inlimis.

inlimis @ 2008-02-09T03:22:00

2008-02-09T02:24:09Z

Miss Chevallier,

I'm sure your father has made you aware of our arrangement. Would you like to schedule a meeting, discuss the details of what you'd like to see at the wedding? Over dinner, perhaps. I suspect a woman such as yourself has a list of those sort of things. Do let me know.

inlimis @ 2008-02-03T23:24:00

2008-02-03T23:45:56Z

Dearest Narcissa,

I do hope you are well. It has been too long since I took the time to send you an owl and I apologise most sincerely.

There is in actual fact a point to this note - would you like to spend an evening at Black Manor? Mother and father are quite busy at present, but the gardens are there to be enjoyed and we are to have a small picnic down by the lake Friday next. Of course, Lucius is invited too, and we all hope you will both come.

Honestly though, 'Cissa, are you well? I have not seen you in what seems like an age, and times being such as they are I worry. Of course, I'm sure Lucius is doing a sterling job looking after you - you must forgive your little cousin his worries.

Yours,

Regulus

inlimis @ 2008-01-20T07:09:00

2008-01-20T06:16:22Z

characters Sirius Black, Cygnus Black
setting Cygnus' home, France
description Sirius needs more than just a little warming up. ;) (Gia and I are only having some fun with this because we're both in desperate need of some slash!)

Sirius attempt at running away failed, and rather miserably so. Of course, if asked, Sirius would deny the idea in its entirety and instead exclaim it was his idea of an adventure. An adventure gone wrong. No lunch was packed, his shoes were forgotten, and by the time Sirius managed to make his way back to his Uncle's home, the clothes worn were thoroughly soaked through. Who thought of checking the weather before heading out? No one, not one in the right mind anyway, and so the rain came as a surprise. As did the hail and wind that followed.

The warmth of the entry hall, once Sirius had slipped inside, was a welcomed one. He sighed and contentedly rested back against the door, forming a puddle of water down at his feet as he began the long task of dripping dry. It was a quiet moment where Sirius began to relax before suddenly deciding to call out -- if his uncle was around, he'd be sure to get spoiled. A hot chocolate, warm blanket, and some fussing would do any boy good. "Uncle! Uncle Cy!"

inlimis @ 2008-01-20T01:35:00

2008-01-20T01:49:13Z

Dear ~~Sirius~~ Mr. Black,

~~Alphard~~ Your recent hospitalization has been brought to my attention. ~~I apologize for not~~ ~~I hope you are not gra~~ What is the severity of your condition?

As a benefactor of the hospital, it is in my power to improve the quality of your stay; if you require anything, do let me know.

With regards,

inlimis @ 2008-01-15T21:27:00

2008-01-15T21:32:58Z

WHO: Rabastan and Rodolphus.
WHAT: A follow-up to their last affectionate encounter.
WHERE: A Lestrange townhouse, London.
WHEN: Mid-1973.

Three months, Rodolphus had told his brother.

It was not in the way of that eldest son to make estimations about anything— distance, reactions, mathematics, time, however simple or elaborate— that was far from the truth. But on that particular day that he and Rabastan traded heated insults, with the issue of his schedule in mind, his words had differed from the facts by an additional two and a half weeks; an extremely odd thing, for him, yet there had been no air of concern over his prolonged absence. No concerned whispers or perplexed frowns; and no inquiries that may have been answered by anything more than a curt assurance from Gaultier that his son was dealing with an overseas business transaction. Few details asked for, no details given. Apparently the need for Rodolphus had been grave indeed, and none of his family’s properties had yet been given the honour of receiving him.

Until one evening. Finally.

He didn’t carry a suitcase. That was the first physical oddity— rushing through the door of his father’s lesser-used London townhouse, there was no baggage for Rodolphus to carry with him in either hand. He walked briskly through the entryway of the empty two-story, black hood settled over his head, seemingly to battle the rough weather of the thick midnight, with an angry backward kick sending the door slamming shut. A full eight strides did he take, long-legged and sharp to take him through the darkened foyer, before he stumbled. Were it another person, it may have not have been out of the ordinary; but for Rodolphus, even something as slight as a mis-step was alien. An oddity. A rarity. A thing that’d cause an uncomfortable hush in a crowded room of familiar faces. An obvious piece of evidence that something was wrong.

He leaned one hand against the side of the room’s archway, steadying himself with that quick, stiff reach— and after ripping the fabric from off his face, glistening with sweat along the brow, Rodolphus tilted his head back and grimaced. His eyes closed, his nose wrinkled, his lips stretched into a strong sneer, and when he began to walk in his dignified strut toward the kitchen at last, he left a handprint on the wall-paper and a dripping path at his heels, which in the moonlight, shone black and ominous.

The kitchen was empty; there were no house-elves for him to have grunted at, and while they may have been a help in such a situation, the prideful soul in Rodolphus was relieved to know that he was alone. Collapsing wasn’t an option, although his feet began to drag along the floor the nearer he fought to get to the sink; and after a second, lengthy pause, he began to diligently tear at his cloak, undoing it and bleeding on it wealthily with his left hand. He dropped it when he could, unworried, then fought for the black vest on black buttoned-shirt that was underneath; and rather than remove the garments entirely, he simply shook his left arm out of the sleeves and peered at his damage in the dim light. The pain was enough to make the stubborn Rodolphus bow his head and kick wildly at the sink’s lower cabinets so hard as to cause a dent in the wood; for in the flesh of his upper-arm, and along the side of his abdomen, was a violent patch of four bleeding burn-like wounds.

He didn’t care for artificial light; tired as he was, dishevelled as he was. Uncharacteristically, the hair on his head looked damp and almost unkempt— almost, but not quite. Lagging backward steps took him to a chair, and the limp landing on that caused an abnormally enraged Rodolphus to scowl a second time, and growl. Slowly, his right hand, his unhurt hand, pulled his wand out of the pocket of his slacks and settled on the edge of the table beside him; and as he fought off any urge to let his straight posture slacken, he studied the middle digit of that hand that was tellingly missing a band. He forced his aching left arm back into his blood-wet sleeve, and seemed to wait.

“Come on, Father,” Rodolphus hissed through grinding teeth. “Hurry up.”

It was the brother, not the father, who answered the rough-voiced summons.

Tense silence had settled upon the house, previously disturbed by Rodolphus' staggered entrance and now broken only by his hissed breathing. As he waited, it seemed as though the very foundations of the building joined him, the absence of the creaks and groans of old wood and stone indicative of some expectancy, a holding of breath until the second arrived.

And suddenly, as the minutes continued to stretch into the thick night, there it was -- the crack of a hurried apparation, a calling-card that was deafening in this unused residence, accompanied by the thud-thud of feet as they took two steps, bringing their owner closer to a wall that bore the most disturbing of impressions. Indeed, this was Rabastan, the unasked-for brother, dressed for an evening of entertainment, but with none of the mirth associated with the comfort of loose pursestrings and even looser women evident on his face.

Even in the near darkness of the foyer, the handprint's ink was easy to discern. Blood: and there was more of it, dripped across the floor like a scarlet trail of crumbs. Having tilted his head to follow its path with eyes widened against the lack of light, Rabastan did not even pause before walking with wide, floor-consuming steps through the hall and into the kitchen. The sight that greeted him there was one that did, for the briefest of seconds, hold him frozen in place, with only his gaze tearing away from the blood and the clothes discarded on the floor and fixing itself on Rodolphus.

Then, a single question, blithe words spoken in a forced voice, was directed his way: "You rang?" accompanied by a gesture: a raised hand, upon which a simple band of metal encircled his index finger. This simple object was the reason Rabastan had come here, having burned white-hot to warn its bearer that something was amiss with the one who wore its duplicate. Actually locating Rodolphus took more effort -- Rabastan had searched two other properties before this one, fighting a twisting in his gut that he knew was a panic that grew as his brother remained elsewhere -- and now, Rodolphus found, the fear first quickened by the sight of his blood was pushed away, to be ignored as well as he could as he approached him.

The clap of an apparition was recognised instantly by the eldest Lestrange, through the mist growing ever-so thicker and thicker about his mind as each minutes passed— and while his face no longer took well to emoting the softer things, for his jaw had a shape that gave it a look of being perpetually tightened, and his eyes took to a half-squint at rest as if in some form of barely restrained distaste, there was a great loosening in the skin above his eyebrows. His frown, the result of his hearty attempt at concentrating on the wall-space opposite him, had responsively been cleaned away in a sudden excursion of relief. For surely, with his father having arrived, Rodolphus’ current situation was sure to be remedied faster; and that part of him that kept him upright and fully conscious despite his blood-loss and his wounds, all those mental walls built in the honour of self-preservation, would sooner be able to depart and rest.

You rang?— But that wasn’t Gaultier’s voice, and as Rodolphus’ head turned to the side, he saw that it was not Gaultier’s face either.

At first, his younger brother’s presence was given the appreciation of an eerie silence. And then Rodolphus’ back slumped against the backrest of his chair, sudden enough to make it rather clear that it had been an accident as much as his near-tumble in the foyer. Quickly though, one bloody-stained hand pulled the hanging collar of his dampened shirt further across his chest— hiding any spurts of blood under the black of his garment’s fabric— and his other raised his wand. It was a disapproving flick that brought it pointed toward his brother, not a threatening flick; no fear of hexes might this gesture have inspired in his brother, not with the way he seemed to have trouble keeping his arm raised and straight, but there was something aggressive about it. Something of volatile temper.

It wasn’t a common thing to see Rodolphus lose his temper. He considered it an overwhelming weakness, one’s not being able to control themselves— to him, it was the most destructive sort of clumsiness. It’s what made him feel an unspoken superiority over other people, this outlook and restraint, but with the all-consuming dripping of his blood from the corner of his chair to the floor echoing in his ears, it seemed some of that iron suppression was buckling. In his voice was an unprovoked tension, but with his fatigue delivered hand-in-hand with it, the resonance was turned less harsh and more exhausted.

“Rabastan? No— no, not now, please,” said Rodolphus, steadfastly. Angrily. A speck of white in the shadow about his face hinted at the peeved baring of teeth as he had spoken. Regardless of if Rabastan’s eyes had adjusted to the light enough to see him do it, his head insistently shook, and he wagged his wand toward the door, like a father trying his best to dismiss his child from the room. “You aren’t supposed to be here— go home. The ring wasn’t meant to alert you.”

Rodolphus’ head tipped back, in either weariness or frustration, before he was able to continue on. He took a moment, leaning his elbow on the edge of the tabletop beside him, and not allowing himself to cringe in front of his sibling as he did so, despite his immediate impulse to do just that. Speaking through his grinding teeth, as evenly as he could, he said: “Back to your tea-party, Rabastan. Your father”— there was no pained groan here, but there was an abrupt silence, that with Rodolphus’ typical speech rhythms, should not have been there— “ought to be here soon.”

inlimis @ 2008-01-13T10:24:00

2008-01-13T15:25:35Z

characters: Priam Parkinson and Alecto Carrow
setting: Hogwarts, starting at the Great Hall
description: A case of mistaken identity goes too far
date: December, 1974

The Great Hall was abuzz with the continuous drone of student voices as various groups were huddled in random clusters all around the long tables, discussing homework assignments, the latest Quidditch match, or whatever mundane event that was taking place that the students happened to find particularly exciting. In her three years at Hogwarts so far, Alecto found it fortunate that she had learned how to shut off their nonconstructive babble when she required it, and today was one of those days.

On thie particular afternoon, the girl was sitting down the far end of one table on her own, working on an assignment for Professor Slughorn, although rather than merely researching about the ingredients for a proposed potion, the girl also went ahead and made a prototype of sorts. Not that she had anything better to do in her spare time anyway, and so absorbed was she in her books that she did not even notice the dark shadow that loomed over her until its owner addressed her.

"A petrifying potion?" A fifth year Slytherin sat down next to her.

"it's for an assignment," remarked Alecto simply. She did not glance up to acknowledge the speaker until she had finished writing down her current sentence. "What business is it of yours?"

The blonde girl shrugged. "Am I not allowed to ask? I might as well talk to someone while I wait for my study group to arrive, after all." Despite the fact that Alecto was also in the Slytherin House, she did not know many of her Housemates by name, although she did recognise the face. Judging by her well-defined features and dress, the odds are that this particular Housemate of hers came from a relatively wealthy upbringing were pretty high.

"Can I see it?" asked the girl again, drawing Alecto from her thoughts.

"Sure," she replied, although a little reluctantly. "Just don't fiddle around with it too much. The concoction doesn't favour being shaken."

"Right." The older Slytherin handled the bottle gingerly. "What does it do?"

"It strengthens items from breaking. I find that it works particularly well with wood. Keeps them from breaking."

"I see..."

inlimis @ 2008-01-13T01:30:00

2008-01-13T02:28:16Z

TYPE: Group
WHO: Gaultier Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Sabine Lestrange
WHAT: The morning after the night before.
WHERE: The morning room of the Lestrange residence.
WHEN: 1975

Despite the visible fact that she had not slept well the night before, Sabine Lestrange was fully composed as she sat at the small desk in the morning room, with a small glass of water and lemon safely placed so as not to be knocked over easily. Although seemingly serene, she hesitated over the owl that had been awaiting her arrival at her desk, thinking over the night before and the comments her husband had made about her son. Resolutely ignoring the rift between herself and Gaultier.
Succumbing to tears would not help anything.

