surprise flashed across her face. Oh, that son of a bitch.

——

He was there. Hovering over her grave as if he had any right to. Oblivious to everything as if he deserved this moment of peace, as if it was his moment.

How fucking dare he?

Seething, she made her way over to him, purposely stepping on a stray stick on the ground to catch his attention. She wouldn’t curse him behind his back. And it had nothing to do with a sense of fair play or sportsmanship, oh she was long past that. He would look at her as they fought. He would look at her as she killed him.

Rodolphus looked over his shoulder at the cracking noise, seemingly caught off guard. His eyes darkened when he saw her. “…. MacDonald?”

"Take out your wand, Rodolphus."

" — Mary."

"Take out your wand."

She couldn’t decipher the expression he gave her. Exasperation? Regret? Condescension? The anger was back, pulsing through her veins and clouding her better sense of judgement. She couldn’t care less what he was feeling.

He did as told, gaze never leaving hers. A part of her took into consideration how different he looked now, still maintaining that haughty composure of his, but somehow looking more… defeated. Azkaban? Losing the war? Losing his wife? As far as she was concerned none of it had been nearly enough.

"I was just here to — "

"I know why you’re here.”

She didn’t need to glance at the gravestone to know whose it was. She’d been here too many times for that.

                                                     C H A R I T Y  B U R B A G E

She let out a derisive scoff. “As if you even have the right to be here after everything you did.”

Rodolphus’ eyes narrowed. “Don’t pretend for a second that you know what went on between us, that you understand what I have to live with. This doesn’t concern you. You have no idea — or perhaps you do have a vague one. You should understand what it’s like to fall for the entirely wrong person, to not be — “

He let out a sharp cry of pain, a fresh gash appearing on his abdomen.

They would N O T be touching that subject.

Glaring at her, Rodolphus clenched his teeth. His violent streak was still there, that much was obvious. Perhaps more subdued but no less willing to show itself when prompted. “Pick another lie, Rodolphus. You didn’t give a rat’s ass about her.”

That set him off. "I LOVED HER!"

"NO, I LOVED HER. WHO WAS THERE FOR HER WHEN EVERYTHING FELL APART? WHO WAS THERE WHEN SHE CAME BACK FROM YOUR TRIAL IN TEARS? WHO WAS THERE WHEN YOU CHOSE EVERYONE ELSE OVER HER?”

"I DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE!"

"YOU ALWAYS HAVE A CHOICE!"

She hated that excuse. She hated it more than anything else in this world, even more than she hated the broken man before her. It was no excuse. It wasn’t. There was always a choice. And if you didn’t pick the person you loved above all else, if you didn’t think their love to be enough for you, if you willingly chose darkness over them — then you didn’t love them. Simple as that. Because you don’t d e s t r o y the person you love.

He finally snapped, shooting an angry curse at her. She narrowly avoided it, still caught up in the reverie of emotions, and dealt out a flurry of heated hexes. He was older and had been trained in the Dark Arts by Voldemort himself, but had spent fifteen years in Azkaban without access to magic. She was younger and less experienced with the more powerful spells, but had spent those fifteen years training. All things considered, it was a fairly even match.

It was harsh and violent, both parties determined, both parties e m o t i o n a l. And it showed in their wandwork, their precision lacking but their intent deadly. She wanted him to pay for what he had done to Charity, for standing there with the nerve to claim he had loved her, that he had to live with what he did.

                                                                     G O O D

The idea of Rodolphus Lestrange having to face himself pleased her more than any other punishment a Dementor could give.

There was a loud outburst of light and noise as two of their hexes collided, and for a single moment he appeared to have gained the upper hand. Her wrist didn’t flick quickly enough, her incantation had been delayed just a second too long, factors that were too damning in such a close match. Rodolphus glowered at her and roared, “AVADA — “

Another burst of light shot out from behind her, striking Rodolphus across the chest. He stumbled to the ground and Mary saw her partner leaning up against a tree, wand pointed at the fallen man and chest heaving. “You… you alright, MacDonald?”

She didn’t say anything. Her heart was pounding, her nerves were on fire, her wand hand was twitching with adrenaline. It took something of an effort to get her to make her way over to Rodolphus and raise her wand to conjure up the necessary restraints.

But then he said something. He said something that caught her more by surprise than any attempt at making amends with her deceased friend had, something that she never would’ve expected to come out of his mouth.