After a long moment she put the note aside with a sigh. She had not expected Rabastan to announce his arrival, particularly after the argument Gaultier had described the night before. Still, the thought of her favoured son gave her comfort despite the tensions between him and her as-yet unseen husband (in previous years they might have taken breakfast together even after an argument, but that morning Sabine had taken only tea, alone, in a silent breakfast room).

Sabine turned her attention to formal invitations that needed to be declined and replies to letters that needed to be written, and although her mind was not fully on what she wrote, such things had become second nature to her over the years and the required responses came fluidly if without warmth.

inlimis @ 2008-01-12T22:48:00

2008-01-13T00:28:25Z

TYPE: Open
WHO: Bright Young Things (All the eligible younger generation invited - it's up to them whether to turn up or not!)
WHAT: A Party (with capital P) of the alcoholic and rather debauched kind. A rather clandestine affair, in the sense that every young pureblood knows about Evan Rosier's parties but only a relatively select few are invited to attend and know the actual details, and a major source of young pureblood gossip.
WHERE: Evan's London apartments
WHEN: July 4th 1977 (Friday)

Evan Rosier's London apartments were in an area that was discreet if not the height of fashion, and suited him very well. The lower level of the large building where he lived was a marble-floored empty shell easily accessible from the tree-lined street it was set back from but to get to the apartments themselves, any visiting witch or wizard had to first apparate into the hall (or get there via other means) and then coax the second caryatid from the left on the wall to let them through a seemingly walled-off archway and up the stairs to Evan's rooms.

The party was being held on the first floor (with no visible way to get up to the second). The rooms were irregular shapes and all interconnected, and the furnishings were decadently-coloured but tasteful and not overbearing in an apartment in which space was seemingly the major asset.
Guests clustered around tables of drinks, and leant close against the wall talking, and danced to the music that was louder in some rooms and softer in others, all enjoying another of Evan Rosier's scandalous parties and behaving at least slightly disgracefully.

The host himself was sitting on a couch, surveying the room with a quirk of a smile and drinking a glass of enticing golden liquid, shaking his head at offers to dance ("Later darling," he promised, "later.") but passing idle conversation with the purebloods sat around him and other drifting guests who passed his way.

inlimis @ 2008-01-13T00:03:00

2008-01-13T00:08:21Z

WHO: Bellatrix and Rabastan
WHAT: A surprise visit
WHERE: A creepy old house
WHEN: An evening in '76

It was an old house, a thing of shadow and dust. The slanting walls of the hallways bore paintings of figures in antiquated clothing, their faded eyes staring out from beneath layers of grime to follow the progress of the sole occupant, who despite his height and breadth of shoulders moved with care.

It was his mother's house -- or rather, had been some all but forgotten property in the late Madame Lestrange's possession, an unimportant holding fallen into neglect since before even her time. It was worthless, really, the carpets he now walked across worn underfoot from where long-ago inhabitants had tread daily; the yellow sheets thrown across furniture in a futile attempt to ward off the cobwebs and grime threw disquieting shadows across the walls as Rabastan moved from room to room. He moved slowly, with an odd sort of reverence, as though fearful of disturbing the very dust. No doubt Maman had spent very little, if any, time in this place, but as a newly installed Monsieur Rodolphus Lestrange had sentenced a good bulk of their mother's memorabilia to an eternity of neglect in boxes, Rabastan was unwilling to change anything, as though allowing the house to continue in its decay would keep him close to his mother. And like the Madame had, it offered him protection, serving, as it did now, as a safe-house he retired to after carrying out the Dark Lord's bidding.

Shadows and dust; they suited him fine.

The apparition from London had been quick and painless, a knitting of eyebrows as he snapped out of sight the only indication of any strain. The few years of duty to the great cause had added a hardness to his face, replaced the feverish abandon of his adolescence with the elegantly brutal features of his adulthood, and while the temper remained, it was well harnessed -- for the most part. He rarely lost complete control of it, but the inclination toward violence was already rather famous and served him well in his tasks, where he'd merely need to hint at encroaching fury to subdue the enemy. Allowing it to take over was exhausting and while he'd only worked up a light sweat during tonight's errand, a sort of pleasant weariness crept through him, and so he'd left the scene and immediately appeared in his mother's house.

Now he found himself pacing through the forgotten rooms, at ease in his solitude, rooting through boxes, moving slowly through the darkness with only the illumination of his wand as a guide. A lamp would chase the gloom away far better than any wand's weak gleam of light, but the flickering would be visible through the cracks of the curtains -- and Rabastan was loath to let the world outside know he was there.

But -- something was wrong. A creaking sound: low, quiet, but reverberating violently in the silence. Rabastan immediately recognised it as the creaking of the sixth step of the staircase.

He was no longer alone.

The stair creaked – and the silence grew once more. Several moments went by, that groaning interruption disappearing within the dusty tomb of a house...

...And then all at once there was the thud of footsteps landing at the base of the stairway, the wearer of those boots having apparently jumped the last few feet over the rail and into the room. Said wearer was easy enough to identify, from the mussed piling of her black hair and the fiery crackle of her blue eyes, and yet – as familiar as she was, there was change yet – a darkened quality that ringed her eyes, and a certain sharpness to her features that came from a lack of proper nutrition. Perhaps more noticeable, however, was the streak of red that tore across her left shoulder and partially to her chest, the fabric of her robes torn asunder and pale, pained flesh gashed open for all to see.

If there were more injuries they were not visible, not in the shadowed hours of the lit candles, but it was hard to miss the fact that Bellatrix’s wand was leveled at the ready, straight at Rabastan. For a moment, it looked as though the ferocious woman would cast a spell at her recently deemed brother-in-law, the beginnings of: “Ava— “ beginning, but not finished. Familiarity flared in her eyes, and her would-be curse halted, but her wand remained up and ready should he attack her in his surprise.

The tableau was broken by Rabastan, who moved not to defend himself, but rather to sweep his wand in an arc. Candles came to life in its wake, and as the much needed light filled the room, Rabastan let his arm fall naturally down -- a stupid move that would leave most defenseless against Bellatrix and her frightening speed, but served to assure her that his surprise at her presence would not be a factor in anything he aimed her way. His wand fit comfortably in his grasp, nervous energy causing his fingers to tighten around the familiar wood, yet he stayed his hand, remained still.

"What a pleasure." The words dropped from his lips in a flat intonation, making his displeasure at her grand entrance all too obvious. A quick once-over, eyes sweeping over his sister-in-law's appearance, noting naked flesh, and then he spoke again. "I didn't hear you knock."

This house -- this old, neglected structure -- spoke with the dry creaks and low groans of the aged; and yet, for all of its disarray and neglect, and for all its mounds of cobwebs and suffocating dust, there was new life brought to it with the burst of light, and the pregnant pause that followed as brother and sister-in-law leveled their wands. Bellatrix, with her head lowered to make her frenzied eyes stare up through inky lashes, regarded her recently adopted kinsman, holding the offensive position even after his identity was revealed. There was yet a trace of suspicion -- some might say paranoia. And yet his words must have reassured her of his person, for gradually Bellatrix lowered her wand and, after one last case of hesitation, slipped it into her belt.

“You did not hear me knock,” Bellatrix returned with her usual venom, “Because there was no knock issued. I have been here for the past hour, regaining...”

Regaining her strength? Surely she would not admit thus.

Ending her words prematurely, the tall witch instead placed a hand to the wall -- a gesture that might usually be deemed casual, were it not for the tremble of her fingers and the added paleness of her flesh which indicated blood loss. Her shoulders sagged once, only to be sharply pulled back again. Rather than continue to look at Rabastan, Bellatrix’s eyes turned away to examine this musty place, and while her features remained sour, there was something akin to remembrance in her eyes -- some childhood memory, perhaps, of taunts and goading, to see who would stay the longest in the old Lestrange house. She could not help but smirk.

“Caradoc Dearborn is dead.” The words come with much distraction.

Of all women, Rabastan distrusted her the most. Bellatrix had been the focus of his study before his brother first showed any interest -- romantic or otherwise -- in her, her flair as an eight-year old for tormenting the twins inciting Rabastan to watch her hawkishly from the relative safety of his mother's lap. Growing up, their squabbles escalated in ferocity as he learned to watch for the signs of encroaching fury: the hint of some mad violence that flashed in her eyes, her reddening cheeks and shaking voice -- he knew them, and knew them well, entirely aware that he had his own particular knack for tormenting her.

Bellatrix smirked, but Rabastan looked past it, saw her sagging posture, heard the labored breathing behind the venomous words. As she examined their drear surroundings, he examined her, faintly curious as to why she'd made the decision to seek respite here, of all places, but delaying the questioning demands until she was no longer in danger of collapsing on his floor. "Good," was his careless reply. Then, as he firmly took her arm: "Dinner?" The kitchen was across the hall; there, water could be heated and compresses applied to the injuries that bled so freely.

If there was any doubt about Bellatrix’s weakened condition, it was affirmed by her reaction to his aid. Where there would usually be a rally of snapped words and physical resistance, there is now only a disapproving glare -- some might say renewed suspicion -- and a tensing of her arm that is now secured in his hand. But eventually both look and body relaxed, and the young woman eased into a humoring air, as if she were the one allowing him to escort her to the kitchen as benignly as a lady might a gentleman. Of course, neither title would suit either individual overly well.

“Dinner?” Bellatrix mumbled distractedly, another sign of her wellbeing –- or lack thereof –- until she lifted her other hand in a bland gesture that signaled her dispassion at the suggestion. “Bourbon, I think -- if you even have anything in this house that isn’t covered in dust or cobweb.” To emphasize her point, Bellatrix reached out to let her fingertips fall against the wall and drag there as she walked, so that by the time they entered the kitchen she could lift her hand for his inspection. “Disgusting,” she noted, judgmental even in her state; in a state that caused her weight to gradually sag against his side; and state which caused her usually poised steps to falter and shuffle.

She seemed not to notice her clumsy wobbles as she eyed her surroundings with a certain somberness –- a somberness that eventually lightened as her head swung over to regard Rabastan. There was something in her eyes, something disconcerting, as though she expected to find something presented there -- something just below the surface...

...But in the end she just sniffed and looked away. “Do you waste enough of your money that you cannot find a house elf to manage your household? Heaven forbid you do your family the courtesy of finding a wife.”

As he half-led, half-carried Bellatrix -- for indeed, she'd drooped so noticeably against him that his immediate reaction was to enclose a broad arm around her waist, supporting her tall unsteady frame as they passed through the hallway and into the kitchen -- Rabastan remained unmoved by her barbed comments. There would be time for vicious exchanges later: now, preoccupied with her deteriorating state, he ignored her. The filthy hand she thrust out for his inspection: he pushed it away, then, lights flaring to life as the pair staggered in, led her into the unused kitchen.

"Sit." The command was sternly issued, for he would allow no waspish complaint from her as he kicked out a chair from under the table and then pressed her down on it. Now, relieved of her weight -- weight, he noted, that had melted away; no doubt from too many tasks and too little rest -- he pushed back his sleeves, and, pausing for a short moment, looked fixedly down at her, as though to ensure that she wouldn't just slide weakly to the ground.

A twitch of his wand caused a spark to erupt within the hearth. As the flames leapt doggedly higher, pushing away the gloomy darkness, Rabastan reached down to tug, once, at the torn and drooping collar of her robes, under which the laceration was clearly visible. "Let me see," he said. Another tug.

Bellatrix’s dirty hand, thus brushed aside, found Rabastan’s shoulder where she casually wiped the dusty grime off. It left a smear of grey upon his fine robes –- not that she had enough interest to look –- until her hand fell limply once more. The longer they walked, the more pressure was applied upon his side and arm -– her figure, usually so rigid and proud –- began to gradually hunch; her head tipped to the side to drop against his shoulder, though the sudden contact was enough for it to spring up soon after. Upon being placed in the chair, her arm was weakly laid over the edge of the nearby table, and her chin lifted so as to stare up at him through darkened lashes.

His hand reached for her collar and tore. He reached again, and this time her pale hand exuded the last of its quickness –- this time in gripping his wrist to keep him from doing so again. Staring at him –- truly staring at him with nary a hint of emotion in those icy depths of hers – it appeared as though she would fight him in his examination, but slowly -– ever so slowly –- her slender digits uncoiled from his person and she allowed her hand to return to her lap.

She watched him.

“What,” she mused, her tone taking on a distracted, sardonic quality, “—-Not going to offer me the bourbon first? Enjoy this moment, Rabastan –- I have seen you looking at me, watching me ever since we were children.”

The further tearing of her robes displayed the gash in all its grisliness –- having gone untreated, moist blood smeared across her chest and blushed within the wound, with the edges of her torn skin appearing blackened, almost as if having been singed. Her black bustier was yet undamaged, the tip of the cut running just short of its outlined edge, except for the mats of darkened coloring where blood soaked. And yet she paid no attention to it –- despite the pain that must accompany the throbbing gash –- instead staring straight up at Rabastan, her eyes growing with a certain sadistic light.

“If I were to let you,” she continued, her voice dropping in volume but growing in intensity, “I think you would even lay with me -- brother’s wife or no brother’s wife. Perhaps that would be why you’d enjoy it so much –- to finally covet something of Rodolphus’. You would, wouldn’t you little boy?”

For a moment, Rabastan remained quiet and still, staring down at those vivid blues of hers as they glinted with a light he was all too familiar with. The venom glowing in her icy gaze mirrored the hostility in his own eyes, malice and resentment sparking with undisguised intensity -- the only sign of life, the sole hint of a reaction to Bellatrix's words, as his expression had not changed, dark brows and thin lips remaining motionless as the silence following her question -- You would, wouldn't you, little boy? -- stretched out between them. The hand she'd grabbed in a fleetingly iron grip remained poised in the air, fingers outstretched toward the sagging neckline; and then, freed, completed the second tug, sturdy cloth coming apart in a loud rip.

He tossed it aside and finally looked away, attention moving to the gash that stretched across Bellatrix's chest. Again, it seemed as though he would do nothing -- but then his hand, the same she'd gripped, was suddenly pressed against the white skin of her neck, and moving down toward the wound, fingers splayed as if with a lover's greed. Digits brushed over the edge of the bustier, softly; and then his eyes swung back to Bellatrix's as his thumb drug heavily through the torn skin.

"You came to me," he said, watching her face for any change of expression, some sign that he himself was causing her pain. She baited him, and now he wanted to hurt her, even if there was some glimmer of truth to her words; and so he watched her as he prodded the damage, blood oozing out and coating his fingers, the wound pulsatile against his skin.

"You came to me," he repeated, this time with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "They almost get the better of you, and you come to me, in no condition," his tone lowered as he examined his now sticky fingers, "-- to let me do anything."

Now he did laugh -- one short, harsh bark escaped him -- and wiped his fingers on her cheek. "I wouldn't dishonor myself, or my brother, by laying with you, Bellatrix, although I know how much you want me to. Besides, I don't like my women soiled."

Malice and resentment -- oh yes, Bellatrix could see it -- and it only fueled the dimming fire in her clouded eyes. She stared at him, her gaze a mixture of hotness and chill, of sadistic loveliness and anticipation – no with a growing excitement to see what reaction she had managed to goad out of him.

His fingers brushed against the bustier, and yet her attention remained rapt upon his face--

--Until his thumb found her wound, at which point her already heavy lids were jarred with a sharp flutter of her lashes, and a sharp breath was sucked through gritted teeth. Her jaw, already one of the strongest features upon her person, clenched, driving the bone there against her skin; whether its quivering was born from fury or discomfort, it was hard to say. And yet, when her eyelids sluggishly lifted, there was naught but amusement shining in her eyes -- that same mocking appeal that was so typical for her.

“Is that what I did, Rabastan? I came to you?”

It is her turn to laugh, that jarring, harsh melody that is full of nothing but cruel amusement.

“I came here for your house, boy, and nothing more. But oh, you would not disgrace your brother, certainly not -- and yet both of us know differently. I know who you are, Rabastan, I always have -- you are a slave to your passions; hot where your brother is cold, like day and night. I might even understand you more than him...”

The same hand that had grabbed his wrist now lifted to languidly drag a fingertip against the smeared rouge upon her cheek and, while still giving Rabastan that mocking look, parted her pale lips to slip her finger between. The blood was sucked without rush, the corners of her lips already bearing the stain of red, and with a single glimpse of her tongue, the moist finger was slid free and dropped back to the table’s surface. Her wound continued to bleed, now with renewed flow thanks to the man’s thumb -- and after a sluggish look towards it, she slumped her head to her hand and adjusted the wand in her hold.

Suddenly tired, she snapped, “Make yourself useful, Rabastan, or I'll mirror someone who is.”

Her hand tightened about her wand as a foot was forced out to keep herself seated.

"Me."

Bellatrix's perverse display had more of an affect on him than her previous insinuations, her final command almost going unheard as he continued to stare at her, gaze growing greedy and savage -- and then he blinked, an abrupt turn away from her taking him to the kitchen cupboards. To remain where he was, towering over Bellatrix in this uncustomary moment of physical weakness, would lead to disaster; he couldn't trust himself when she taunted him with her words: he wanted to hit her -- to hit her and strike that scornful look from her face. The sharp inhalation of breath he'd caused with his invasive touch was satisfying, but he wanted -- more. More; he was a man who'd always taken what he wanted. But he'd learned a measure of control over the past months, and so he moved away from her, before his temper clouded his reason and made him do something he would likely regret.

He repeated the single word, "Me," continuing, as he opened a bottle-filled cabinet, with: "You came to me. Not Rodolphus; not your sister's husband; not Travers, nor Avery, although either of their houses would've been better prepared to take you in your... state." Bourbon located and in hand, he returned to Bellatrix's side, a glass appearing by her lowered head as he opened the bottle and poured out its contents.

"That," he continued, tone flattening into something more brisk and direct as he gestured at the wound, "-- is that the worst of it? I'll clean it and bind it, but you'll need a proper healer to look at it to avoid scarring." He roughly pushed the glass at Bellatrix, then retrieved his own wand and slid it through his fingers as he looked down at her.

"Undress," he added, and took a seat, waiting.

Undress, he added, and Bellatrix arched a single brow.

“Seeing as you’re not deaf,” Bellatrix replied, her tone airy and impatient with no indication of having heard him, “It can only mean you’re delusional. I told you why I came here...” A harsh exhalation interrupted her words, and her hand extended to grip the edge of the table with enough force to turn her knuckles white. She continued breathlessly and through lightly gritted teeth. “…I came here for your house; it was the perfect place to lie low, and seeing as I didn’t want anyone to follow me to my home. But...”

Her red lips curled up into a mocking grin, “...I am flattered that you would devote such romantic notions towards me, Rabastan, especially since I had no way of knowing you would be visiting here perchance. What a silly, silly boy you are -- but oh so endearing when angry.

She laughed -- panting and cruel, and yet as the ridiculing tune continued to tumble free, the hand gripping the table slid out to flatten her palm against it, and push downward to support her weight. She rose, wobbling at first, and eventually had to turn herself to lean against the edge of the table. Perched there, she turned a nonchalant look toward the younger Lestrange brother, a scoff of a grin still tugging at the corner of her mouth, before trembling fingers flicked the first three buttons of her corset free, allowing the black silk to further part away from her body and expose the pale ravine between her breasts. Her wound was completely visible, though obscured by the large amount of blood that was smeared across her skin.

She stood there, regal as a queen despite her disheveled state, though gradually her vigor began to fade. The faint tremor in her legs grew moreso, and her already drooped lids began to frantically dip and rise. There was an attempt at speech, though the words were muddled and slurred, until finally her legs buckled beneath her and she proceeded to fall forward in a most ladylike swoon.

No doubt, were she more alert, this could be counted as the most humiliating moment of her life. To her credit, an awkward grab at the chair did cause it to tip with her, allowing her aggression to at least fall upon something.

In a petty, childish way, Rabastan took some satisfaction that the vitriol directed at him robbed Bellatrix of her last reserves of strength and sent her falling to the floor. But the sentiment was short-lived and replaced only too suddenly by a rushed fear as he lunged instinctively forward and onto his feet as the regal figure of Bellatrix Black Lestrange crumpled in a faint.

She had fallen forward and he caught her just before she truly met the ground, grabbing her roughly beneath her arms and hoisting her up as though she were a doll. The chair -- how typical of her, to take something else down in her fall -- was given a single hard kick that sent it skidding across the room as he bore her down onto the kitchen table.

"Bellatrix." He slapped her on the side of her face, once, twice, three times in succession, and repeated her name, loudly, in an attempt to bring her back to consciousness. A hissed spell brought a stream of kitchen cloths flying into his hand, and he pressed one against the steadily bleeding gash. "Wake up, Bellatrix."

Pale arms remained limp and loose as Rabastan’s strong hands hooked beneath them, as did the length of her graceful neck which bowed forward amidst the tangle of ebon hair. Aiding the man in no way, she remained as responsive as a doll as she was lifted and lowered upon the table. Her face, now completely ashen and blank in sleep, was turned towards him, her lips parted to take in her unsteady breathing. She looked remarkably peaceful – more peaceful than in waking, at least – with one arm bent beside her head and the other dangling off the table.

Slap! The strike of his hand had enough force to turn her limp face a few inches away, only to have it knocked back in the other direction. It wasn’t until the third hit that her eyelids pinched and her body jolted, and when she opened her eyes again it was with clear disorientation. With her usually piercing eyes then glassy and confused, she brought a hand weakly up to Rabastan’s chest, at which point she hooked her fingers through his collar and gave a soft tug. “I fell, father,” she weakly mumbled, her words incoherently slurred.

With her head sluggishly rolling the other way, she allowed her eyes to drop toward the source of pressure at her chest. She stared blankly at the bloodied mess. “That stain will be a nightmare to get out.”

A skeleton of a smile -- of relief? of amusement at her disorientated and slurred words? -- appeared on his tightly drawn lips as Bellatrix returned to shaky consciousness. He had experienced a moment of unadulterated fear as she lay in a faint beneath him, looking as harmless as all the spineless girls he normally associated with -- and that look, he realized, did not suit her.

"You'll reimburse me," he said, looking away from her face and down to her chest, where blood was seeping into the white cloth he had bundled against the wound. After holding it in place for several minutes, he lifted it to examine the staunch of flow: the pressure had slowed the bleeding, but the gash remained as open and grisly as before. "You fell, yes, on Dearborn's wand," he added as he reached for his own, speaking for the sake of keeping Bellatrix awake as he worked.

Rabastan was no healer, but he'd had his nose broken one too many times and knew enough to keep her stable. Continuing the work she started, he pried apart the sides of her corset, further exposing the wound and the surrounding flesh, fingers carefully peeling away the ends of the cloth. A flourish of his wand and a muttered incantation scourged her skin of the blood that coated it in an awful smear, and a second spell resulted in the formation of a scab -- long and fragile, but adequate until she received proper treatment.

"Bellatrix," he said again, loudly, as though wishing to prevent her from drifting off. He let his wand fall onto the table and reached for the glass he had filled for her minutes ago. "Bourbon," he said, and pressed it into her hand, pushing it up to her lips as he propped up her head.

inlimis @ 2008-01-12T01:33:00

2008-01-12T01:39:15Z

TYPE: 1:1
WHO: Cygnus and Sirius Black
WHAT: Sirius has received a summons.
WHERE: Cygnus' country estate
WHEN: The day after the incident at the bar.

There was no visible sign of change in the household since Regulus' impromptu visit the day before. Silence prevailed; the well-tended grounds lay empty as servants and house elves within carried out the day's tasks. The stillness was typical of Leverer House, and yet, having just apparated into the same hall Regulus had utilized, Cygnus found the silence stifling. Signs of anxiety were scrawled across his features -- although none but those most familiar with the man's mannerisms would be able to see them for what they were -- and he realized that a re-enactment of the meeting he'd had with Regulus, only with Sirius in the place of the younger, would be impossible: Sirius was too restless, filled with a nervous energy that would affect Cygnus' already troubled state.

There was too much on his mind, too many doubts and worries that brought a tightness to his mouth -- and these fears, were they entirely without cause? No, certainly not, for Regulus had had an unexpected effect on his uncle by planting the seed of fear with that one question.

What will happen if..? Regulus wanted to know. What will happen if..?

And 'if,' judging by his young nephew's last letter, had occurred.

It was nearing the hour of Sirius' arrival and with a ghost of a sigh, Cygnus took a seat by the alcove, thin fingers steepled and pressed against his chin as he waited for his nephew.

The country, always so cold. Sirius had decided, in a spur of the moment, that apparating just outside of town and walking the mile or so to his Uncle's home would somehow do him good. Better than arriving early, anyway. With arms tight around his own waist, urging the coat as close as possible to keep all warmth from escaping, Sirius continued.

The walk itself took roughly half an hour, and though Sirius imagined himself being lectured on how long he took to arrive, each step began to slow once Cygnus' home finally came into view. Prolonging the inevitable.

Sirius trudged through what he figured was once a well worn path, guiding himself slowly but surely toward the final obstacle of being free. Uncle Cygnus was the last of the Black family Sirius had yet to distance himself from, though a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach served as enough of a warning: this was no visit of pleasure.

"Uncle," the words were whispered as if they were never meant to be heard yet they announced his arrival.

The whisper was enough to cut through the silence and draw Cygnus from his reverie. Surprise flickered in his eyes as he realized Sirius had walked at least part of the way, instead of appearing within the house with comparative ease; was he trying to stall for time?

No need to give him any grief, he said to himself as he rose to his feet and approached Sirius, reaching out to clap the youth once on the shoulder and direct him out of the hall. Walburga certainly had torn into the boy upon hearing the details of the incident -- and Walburga's rages overshadowed by far whatever Orion might have to say on the subject. As for Regulus, Cygnus couldn't even begin to imagine what sort of confrontation had led to his youngest nephew penning him a letter like that.

"Thank you for visiting, especially on such short notice." Cygnus glanced at Sirius, lowering his head in a degree of a nod as he took in his chilled appearance. "Would you like something warm to drink?"

Am I that flushed? "Yes, thank you. If it's not too much trouble --" Sirius' words ended abruptly as he turned away from his uncle. The house, in which he had only visited once or twice when he was younger, seemed much smaller now. Quiet, peaceful .. none of which Sirius was use to; he did live with Regulus, after all. Lips pursed, Sirius turned his head enough to rub the cold skin of his cheek against the material covering his shoulder, the small hint of a flush now gave way to a much more noticeable pink.

"Uncle." The single word murmured was laced in a dozen emotions, one of which was most definitely fear. If Cygnus had heard (and of course he had, no secrets could be kept in the house of Black) then there would be arguing, yelling, punishment; Sirius had had enough of each already and was dreading what was to come. "I'm sorry." The apology itself was sincere enough, but was given early in hopes of distracting the older man away from his obvious anger.

"Had I known.." I wouldn't have interrupte -- Of course he would! Sirius wouldn't be Sirius if he didn't cause some sort of trouble with the arrangement; the very thought of the Lestrange family related to his own .. Rabastan, his cousin? It was all so disgusting. "I would have left it to Regulus. I wasn't aware." It was a well known fact Sirius was left out of family decisions such as this one, and for good cause. He only hoped, however, that this would excuse him from any further humiliation.

"You weren't aware."

Outwardly, his countenance remained the same, as did his tone as he repeated Sirius' rushed apology. It was strange to think that the willful woman who had given birth to this most impetuous of heirs was the sister of one of the few members of the Black family who was possessed of a distinct lack of a temper. To be sure, it was there, but unlike the screaming Walburga, the moody Orion, Bellatrix with her sudden fits of fury, and indeed, most of the rest of the family -- unlike them, Cygnus was not one to let it take control, preferring instead to deal with unpleasantness in his ever collected, detached manner. He would not argue on the outset of a conversation; he would not raise his voice in a yell without experiencing distaste at his own loss of discipline; and punishment took the form of disappointment rather than a slap.

But even Cygnus had buttons, and as well concealed as they were, they too could be pushed until he finally reached his limit.

Sirius wasn't aware? The apology seemed sincere enough, and he was quite certain that Sirius' parents had berated the boy enough to cover ten more similar incidents, but the plaintive excuse -- that he wasn't aware -- was one that bothered Cygnus to a surprising degree. He remained silent after uttering those words, watching Sirius closely, and then, just as the quiet became uncomfortable, moved forward, again placing a hand on Sirius' shoulder to lead him to his study. It was warm there -- but more importantly, it was private, which was what Cygnus needed before he said what he needed to say.

As he directed a charm toward the fire, causing it to crackle ever more fiercely in the hearth, he directed a mild question at his nephew. "You are, what, sixteen now, Sirius?"

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T20:03:00

2008-01-11T22:51:27Z

TYPE: OWL
WHO: PRIAM PARKINSON, EVAN ROSIER
WHEN: 1977

Parkinson,

Do tell me you haven't forgotten our arrangement? I know very well you slept with the Flint girl, so don't insult me with your faux-innocent face. Was she as bad as she looks?

Pater has some plans for next week, but I thought the first week of July might be a prime time for another fête. It won't be political, and you can bring any woman you like. Even the Flint, loath though I am to say it.

Hoping that you are free from all unnatural diseases,

Thank Merlin these mails don't come with flimsy faces, then. No, she wasn't. You won't believe me when I tell you that she was mind-blowing, among other things, of course. Whoever knew silk can even do that. Never even knew it was that resilient.

Psh, as if parties ever really end with political talk with you. Unless politics have taken the form of uncomfortable closets, darkness, and dozens of unclothed women then perhaps I'll reconsider that belief. But yes, I'll be there and it ought to be good.

Well, how thoughtful.
Wishing that noses, shoes, and heights aren't premonitions of anatomical deformations,

Parkinson,

You're right, I don't believe you - you're a terrible liar, even on parchment. It's why all the women like you in the beginning, after all. Pity sex, how tragic.
If you really want to do things with silk, I suggest you visit Paris some time.

Dear dear Priam, all things are political except when I expressly state they are not, including closets, darkness, and naked woman. When will you learn?~~My closets are not uncomfortable anyway, and you could always use a side room if you were so inclined.~~ Anyway, I know you just like the thrill of the closets. It's all right, I forgive you, we all have our little quirks.

My parties are always good, you must know that by now.

Safe in the knowledge that your lay last night was terrible whilst mine was... not,

Paris has nothing on Flint, love. She's Italian with a German upbringing. Legendary if not phenomenal.

There is nothing remotely political about sex. Especially when they're anonymous, mysterious, and ridiculously pleasurable. However, sex does constitute for a utopian society, if anything.

By good, you ought to mean satisfactory for your guests and not just for yourself.

Pleased in knowing that I had an actual lay last night whilst you had an unbelievably good one in your juvenile fantasies,

Parkinson,

Legendary? I suppose I must take your word for it, but I fear our definitions of legendary are rather different in that case. I'll leave her to you gladly.

Everything is political. Including sex, even if your woman have all those attributes you just listed.

If my guests were not satisfied by my parties, they wouldn't come back. Some are more satisfied than others, it must be said, but still. I cannot help it if some women are fickle and men standoffish, but you know I always do my best to make sure that everyone has a good night.

Smug in both the knowledge that even my right hand would be better than the Flint creature, and the fact that I did in actual fact have a lay far superior to yours,

You don't trust me? That's a big mistake, Rosier.

Not everything is. In fact, politics isn't even politics but a collective term for rich people's selfishness, gluttony, and lust for everything that they have yet to have.

True. I stand corrected.

Pleased by the fact that Flint is not only an awesome lay, doesn't only have the most daunting pair of breasts that I have ever seen, but is also ambidextrous and can therefore perform twice as much and twice as better as your right hand,

Parkinson,

Now now, take a deep breath. I just think you need to... expand your horizons. If you're very good, I'll introduce you to a girl at the party who really knows how to use silk.

Says the man who lusts after women he has not had yet every given hour of the day. Except possibly at breakfast time if he is very hungry. Honestly Parkinson. Politics is the basis of all human behaviour.

I love you too, Priam.

Worried that you may be suffocated by breasts before our next meeting (Merlin, have you never heard of 'quality before quantity' man?), and quite confident enough not to rise to the hand-related bait,

Parkinson,

My taste in everything is impeccable. Juliette was just... feeling a little feisty on that particular evening.
(My ego is always right too, don't you know that yet?)

We shall agree to differ. Anyway, it won't be at all political in the literal sense that you dislike, even at the beginning, so you can keep your terribly revolutionary thoughts to yourself and focus upon the task at hand. Unless Sofia likes revolutionary thoughts. I shall check!

Is that a new quill you're using, or are you just extraordinarily pleased to write to me?

Safe in the knowledge that perfectly-formed, pert breasts and their owners wait eagerly for me and appreciate the dexterity of my hands,

Parkinson,

Everyone makes mistakes, you know. And she did apologise later.
(One, you are evidently blind. Two, what you call misguided hearsay is the best kind.)

Good, and she's a lovely girl. Don't bring the Flint, I'll introduce you straight away and you can monopolise her time.

Priam, please. I don't want to know that you're dictating to a whore. It makes this whole conversation so degrading.

Willing to bet that his definition is indeed accurate and sure that he will be meeting a pair of such breasts later for an appreciation session,

Parkinson,

Well, there is that. Still, you could have been more accommodating.
(One, exactly. Blind. Two, I'm glad you agree.)

I'm glad you're excited. Although I warn you, you will have to polite. A nice girl, Sofia, although up for a tumble with the right kind of man. Don't embarrass me by being the wrong kind of man, it'll only get you a very lonely night.

Moaning to a whore and you call me the pervert. The whores moan to you dear Priam, that's what you pay them for.

Well aware that breasts are not pimples thank you very much, but thinking that 38GG is a rather large cup size even for you,

Parkinson,

I know you're desperate to shock and appall my virgin eyes, but unfortunately you are too late by far.
(One, I despair of you sometimes. Two, and that is why you do not hold parties, Priam.)

I don't doubt you, and my relations are fairly discerning, but it's just too bad you failed to meet the standards of the most important person, no?

Is someone flushed? I'm so sorry. Will I have to cancel your birthday gift?
Honestly. Sexuality is nothing to be ashed of Priam. Unless, of course, your mother reads your correspondences, and if she does? Shame on you!

Never so prudish as to call a tall man or even a taller woman a giant, I remain

Parkinson,

I know that. And I happen to have a very nice bed, I just appreciate a little diversity.

I am the most important person Priam, surely even you know that by now?

No no, you have it wrong. You never speak about sex in letters to ladies. When writing to comrades-in-arms, it's an absolute prerequisite to any letter at all.
My owl is utterly unflappable.

Satisfied that preferring fine sculpting to ample amounts of spare clay is never a crime,

Hermit.

Ah, of course. Forgive me. I couldn't see past your Juliette's mistakes, flanked by your ego getting ahead of itself yet again.

Dare I ask just how many of your personal missives have accounts of your friends' sexual adventures? Your owl is dying. Last hurrah and all that.

Convinced that having spare clay would most likely mean far more reliable love handles,

Parkinson,

How, pray tell, does that make me a hermit?

You honestly wouldn't know if my ego was getting ahead of itself or not, Priam. There there, you will survive.

A fair few, I have to say. Even some from the ladies.
And no, you're not allowed to see them. Such things are held in strict confidence.
Don't tell such lies, Tristan is very much alive. Look, I'll get him to peck you to prove it.

Preferring sensuality to love handles any day of the week,

Jumping from one bed to another. You ought to try what I do, stay in my bed and let the ladies jump to yours. Less tiring that way, really.

On second thought yes, you might be right. Your ego might be too far ahead to take note of, anyway.

Confidence, yes. Not to mention sanity. That would be strange, even for us.

What ss Argh, I'm bleeding!

Thinks that comfort can also be a bonus,

Parkinson,

Doesn't that make you the hermit? And a change of scenery might do you good. But I assure you, I don't plan to leave my apartments at the party.

My ego is not bothered by such unimportant things.

Now now, don't blame the owl. I'd watch your girlies though - you always do seem to pick the stroppy ones. Sooner or later, you'll get one with claws. Ohhh la.

Wondering what fool would prefer comfort to sensual transportation,

No. That makes me ridiculously hospitable. And lazy, I admit.

Ah, no. By that I meant that your ego might be too far out of sight for me to notice. But never mind, let's not discuss your ego any further than necessary.

Oh, very enticing idea. I like my women fierce.

Probably the fool who would rather not slice his hand open on a woman's protruding hipbone,

Parkinson,

Lazy it is.

Let's not. It's very sensitive. You may make it cry and that would be a shame.

I'll bear that in mind.

With nothing against those of larger proportions but preferring toned women (toned, not skeletal Parkinson - who wants to tumble a corpse?), I remain

PS: Of course, it depends on the woman. Eliza Avery is luscious.

Nor can we--well, by that I mean you--have it otherwise explode in glee in bed a little too soon, can we.

Sofia had better be. If not, I trust she compensates with a beautiful face.

~~Thinks that corpses can also come alive and~~ Is trying my ultimate best not think about skeletons and the undead lest I embarrass myself,

PS: Bloody hell, yes.

Parkinson,

I am never early or late, but always perfectly on time.

She's both beautiful and exacting. Which you would, I am sure, translate as fierce.
I hope you can handle her.

Hoping that you don't suddenly confess an intense attraction to inferi,

How very predictable, then.

Of course I can. Why would I ask for something that I am not prepared to handle? Is she of any relation to you, by the way?

Hoping for the same thing,

Parkinson,

Says the man who stays in his bed.

Distantly? Some kind of off-shoot family a few generations ago, and I know her brother. Sensible fellow.
And Parkinson, need I remind you of the several times in Hogwarts that you bit off more than you could chew?

Looking forward to the party very much now,

Stays in his bed with different women. Not so predictable then.

True, but I always swallow and even as I choke, I breathe my way around it and digest it eventually. Worry not, Evan. I'm sure I can handle her well enough to spare indignities.

Is taking the extra precaution not to let you anywhere near my drink at said party,

Parkinson,

Says he who does not know what the women think. You're lucky they aren't more exacting.

That is the most disgusting metaphor you have ever used. I am quite speechless.
And make sure you do.

Having more class than that, and having no designs on you nor any plans on setting you up with an inferi,

True. Therefore, still unpredictable.

Oh, well I didn't mean it that way. Merlin, no.

Expecting a Charm cast on the bed, or on Sofia herself, or on the body of his deceased cat,

Parkinson,

I see I am very lucky I was not born Evita Rosier. The boredom, the boredom!

That's terribly comforting to know. Do try to be more eloquent at the party, or I may have to deny you alcohol.

Never so crass as to damage or otherwise ruin your lay,

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:59:00

2008-01-11T22:51:26Z

TYPE: OWL
WHO: RABASTAN LESTRANGE, SABINE LESTRANGE
WHEN: 1975

Maman,

I'll be home by the end of the day.

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:56:00

2008-01-11T22:51:25Z

TYPE: OWL
WHO: GAULTIER LESTRANGE, RABASTAN LESTRANGE
WHEN: 1975

Rabastan,

~~I'm sorry.~~ Please come take care of your mother. ~~She won't let me-~~ She ~~prefers~~ needs you.

[No reply comes.]

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:49:00

2008-01-11T22:51:24Z

TYPE: ALONE
WHO: GAULTIER LESTRANGE
WHAT: Thoughts and feelings on the situation in a stand-alone.
WHERE: Papa's study, Lestrange home, France.
WHEN: 1975

What should have been another uneventful night ended in a heart wrenching realisation for Gaultier. The perfect life in which he spent years building, and years working to keep, now meant very little to nothing at all. He had never felt so worn as he did now, each heavy step drawing him closer to the welcoming presence of his liqueur cabinet and further away from the one person who was so preciously known as his entire world. No more. How had it come to this?

A heavy sigh gave way without Gaultier's permission, and it was all he could do to keep his hand steady while pouring himself a much needed drink. Silently he sat himself there in the dark room of his study, a sadness clearly written across the parts of his face still visible. There were no words to describe Gaultier's pain, no words to describe his yearning for what once was; still, there were no tears.

Sabine, the only woman to hold his entire heart, had returned it now as if it were no good. Perhaps it never was, perhaps the man he had become through years of hard labour was not the sort she could love any longer. Gaultier didn't blame her, no, he only wished to understand when loving became loved and when Rabastan took his place. The boy, raised with his name wiped Gaultier from existence in Sabine's eyes it seemed, and left him wondering what he still had if anything.

Gaultier's face buried itself into the warm palm of his hand as his eyes tightly screwed themselves shut. This would be a long, restless night, but the many bottles of various tasting alcohol would surely keep him company.

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:40:00

2008-01-11T22:51:21Z

TYPE: ALONE
WHO: Thibaud, midwife NPC, and newborn Evan.
WHAT: New kid, new papa.
WHERE: Rosier residence.
WHEN: January-ish 1958-ish.
RATING: G.

It didn’t take long before an infant’s wail pierced the permeating silence. The hallway where a lone man stayed seated and bowed, though remaining darkly-lit and foreboding, echoed the sound in hopeful vengeance against the long and constant waiting, an encumbered heaviness in the stale cold air of that late January evening. Surprised, the man raised his dark head, his posture tense and anxious. His eyes, however, gave the impression of a clear and calming breath.

A silent shuffling could be heard from beyond the door that stood across from him. Only hours before—when the sun still shone from the enormous window nearby and cast optimism on the stern ancient wood—was the very same anxiety that had cautered expectation to dread and brought with it the burning singe of worry.

Is he alive? Is he alright? Is he healthy?

Is my wife alright?

His knees shook as he rose to his feet, the uncomfortable feel of yesterday’s dress robes touching his skin. His neck cracked at the slightest turn of his head, even his arms unlocked from what may have been the longest stillness they have ever endured. A grunt almost escaped in response to his aches but even that was forgotten as the door, the dark ominous and powerful door, opened and flooded light onto the plush red carpet.

The man stood a bit straighter, the lines of exhaustion on his face fading slightly, retreating to give way to pure, unprecedented excitement.

“He’s lucky,” said the motherly old woman as she stepped out of the doorway, all the while cradling a bundle of cloth and minute-old infant in her arms. Her kind eyes turned to him, slightly reproachful. “Your wife is, too.”

He nodded through it all, both eye and attention transfixed by the sight of his son. His son. He couldn’t believe it. Years of waiting, of hoping, of worry. And here he was, pink-faced, chubby, noisy, and alive.

The matron moved closer to where the man stood—tensely and stiffly, as if the simplest movement could make it all disappear—and carefully handed him his son. “Be careful with the head, support it at all times with your hand—no, no, dear not too tight! There, yes. Put your arm underneath him. Yes, that’s it.”

Thibaud Rosier held the infant in his rigid arms, a hair’s breadth from childishly biting his lip in concentration. Don’t drop him, now. He looked down at the babe, at the smooth head, the pinched face, the pink tinge of the lips, the curled fists. The infant’s eyes would most certainly be like his when they finally opened—Thibaud was certain of this. He was also certain that he would show those blue contemplative eyes what he himself had seen: the world as it is; Spain in the summer; Switzerland in the winter; Yuletide fireworks; the family home in France. Those eyes, Thibaud swore, would lay witness to the success of their master when he becomes Minister of Magic. They would oversee the Rosier name as it flourishes with many, many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, all of whom will make bountiful reputations to their name.

Filled with hope, Thibaud gazed down at his son, cooed his cries, and soothed his own worries with the comfort he found in the tiny, tiny boy. “There, there now, Evan. I’m your father, I’m here.”

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:35:00

2008-01-11T22:51:20Z

TYPE: OWL (URGENT)
WHO: CYGNUS BLACK, SIRIUS BLACK
WHEN: 1975

Sirius,

Your visit is long overdue, and I am worried about you.

Tomorrow, three in the afternoon. Please do not be late.

Uncle,

It's a bit of a late notice, I'm not sure I'm really up for it that I'll be able to make it. Can't we plan for something later in the week?

Sirius,

It's rather urgent.

Would five be more convenient?

Uncle,

I suppose so.

What's so urgent?

Sirius,

We'll discuss it then.

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:31:00

2008-01-11T22:51:19Z

TYPE: OWL
WHO: REGULUS BLACK, CYGNUS BLACK
WHEN: 1975

[the note is much smeared and blotted, with numerous unintelligible crossings out throughout]

Dear Uncle,

You were wrong.
~~It will never be okay.~~

Regulus

Regulus,

I will speak to him.

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:24:00

2008-01-11T22:51:17Z

TYPE: 1:1
WHO: CYGNUS BLACk, REGULUS BLACK
WHAT: Regulus goes to see his Uncle for a dose of calm.
WHERE: Cygnus' country estate.
WHEN: Directly after Reg leaves the bar. 1975.

It was with a loud pop that Regulus apparated into the alcove in his uncle's main hall intended for such things. The stillness of the house immediately began to seep into Regulus' mind despite his still-agitated state, and he winced at the noise he had caused and the disturbance of the calm.

Knowing the hour and his uncle's habit, Regulus began to quickly make his way towards the main study, nodding at all servants and house elves but not stopping to explain himself (not that any would have seen fit to stop him considering the expression on his face and his status as a Black and the master's nephew).

About ten feet from the study Regulus drew to a halt and took a moment simply to breathe, before stepping up and knocking on the open door politely.
"Good afternoon Uncle." Another breath. Regulus kept his tone and expression mild despite the sense of agitation around him. "I apologise for intruding without warning."

At the light tap of knuckle against wood, Cygnus looked up from the day's chosen literature -- a recently amended treatise of the International Dueling Committee, the board of which he was a member of -- the hint of a welcoming smile replacing his expression of transitory surprise.

"Regulus, my boy, hello." As the sheaves of parchment suddenly rose in the air and floated toward the mahogany desk situated by the windows, Cygnus rose from his armchair, motioning with a hand that Regulus should enter and take a seat. The surprise he'd shown was that of a man disrupted from a long day of quietude, and was not due to his nephew's presence; in truth, following certain decisions the family had recently made -- several of which Cygnus himself found distasteful -- he'd been expecting a visit from either one of the brothers.

"What can I help you with?"

Regulus quickly sat down, the small smile on his face tense but genuine. Of all his family, his uncle was the easiest to deal with if only because he made the most sense and had a calm that none in Regulus' own home possessed.
Whilst his uncle also seemed to have a degree of chilled formality about him, as he grew up Regulus had gradually become aware that the simplest thing to do when dealing with a difficult situation was to tell Uncle Cyngus things exactly as they were.

"I had an appointment with Rabastan Lestrange this afternoon, to spend time together due to business of formalising a link." Had he been even a few months younger, Regulus would have winced, but circumstances had changed them all and his neutral face was becoming far more common when Regulus had any control over it.

"Sirius decided he would also come to... provoke a situation."

In many ways, Cygnus had more in common with Regulus than any one of his daughters, and the youth's mask of neutrality was one he himself had mastered at a young age. There was only one reason why the family would arrange an appointment with Rabastan Lestrange, and it led directly back to Cygnus and the girl no one liked to mention. As Regulus continued to speak, Cygnus felt a chill creep up from the base of his spine, and his expression, for one brief but telling moment, became one of distress. Unfortunately, he'd been correct in expecting a nephew to visit him with a complaint about the issue -- it would either be Sirius, unhappy that he'd been looked over, or Regulus, unhappy that he hadn't -- but being in the right gave him no comfort. The Lestrange boy was the wronged party in the incident with Andromeda, but the thought of him now, years later, served only to remind him of his own failures with his daughter.

The moment passed, and Cygnus directed a similarly tense smile at his nephew as he returned to his seat. "Two hot-heads in one room?" He let his hands rest on the armrests, a finger tapping discreetly against the leather as he spoke. "How much of a... situation did it become?"

"When I left, words had been said and wands drawn." Regulus paused a moment. "Well. Fists came between the words and wands."

Giving a barely perceptible sigh, Regulus consciously stopped himself from resting his head in his hands. Had Andromeda not been denounced as a blood traitor, none of this would be happening. He knew the same thoughts were running through his uncle's head and he did sympathise - in recent times his parents spoke to Cygnus with a biting edge that seemed to lay blame for all problems with the Lestranges firmly at his feet.
Of course, there was a fair chance that some portion of the blame for the afternoon's event would fall straight into his own lap and that was not something Regulus was keen to receive.

"Sirius reacted without restraint. Family honour was effectively called upon and getting between them would have been useless at that point, and so I left."

"Whose fist?"

Given that of the three, only the Lestrange boy was of age, Cygnus was quite sure he knew whose fist Regulus referred to. Along with the incriminations he received regarding his own children, Cygnus quite often was a witness to Walburga and Orion's disputes regarding their eldest son and heir to the entirety of the family name and fortune. Sirius was a good lad -- a touch high-strung, yes, but he reminded Cygnus of a younger Alphard, and for that, he couldn't fault him -- but muttered complaints from his own parents led Cygnus to believe that all was not well amidst those who resided in Number 12 Grimmauld Place. An excitable temperament was not exactly ideal in a scion, especially if it drove one to starting fist-fights.

"Where did this all take place? In public, I take it, judging by your reaction to the entire thing."

"Sirius'. Lestrange grabbed him first though - the physicality was not entirely Sirius' fault in that sense, although he spent the whole time since his arrival attempting to provoke it." And Regulus sincerely did not want to have to describe what had happened immediately before Rabastan had grabbed his brother.

His brother was a sore topic as far as Regulus was concerned. Not content to let his individualities rest, Sirius continually caused trouble in the house for the sake of it, as if by doing so he could somehow distance himself from the family.

Regulus shook his head slightly, returning from his thoughts. "In the right-hand alcove at Whites. Rabastan arranged the meeting there, or the Lestranges did at any rate. It could have been more public Uncle. I suppose."

Cygnus nodded -- he was familiar with the venue -- a sigh escaping him as he tried to picture the scene. "I don't want you to worry about Sirius' well-being -- the owners of the establishment will have prevented the brawl from escalating. Your mother will give him an earful, I expect."

Cygnus suddenly found that he was irritated, and to disguise the emotion, he raised his hand a slight degree. "Tea?" Tea had always helped soothe whatever disrupted the calm in his and Druella's lives, and as a small tray bearing cups appeared before them, Cygnus lapsed into silence, eyes fixed on the steam that rose from the amber liquid.

"Please, Uncle."

The quiet between them was not uncomfortable - rather, it was thoughtful and companionable. Both Cygnus and Regulus, perhaps alone among the Blacks by birth, needed that quiet.

"Mother has been giving him an earful for a long time. It hasn't worked so far." Another pause. "What will happen if-". Regulus stopped short and exhaled, as if expelling the thought rather than saying it.

"The tea is very good. Thank you."

His head lowered a degree in a nod of thanks and agreement. The tea was good, and even if it did little in the way of solving their problems, the sense of calm it instilled was more than welcome. Others in the family might be driven to reaching for alcohol, but Cygnus and Druella withdrew to what the children dubbed 'the tea room' whenever tempers within the household ran high.

Discussing tea, however, was not why Regulus had visited him; it wasn't the topic under discussion, and Cygnus eyed his nephew with interest, as though it were possible to discern just by the look on the boy's face what was going through his mind.

The question, when it came, was deceptively mild: "If?"

Regulus took a moment to gather the right words, and then spoke very slowly and carefully. "If he does not stop. If he does not heed the family."
It was a comment incredibly close to the mark, but Sirius was not the same as Andromeda and the source of his behaviour stemmed from a different place. Regulus trusted his uncle to know that, and to know that what he asked was purely about his brother.

He raised his eyes and looked Cygnus squarely in the face. "It is a worry." To be entirely truthful it was more than simply a worry but his uncle was perceptive enough to know that, even if he did not see the full extent of the problem Sirius' behaviour posed the younger Black son.

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T19:12:00

2008-01-11T22:51:16Z

TYPE: 1:1
WHO: SIRIUS BLACK, REGULUS BLACK
WHAT: The consequences of fisticuffs.
WHERE: 12 Grimmauld Place, (the upper stairs)
WHEN: After the show. 1975.

Regulus had left his uncle's home in a much calmer state than the one he had been in upon arrival. Time spent with the man often seemed to affect him that way - Cygnus was the quiet in the Black storm as far as Regulus was concerned. And so it was a silent if not happy Regulus who apparated to the Black town house where his mother and father were at present staying.

Neither were in, and Kreacher seemed otherwise occupied, which was just was well. Falling back to the habits he had held since early childhood, Regulus settled himself on the upper staircase of the house, elbows resting upon his knees and face resting upon his hands.

Reaching one hand into the small gap underneath the skirting board that Kreacher cleaned but never looked at too closely (or possibly consciously ignored), Regulus pulled out a small chess set. He placed the set carefully on the top step beside him and began to set up a favourite opening, distracting himself from the ugliness of his day with logic and tactics. The chessman, his own, were used to practising alone and were quiet and considering rather than the loud and brash set used on the rare times he played chess with his brother. Who would be home before too long.

Breathing deeply, Regulus moved a black knight.

Sirius was afraid every bone in his body had been bruised as moving became a difficult task. This realisation came upon him rather quickly, his apparation having settled him in the far end of the entry hall. With one foot planted firmly in front of the other, Sirius tentatively made his way toward the stairs. A pause, and a hand rested itself against the wall to steady him a moment as he fell silent; movement, probably from the witch known as his mother. This was surely not something Sirius wanted to explain.

Once the creaking of floor boards drew to sudden end, Sirius figured himself safe enough to dash (much more slowly than he would have liked) the remaining way toward his room. Rounding the corner, and another few steps, Sirius stopped to stare at the single obstacle left in his way: Regulus. Sirius' eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the thoughtful and rather.. was that sadness?.. look now etched across his brother's face. Surely Regulus couldn't be upset with him?

Of course he could. He always was.

"Regulus." Sirius was surprised as much as Regulus would have been, his habit of protesting suddenly seemed sated. "I didn't -- well, I know it meant a lot to you, this meeting. I just wanted.." Words were never Sirius' strong point, this much was now becoming obvious. A heavy sigh and Sirius moved to slump down beside his brother, resting his head in his hand. "I'm sorry, yeah? I don't understand why we need to align ourselves with the Lestranges is all, we're far better than they are."

With his words cut short, Sirius tightly screwed shut his eyes. There were absolutely no words to describe the vast amount of emotions now coursing through his veins. Sirius cared for Regulus, more than he ever let on, and now.. Sirius hated how alienated he felt from them all; his entire family was no better. Hopeless. Brothering to be a Black is hopeless.

Regulus picked up a bishop without looking at his brother, rubbing his thumb over the small carving as if it were an amulet.

"The meeting was never the thing. The Lestranges aren't important. Not to me."
It wasn't easy - there was so much that he wanted to say and so little he could, and it became compounded by the fact that Sirius had just apologised to him, his brother the cool, the distant, who joked about love and dependency to antagonise others but never showed such traits or shared such a relationship with him in fact. Sirius.

"You don't want us. I know. Sometimes I look at you and your face, Sirius... your eyes scare me. There's nothing there. Nothing at all. Worse than hate." Regulus stopped, hand fisting around the little bishop, eyes resolutely downcast.

His brother pretended not to know him at Hogwarts, or treated him with the icy disdain which only a Black could muster, falsely allied under a lion banner. At home he did his best to inconvenience the household, spoke back and acted up for reasons Regulus himself could not even fathom. He didn't understand his brother at all, however hard he tried. Sometimes a traitorous voice whispered in Regulus' ear that if Sirius gave him something, anything, and then told him to jump off a cliff, he would go plummeting into the sea without a thought.
But Sirius hadn't opened like that.

Regulus switched subjects back abruptly. "The family wanted the meeting. It was important - you might be heir, Sirius, but the rest of us do what we're told. That's how it works, that's how we, how I... that's why it mattered. The family matters."

Sirius' mouth opened a moment but words failed him and all he could do was stare at what was once his brother. No more. If Regulus felt as he had described -- of course he felt like that, why else would he say it? -- then there was nothing left at the Black family home for him. Nothing at all. "And I'm not part of the family?" It was more a statement than a question and Sirius frowned as he looked down at the stairs beneath his feet. The wood never felt so cold to him before.

Silent, motionless -- Sirius sat as if he were a statue, pondering on all that had happened that night, all that would happen in the future. Regulus obviously cared for him about as much as his mother did and that hurt more than it should have. A sweeping gesture was given with one hand and Sirius drew himself to his feet, his gaze lifted back to Regulus' own a moment. "You all made it so clear I wasn't ever suppose to be part of this family. How was I suppose to act? How, Regulus? When no one gives a damn!"

Anger was now beginning to get the better of him and Sirius stopped himself with a sharp bite to his bottom lip, the vial taste of blood now spilling slowly into his mouth.

Looking up at his brother from the step, Regulus felt the anger and hurt pool together inside him. "You could have cared, Sirius. You could have tried. What do you expect, if you treat us like dirt?"

His first hurt but Regulus somehow could not bring himself to open it.
"You are the heir. You are supposed to be the centre of this family." You're supposed to be my family. Regulus did not shout, but each word he said was perfectly clear. "I have an idea, brother. Try. Before you scorn me, before you turn your head in disgust at us all, maybe you could try. It would be a first." He took a breath, still seemingly calm apart from the fist.
"You have a duty. Do it. You want to know how to make them welcome you, how to have them 'give a damn'? You have your answer then. Give them something to give a damn about. Engage in the family, brother, and the family will engage with you. It's not that complicated."

The thought of hitting Sirius, or having Sirius hit him, was a sweet one but when his words finished Regulus remained on the step, looking at his brother with inscrutable eyes.

"The most our family engaged in me was when I was sorted into Gryffindor." Sirius pointed out quietly, his hands finding their way into the depths of his pockets. "I had no choice, Regulus. I couldn't tell the sorting hat which house to place me in, you know that as well as I!" Sirius' voice raised a little but quickly died down again as he turned away enough to glance down into the entry hall, his fingers clenching the inner material of his trousers.

"From then on, I was seen as nothing more than a failure. To this family, to my parents.." A pause, and Sirius turned to lock his gaze to Regulus' own, speaking the next words in the quietest pitch he could manage: "You." Above all else, the pain Regulus felt toward Sirius was what disappointed him most. There was nothing more Sirius could do; Regulus had made up his mind on the matter, that much was obvious.

"I'm sorry, Regulus. I'm sorry I'm not the brother you want me to be. I'm sorry I'm not the son they want me to be. But if that's what being a Black is all about, then.. well, maybe it's better I'm not really considered one."

Regulus' heart froze, a little.

"Do not presume to know me, Sirius. If you want to know how I feel, you must ask." Regulus had never disregarded his brother as a failure - if anything, he wanted the attention and approval of Sirius more as they both grew older. That Sirius thought he did was a harsh pill to take.

As is suddenly released, Regulus unclenched his fist and dropped the bishop, raising his hand as if to touch his brother's cheek with his thumb before dropping the hand slowly and simply looking. "You will always be a Black, Sirius."
Regulus had intended there to be something of comfort in the words, but when they were said he heard none there himself. "It is in your blood."

"It's in my blood about as much as being a mudblood is in yours, Regulus." Sirius whispered the harsh words, not as an insult, but as a way to fully describe what it was he was feeling. As his grey eyes locked to Regulus' own, Sirius frowned. There was no more to be said between the two, no more to address.

A single hand lifted after a moment and lightly cupped Regulus' jaw. "You've replaced me and I'm not even gone yet." Sirius' hand lightly stroked the soft skin beneath his finger tips before with a tug he withdrew entirely and turned, as if to walk the last treacherous mile to his execution.

I'll always care for you more than you'll know.

Regulus stood stock still, staring at his withdrawing brother for a moment for a moment before instinctively reaching out a hand and placing it, just barely, on Sirius' shoulder blade.

His brother's complete and utter denial of blood should have been shocking, but it was Sirius' distance and talk of leaving that tore at Regulus and threatened to steal the breath from his lungs. Wanting more than anything a different conclusion to the encounter, instead Regulus was left with further loneliness and the dangled threat of a gaping hole to follow.

"Stay." As soon as the word was whispered he withdrew the hand and ran to the top of the stairs, turning into the first room and slamming the door behind him, sinking to the floor behind it and trying to control the sobs that racked his body.

Sirius would not leave though. Of course he would not. It was just another game.

Sirius stood, wide-eyed and bewildered at where Regulus had been only moments before. Was his brother serious about asking him to stay? No, of course not -- Sirius misunderstood him, didn't hear him correctly.. Regulus must have been mumbling, something of the sort. There was simply no other possibility.

With his lips firmly pursed together, Sirius dashed into his own room and slammed the door shut. A hand covered his mouth to muffle a loud sob as tears began to stream down his cheeks. The years of built up frustration and anger toward his family could no longer be ignored; Sirius pressed back against the door and slid to the floor where he wrapped his arms around his knees and stayed for the rest of the night.

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T18:15:00

2008-01-11T22:51:15Z

TYPE: 1:1
WHO: GAULTIER LESTRANGE, SABINE LESTRANGE
WHAT: Papa, still exceptionally peeved, demands to know what's going on.
WHERE: Lestrange home, France. Sabine's bedroom to be exact. Ooh la la. ;)
WHEN: 1975, after owls and son ego bruising.

A long overwhelming night was not exactly what Gaultier had in mind, nor was it anywhere close to being what he needed at this particular moment. Exhausting hours at the office left him with little to no sleep, rings about his eyes, aching muscles .. and those only seemed to be the beginning of his problems. It was this weekend, the weekend Gaultier had decided to take some time off to not only spend with his wife but to catch up on all the rest he had missed, that Rabastan worked his undeniable magic of ruin.

The physical argument played out with his son only moments before left Gaultier drained, his hands still shaking. When he appeared in the corridor just outside his bedroom, the sound of his apparation leaving a deafening echo as it bounced among the walls, it was all Gaultier could do to keep from loosing balance. A single hand steadied his swaying, and a sigh (though of relief or sadness, one could not tell) was given loudly. This, he hoped, would announce his presence to Sabine; Gaultier did not wish to wake her.

A few moments after the sigh, muffled footsteps could be heard from Sabine's chambers as she walked towards the door. Her pale pallor and the bruise-like smudges under her eyes were softened by the dim candlelight of her room as she opened the heavy door and stepped out into the corridor.

"Gaultier, Merlin, what has happened?" Sabine stepped forward and laid a gentle hand upon his arm, ready to give support if it seemed necessary. She was horrified by the strain clear on his face before he could hide it from her and thoughts of what might have happened that night raced through her mind. "You must sleep, my love. You do far too much, you will take ill."

"Your son--" Gaultier lifted a hand to settle over his mouth, a hiss of anger, frustration, and a wide variety of other emotions he cared not to focus on, emitted itself from the back of his throat. "Rabastan fucking Lestrange." Words in which Gaultier usually avoided were now all he could focus on. Another heavy sigh and his entire frame slumped heavily against the wall, his eyes falling shut; anger was never an emotion Gaultier had much control of. "The fucking brat owled me a most degrading letter -- as if he had the right!"

A pause, and a moment of silence, allowed sadness to suddenly replace every ounce of anger. "Sabine, why didn't you say? You're hiding.." As Gaultier's words trailed off, his voice where it usually firm, was now shaking. "You can't, I won't allow it. You can't leave me."

"He's your son also-" Sabine began sharply, almost by reflex, before her husband's change in manner caused her to fall silent and hear his words.

"I have no choice in it." She allowed her head to fall onto his shoulder and closed her eyes, bitterness filling her stomach. "But since you order me to stay, I shall try."

With a sigh, Sabine slowly moved further away. "They do not know if it catches. Rabastan will not listen to me in this, but you at least must be careful."
The distance hurt, but this was something she could and indeed felt she must do, even as her control over the health of her body failed.

"No, no. I won't allow it. You're my wife, you need me, I want to be here." Gaultier pushed himself off the wall and paced quickly to Sabine's side, his fingers lightly curling themselves about her wrist. His once darling, most precious wife now so fragile; he was almost frightened of breaking her.

With a heavy sigh, Gaultier leaned forward and lightly rested his cheek to hers, his arms slipping about Sabine's waist. There was a simple enough solution to all of this illness nonsense: it just wouldn't be allowed to continue. "Sabine?" Gaultier's lips brushed her ear lightly as he gave a frown. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Leaning close, Sabine gave a very small (if bitter) smile. This she still knew how to deal with. "I knew it would cause you undue worry - see, even as it does now. For all I know I may be quite well again tomorrow morning and all your worry for naught."
If Gaultier wanted to defy the sickness then she would also play that game to make it easier for him, at least with him present.

"Anyhow dearest, the work that you do is important and I thought it best not to disturb you. It is not so very bad at all. Whatever Rabastan has told you, I'm sure he has exaggerated, as he is sometimes wont to do where I am concerned."

"Disturb me? Sabine, this is your life we're talking about. You mean so much more to me than any amount of work." Gaultier tightened his arms a moment and shut his eyes tightly. "You know that, don't you? Please tell me you know.." A pause gave way as his voice cracked, his fingers absently fisting themselves in the back of her robe.

"Rabastan says you've taken ill a while now and that I'm far too stupid to have seen it. I -- it's true, and I'm sorry. I should have paid more attention to you, I should have been home more." Gaultier suddenly felt as if everything he had once held dear was now crumbling before his very eyes; the control he once held so tightly on his family was now wavering, giving way to that inevitable factor known as fate.

Sabine sighed, holding him in return. "At first it was a cold - and do not tell me that is more important than work when you have worked through so many yourself. Then it was simply weariness and I do not sleep overwell anyway, you know that. It is not so bad Gaultier, I swear it."

Trying desperately to shift attention from her sickness, she made a humming noise. "Rabastan is devoted but he should not have said such a thing to you. You are not stupid. What happened, my love? You have not spent time with him in an age."

"He hit me." Was the simple answer, a single shoulder raised as he turned his gaze away from his precious wife; Gaultier would prolong the inevitable as best he could. "There were owls, asking how our arrangement with the Black's went. Rabastan got cocky, as he does so often these days.."

Another sigh and Gaultier turned to brush his lips lightly along Sabine's jaw, his eyes shutting again. "It doesn't matter, it's long been dealt with now, darling. You shan't worry, you're.." Gaultier refused to utter the very word, and instead gave a small smile as he gently urged her further into his arms.

"He hit you? Gaultier, I am perfectly capable of dealing with my son, sick or not. I haven't lost all faculties quite yet. Tell me what happened properly."

Despite her sharp comments and expression, Sabine sighed and leant into Gaultier. "You should sleep. You seem more tired than I am."

Part of Sabine wanted simply to rewind the clock to a time when sickness and the family antagonism were a thing of the past. Although she had loved watching her sons grow up, she missed their energy and young faces more than she cared to admit.

With lips pursed Gaultier turned his head to press a line of kisses across the sweet and soft skin of Sabine's cheek, his arms tightening their hold. The very act, though affectionate, was what Gaultier hoped would end up as another distraction; the scene that had only just taken place would surely upset her.

"Darling --" Gaultier began, his eyes taking in every detail of her now fragile form. A sadness seemed to overcome him a moment and again he turned away, his voice shaking as it continued: "You're aware of our arrangement with the Black family, I assume? I wrote to see how well it had gone."

None of what Sabine was informed with was a lie exactly; Gaultier was only bending the truth to save his wife any sort of heartache she might endure otherwise. "It didn't." The words, abrupt and laced with malice were hissed after a lengthy pause. "And Rabastan, the boy who will send me to my grave in the end, became snarky over the whole affair."

Sabine sighed. Her husband and son had never seen eye to eye, even when Rabastan was small - probably, she thought only a trifle bitterly, because Rodolphus was the heir and provided all that Gautier could want, whilst Rabastan was the spare and thus not worth his time. "I will send for him tomorrow in the morning and talk to him, Gaultier. He should know better than to disrupt your business so."

Gaultier's omission and kisses wre working in the sense that Sabine was no longer asking for details, but she had the distinct impression that information was missing. Still, her son had inherited his temper from her as well as her husband, and Sabine knew full well that the tempers were explosive enough individually, let alone put together in one person.
A younger Sabine might have pushed further, but under strain and ill, Sabine found that she did not have the energy for what would most probably have proved a fruitless exercise anyhow.

"If he bothered you that much, he can come stay here with me and I will keep an eye on him for a few weeks. Will that help dearest?"
Had Sabine known the full scale of the situation at hand, her response would have been somewhat different, but as it was she considered what she suggested a perfectly viable option to help her husband.

"No." Gaultier raised his head and stared at her wide-eyed a moment; the very idea of having his son take up residence in his home, after all that had been done? "No." The answer, given again quite simply was accompanied with a violent shake of his head. "Darling, there isn't enough room and I much rather aid you myself than have him here."

Stroking a hand down her back, Gaultier urged her close and just barely brushed his lips against Sabine's own. "We don't really need him here, anyway."

With fingers lightly stroking over the small of his wife's back, Gaultier turned and began to guide them both back to her room. The decision had been made, as was clear enough by the abrupt change of subject. Rabastan was never that fond of an issue between them anyway, and Gaultier would do just about anything to speak on a much different matter.

Sabine sighed, his perfectly open statement that her favoured son was not needed rubbing salt into an old wound rather than cutting her afresh. "Gaultier, you do realise that this house has fourtee-", Sabine broke off, shaking her head. Now was not the time to list the attributes of their house simply to force her husband to admit that there was enough room for her Rabastan.
The words 'I also want my son' didn't pass her lips either, if only because it would prompt another fit of emotion in her husband, (and also rile him, considering his previous outbursts over Rabastan).

After turning the lamps down as they entered the room, Sabine raised an eyebrow as she sat on her bed, her graceful posture not yet diminished. "I hope you are not planning to read if you are staying, dearest. I am rather tired, and you should sleep too."

"I won't stay, I don't wish to disturb you."

Gaultier never imagined himself saying it, not when he wanted so desperately to help in any way he could, but Sabine quite obviously preferred her son. This hadn't dawned on him until now, how much more Rabastan was receiving in Sabine's affections than he, but suddenly -- and rather unwillingly -- did Gaultier realise: the love, the strong unbreakable bond he figured would never once waver, indeed had. And what was he left with?

I'll owl him in the morning. It was all Gaultier could do, give his wife exactly what she wanted before (or if) she got any worse.

Without another word Gaultier turned and slipped from the room, the door pulled shut behind him. His hand lifted and settled firmly over his mouth, to muffle any sort of noise he figured might escape him in a fit of agony.

I'm sorry just didn't seem to carry enough meaning anymore.

Sabine sat staring at the shut door with her mouth open as if to speak, but no words came out. After a long moment she stood and looked into her tall mirror, as if searching for something and finding it lacking.
The tears, when they came, were soft and quiet to start off with. Not even bothering to wipe her eyes, Sabine held on to the edge of the mirror to support herself as actual sobs eventually began, still looking into the glass as if unable to recognise herself.

She was going to die. There was nothing there though, nothing to remind her of how things had been to anchor her soul to her body.
Even three years ago it had not been like this. There had been warmth where there was now only cold, and blood where there was now only void, caused by distance and the poison of sickness, as well as a mind prone to fixation and holding love so close as to suffocate it (although Sabine was not self-aware enough to think on that).

For a moment, Sabine thought of leaving her room and finding her husband, asking him to hold her again. But that moment had gone - there was a sense of finality when he closed the door, a sense of ending that killed something inside her and would have killed more were she not so very numb.

The tears lulled but did not end, and as she climbed into bed Sabine found herself clutching at one of her many pillows and sobbing into it directly, letting it muffle the noise of years that her body could no longer hold, and the names, apologies, and promises that she would never be able to say.

It was not a good night for either of the Lestranges.

WIP

2008-01-11T22:51:13Z

TYPE: GROUP
GROUP SCENE: TWO [YULETIDE RAID]
WHO: Any and all purebloods who should be there. Plus aurors who shouldn't.
WHAT: In which pesky aurors crash the Lestranges' party.
WHERE: Chez Lestrange
WHEN: 24th of December, 1976

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, went house-elves with trays all laden with grouse. Hosting the annual Yuletide ball was considered an untold privilege, and much to their pleasure, it had fallen upon the Lestranges to host the 1976 affair. For weeks, house-elves scurried throughout the imposing estate, opening the central ballroom that had remained locked and off-limits for years, while elegantly dressed attendants sent out invitations and settled the menu. All of the feverish activity was overseen by the portrait of the late Madame Lestrange, who, as in life, demanded absolute perfection.

Now, she seemed content with the final product. The ballroom with its soaring ceiling and long windows was decorated in silver and green, the exquisitely decorated tree placed on one end of the room towering above the mingling guests, who, even despite their own wealth, could not help but glance curiously at the pile of gifts that would grow steadily throughout the night.

With laughter and the soft refrains of beloved carols filling the room, it would be impossible to foresee the approaching chaos.

01

It had been exactly four months. August 24th, 1976, which sounded as if it was so long ago, seemed like just instants before Narcissa appeared at the Yuletide ball. Four months ago Narcissa was lying in St. Mungo's, anticipating the birth of her child. Normally women would be ecstatic, but rather Narcissa was crying. No plump, crying baby was sliding out of her, rather a cold, lifeless body was pulled from deep within her. Failure. Four months ago she saw her life as a failure. A poor baby girl, poor petite Thalia Druella was gone as soon as she had come. And so after her first child's death, Narcissa locked herself inside Malfoy Manor. She was not only emotionally upset but also embarrassed, and not even Lucius could console her for very long. Finally, in four months the seasons had changed from humidity to snow fall and Narcissa sat, watching from her window, folding away all the baby clothes she had received, and storing them in various locations around the house.

After weeks of Lucius, Druella and even Madame Malfoy's begging, Narcissa obliged them and decided to show her face finally to their circle of friends and family. She must move on, if she didn't she wouldn't ever have tried again for a baby. Things like this were becoming much more rampant than ever among their class, and Druella kept insisting that she knew plenty of healthy mothers who had problems before having their children.

Narcissa decided to humbly pick out a dark purple dress, swept her hair up quite simply, and merely wore her wedding rings and simple diamond necklace. She had no one to impress, and wished to once in her life blend in with everyone else. She entered with Lucius and was taken aback by the ornate splendor, though in the back of her mind she thought it was a tad tacky. But, she put on a smile and greeted those who came up to her, complimented her, and showed her sympathy. She put a smile on her face and pressed on.

Cygnus could not know that he would be venturing into the house of a forgotten Black the very next day. Nor could he foresee the impetus that would drive him to it, as the events due to unfold and disrupt this most magnificent of celebrations were hardly expected by anyone now mingling in the room; no matter how heinous the affairs of some of these self-proclaimed aristocrats of wizarding society, they could not suspect the aurors that were about to commit the most distasteful of social blunders by entering, uninvited and indeed, unwanted, and putting an unpleasant end to what was supposed to be a festive night. He certainly couldn't conceive of the pending raid, and so he was not yet aware of the fear it would quicken -- a fear not even he could suppress for one who'd seen fit to abandon the family.

No -- for now, Andromeda remained a distant and walled-up memory, safely out of the forefront of his mind. There were others to think about: Bellatrix, whose recent marriage to the Lestrange heir was one of the key reasons he was attending the party; and Narcissa, who had remained so removed from public life since the tragedy of her miscarriage. As always, it was Druella with whom she shared her distress, and Druella was eternally loyal to her most beloved daughter, and disclosed only the vaguest, most essential of details with him; the secrets Narcissa chose to share with her mother were indeed safe with her.

Druella would surely draw her aside as the evening progressed, but for now, his fair-haired wife was making the necessary rounds, and Cygnus spied his chance to check up on his increasingly reclusive daughter. Narcissa was easily picked out from the gradually growing crowd; he moved toward her at a stately pace, taking her elbow in hand as he drew up beside her. "I'm pleased you decided to attend," he said in warm greeting, a small smile working its way across his features as he looked her over.

Narcissa was quiet during her conversation with one of the Travers sisters, though she couldn't remember if it was Cecelia (the one who had always talked of marrying Sirius, even after he became a traitor) or Paget (the one who had her first marriage annulled after her husband ran away to Russia). Either way they kept babbling about some new fashions they had seen and insisted that Narcissa see them and buy them, as they would compliment her figure. Narcissa just smiled and nodded her head, throwing in a comment every so often about what she did know about specific cuts and types of fabrics. She desperately wanted Lucius or her mother to come into eyesight so she could dismiss herself to them and beg to leave. She already felt everyone staring at her, and although that was what normally happened all she kept thinking about was the easiest way to get out.

Just as the Travers girl was going to introduce her new Dutch fiancee, Narcissa felt the clutch on her elbow. She immediately turned her head and smiled, excusing herself from her conversation, and gave her father a kiss on the cheek and a smile. "I'm glad to see you," She was telling the truth. Although she forbade anyone except the house elves, Lucius and Druella to see her in the past few months, she missed her other family desperately. She had never felt disappointment before from her father, and didn't feel any presently, but in the back of her mind that's all she could think about.

"How are you? I'm assuming Mother is here, as well. Lucius is off talking to someone, I think he's one of the Parkinson's." Narcissa babbled away, trying to avoid any and all conversation about herself and her state of being, especially any forms of sympathy.

Although Druella was more aware of Narcissa's coping mechanisms than he, the rushed words told Cygnus what he needed to know about his usually poised daughter's state of mind. Naturally he was concerned and heart-broken for his daughter's loss -- what father wouldn't be? -- but he limited himself to one searching look at Narcissa, noting the distinct lack of jewels and the simplicity of her dress, before glancing away.

"Your mother is here, of course -- I certainly wouldn't be if she wasn't." As the help walked by, Cygnus secured himself a glass of wine, pausing in his reply to offer it to Narcissa. "Your uncle has requested that I formally announce before these good people how pleased we all are about the success of the Black-Lestrange union, and you know how much I enjoy making speeches." Not at all -- especially as he had his secret doubts about said success, but he wasn't about to load all of his problems on this particular person.

"Parkinson has a very leisurely manner of speaking, so I'm afraid Lucius will be occupied for a while, and until our wandering spouses return to us, you're stuck with your old father and his fear of public speaking."

Narcissa politely declined the wine, as she decided that if she were to possibly become pregnant again she would try to be as healthy as possible. Instead she picked up a petit quiche that was nestled on a large column and took a small bite from it. "Oh, yes. I haven't spoken to Bella in a long time, I wonder how exactly that is going." Narcissa imagined how Bella was reacting to the arrangement, and although her mother never mentioned anything terrible she had a few doubts in the back of her mind. "I'm sure your speech will go fine, as long as you don't have too much of that wine." She give a short laugh in the back of her throat.

"Besides, I've never thought that you have trouble in public speaking. You're quite eloquent, actually." She put the rest of the quiche in her mouth.

"We'll just have to see what inebriation does to my enunciation. Your mother will be appropriately horrified."

With a restrained burst of a laugh that matched Narcissa's, Cygnus raised the glass to his lips and took a sip, nodding briefly to signal his satisfaction with the wine. In truth, the speech was not what weighed heavily on his mind; no, what bothered him was how absent Bellatrix had become, how utterly unreachable and wan. And Narcissa also gave him cause for concern, although he limited himself to another appraising look at her instead of saying the words and addressing the topic she seemed so desperate to avoid.

"My dear, make sure you say hello to your uncle," he finally said, letting his gaze to drift away from her and seek out the figure of Thibaud Rosier. "Seeing his favorite niece will leave him overjoyed, I'm sure."

Narcissa watched as he raised the glass to his mouth, watching how even his eyes were staring at her in almost the same way as everyone else. This was the moment when she just wished to fade to black, or at least just leave with Lucius. But instead she forced herself on, gave her father another kiss on the cheek and wished him good luck.

Narcissa walked away slowly and took time to move towards her uncle, who's back was towards the crowd and was standing next to the bar. She looked for her aunt as well, as most of the time the two were mostly inseparable, but the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be seen. Narcissa finally reached him, after almost being stopped by a Dolohov, and quickly started conversation with him.

"Bon soir, oncle." She gave him a kiss on both cheeks, and smelled the liquor in his breath. Watching him for a second he seemed to be somewhat distressed, but prying wasn't something that Narcissa did. "Happy Christmas, I haven't seen you in a long time." It was the truth, the last time she had seen anyone besides Druella and Lucius was in late July when her mother threw a baby shower for her. Well, technically Bellatrix was the hostess as it was at her home but Bellatrix would never decorate a room in bright yellows and greens, so it had to have been Druella as the only other person would've been Andromeda, which was obviously out of the question. The bartender offered her a type of aperitif and she declined, turning back to her uncle. "I'm assuming you've been well, I haven't heard anything terrible." She laughed a little, still watching his distressed face.

02

The night had been early and not for the first time for the past several parties (and then some) so was Thibaud Rosier. Middle-aged and well within the peak of his professional career, it shouldn’t be thus; he should be entering from the yawning, gaping, decorated halls with his beautiful wife at his side a couple of hours after the celebration had officially started. It was a fact well-established from early on, back when the dance of aristocracy, pretense, and social obligation had been birthed from wealth and name. Stubborn, Thibaud opted to think not of the many rules, protocols, and past-established guidelines breached but of what may possibly be the highlight of his week: a party. The night may be young, the bar may be lonesome, and the drink may be too fresh from newly-opened barrels but, convinced, his indifference refused to think of the situation in such a way. Instead: it thought about a promising time to get bloody fucking drunk and bloody fucking merry for the bloody fucking Yule.

At hindsight, Thibaud didn’t think there was any reason for him not to be there on time. His son—or daughter, really—had yet to be born and duties of any dutiful father had yet to be christened Commitment, Responsibility, and The End of All Parties. His wife, lovely, elegant, and truly worthy of any and all of the precious gifts he had the generosity (and regard) to give her, was at home. Thibaud gave due pause; why was she home? Shouldn’t she be here, with him? Dine with him, talk with him, dazzle him with her eloquence, charm her with her eyelashes? And all that shite, really?

“How terribly peculiar,” he muttered to himself as he raised his drink to his lips and took a long satisfying gulp. The liquor burned down his throat, sensationalizing existentialism, politics, and sociology in one single sweep of its cinnamon-hinted heat. But really, it shouldn’t all be. His marriage was in a most disastrous pinnacle and for all that is mighty and materialistic in this world, Thibaud’s outrage screamed for a bloody fucking redo. But then again: “Makes my drinking all the more reasonable.”

Narcissa watched as he raised the glass to his mouth, watching how even his eyes were staring at her in almost the same way as everyone else. This was the moment when she just wished to fade to black, or at least just leave with Lucius. But instead she forced herself on, gave her father another kiss on the cheek and wished him good luck.

Narcissa walked away slowly and took time to move towards her uncle, who's back was towards the crowd and was standing next to the bar. She looked for her aunt as well, as most of the time the two were mostly inseparable, but the Frenchwoman was nowhere to be seen. Narcissa finally reached him, after almost being stopped by a Dolohov, and quickly started conversation with him.

"Bon soir, oncle." She gave him a kiss on both cheeks, and smelled the liquor in his breath. Watching him for a second he seemed to be somewhat distressed, but prying wasn't something that Narcissa did. "Happy Christmas, I haven't seen you in a long time." It was the truth, the last time she had seen anyone besides Druella and Lucius was in late July when her mother threw a baby shower for her. Well, technically Bellatrix was the hostess as it was at her home but Bellatrix would never decorate a room in bright yellows and greens, so it had to have been Druella as the only other person would've been Andromeda, which was obviously out of the question. The bartender offered her a type of aperitif and she declined, turning back to her uncle. "I'm assuming you've been well, I haven't heard anything terrible." She laughed a little, still watching his distressed face.

WIP

2008-01-11T22:51:12Z

TYPE: 1:1
WHO: GAULTIER LESTRANGE, RABASTAN LESTRANGE
WHAT: Papa is going to teach his son to watch his motha-effing mouth!
WHERE: Rabastan's flat, London
WHEN: After this heartfelt exchange, 1975

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound of the clock above the mantelpiece was the only disturbance in the room. Although the sun was already high in the sky, curtains that had been hastily drawn kept out any hint of daylight, the long-extinguished fire only adding to the chill darkness of the niche Rabastan had returned to. Whatever rancid communication he'd had with his father was far from his mind: the previous day had been spent by his mother's side, and upon the setting of the sun, he'd excused himself from her presence, to carry out some task she would surely object to had she been privy to the details.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was well into the morning when he finally returned to the modest flat he kept in London for nights such as these. Senses heightened by the rush of casting deadly green light at unworthy filth dulled as he walked unsteadily in, letting his outer robes fall to the floor, discarded, as he loosened the top two buttons of his shirt and felt blindly for his bed. Pausing only to ensure that the protective wards were in place, groaning wearily, he stretched, and fell into a deep sleep, with only the sound of the clock carrying constantly on until morning.

The same protective wards placed about Rabastan's dingy flat had been the very ones Gaultier taught him how to cast, and were easily breakable. A small smile then proudly graced his hidden features as he urged the door open, slowly as to make sure there was absolutely no sound of an entrance. With the door open wide enough for him to slip through, Gaultier made his appearance just as promised and began his descent upon his newly found prey: Rabastan. Oh, how the youngest son bearing his name knew how to push all the wrong buttons.

Gaultier's movements, swift and silent, carried him up the stairs and into the boy's bedroom where he currently laid sleeping. Another smile was given and it was all he could do to stop himself lunging forward, ripping Rabastan from the bed, and killing him on the spot. No one spoke to him in such a manner as Rabastan had only a few hours previous, and Gaultier was here to make sure the lesson was learned.

Now leaning over his son's bed, eyeing him curiously, Gaultier lifted a hand and firmly wrapped his fingers around Rabastan's exposed neck. The grip, briefly loose, suddenly tightened and Gaultier hissed out loud enough to wake him: "You were brought up knowing full well you do not raise your voice to your father, boy. Owl, or otherwise. How terrible of you for forgetting."

Wands were extensions of their bearers, pseudo limbs that focused the brunt of a wizard's power and directed it toward its final target; to one well trained in the magical arts, raising a wand in defense was nothing but second nature. But even as Rabastan's hand fell down to the waistline of his trousers, where the ash wand had been secured, fingers tightening in a reflexive movement around the familiar wood, he didn't immediately draw it -- crippling rage prevented it, perhaps, or the inborn fear that accompanied such a rude awakening.

Gaultier's hiss had been unnecessary to rouse him; the feel of powerful hands around his throat had been enough: he jerked awake, blood-shot eyes widening as the man tightened his hold on him, his own sudden intake of breath ending in a harsh rattle as his airways were squeezed off. He strained against the force of the older man -- and then went utterly limp, lifeless in his father's grasp, meeting Gaultier's glare with a very similar one of his own.

Gaultier's firm fingers only intensified the grip around Rabastan's neck as his gaze met his son's own. A wand? There would be no need for it, for Gaultier himself brought the boy into the world and could take him out in one fatal slip of the wrist. "Rabastan." The word was uttered as if it had never crossed his tongue before, a stranger and introductions were only now being offered.

A single moment passed in silence and with another hiss of frustration did Gaultier pull away, his hand once fisted around Rabastan's neck now planted in his hair. A jerk of his wrist and Rabastan was tugged from his bed, Gaultier keeping him on his knees where his son obviously belonged. "I want you to tell me exactly what you were thinking when you owled me in a huff, boy. You are no bitch, you shan't act like one."

As he was hauled from the scant comfort of his bed, what little sense of reason that remained after a long night followed by this unpleasant surprise left him. A muffled thud marked the contact of his knees against the floor, and a grunt escaped him as his head was forced back under the jerk of Gaultier's wrist. It seemed as though the two men wanted to out-stare the other, one from his position of power, one from his forced prostration on the floor -- and the second was determined to win.

The hand that had just seconds ago frozen in hesitation now moved with new life, tightening fingers finally drawing the wand and raising it, the blunt end aimed at Gaultier's face. Anger made Rabastan's expression dark and ugly, but his voice, when he spoke, was unusually level. This single act, that of threatening his own father with the killing end of his wand, was conceived of a complete lack of rationality, but a sense of calm pervaded Rabastan; there would be no spells cast in rash anger. Not yet.

"You owled me. Father."

"You know what I mean, Rabastan!" Gaultier's usually calm voice was now raised to a threatening level, and it was all he could do to keep his anger under control. The stern glare, turned down toward his son that lingered at his feet, narrowed again. Rabastan, his youngest, dared to continue such irresponsible behaviour? Gaultier would simply not have it.

Suddenly, and without much warning, the hand once fisted in the back of Rabastan's hair released it's grip to coil about the wand. With a sickening crack did Gaultier snap the magical instrument in two, lifting half into view in a mocking gesture. "Now what, boy? Your mother isn't here to save you."

It was a sickening crack -- the worst imaginable -- and all at once, as Gaultier's grip moved from his head to his now ruined wand, Rabastan lunged on to his feet, one heavily-planted step bringing him right up against his father. "Do you have so little respect for her," he spat, "that you attack me in my own fucking home?"

The calm that had marked his tone mere moments ago was short-lived; indeed, his voice had roughened, and shook with poorly controlled anger. "You should go see to my mother before she disappears entirely." Malice directed at the man standing before him all but dripped from the two words, and a hissed breath escaped him as he roughly knocked his destroyed wand from Gaultier's hands.

A deep breath was taken in hopes of calming himself a tad bit, however, Gaultier had very little control over his anger; Rabastan took after his father a lot more than he would probably like to admit. Glaring down at his son, a smirk came to rest over his features and it was all Gaultier could do now not to wipe that silly snarky expression off Rabastan's pretty face. "Lower your fucking tone, or I shall have your tongue boy."

Another hiss of frustration clearly expressed Gaultier's inability to rationalise not betraying his wife and beating his son senseless. Instead, a single hand was lifted and Gaultier back handed Rabastan hard; yet another bruise to add to the collection.

The blow was not unexpected: father and son were, in this, alike, preferring to abandon the distance of magic and obtain satisfaction in a far more physical means. He'd never struck out at his own father before, not even in their worst fights -- Sabine would not allow it, and he hadn't the anger-given courage to attempt even a half-hearted smack -- but this, this attack on him --

He would not fucking stand for it.

And before he was even aware of it, his own fist swung out and slammed into his father.

A disgruntled noise suddenly emitted itself from the back of Gaultier's throat as Rabastan's fist slammed into his jaw with a bone wrenching crack. It was a moment before Gaultier realised what exactly had happened, and eventually a single hand was lifted to rest lightly on the bruise now quickly forming. Eyes narrowed and his gaze drifted back to Rabastan: determined, malicious, and above all else.. extremely pissed off.

It took several minutes for Gaultier to finally bring himself to move, and as he did so, his fingers wrapped tight around Rabastan's neck. With a single hiss his son was pressed back against the nearest wall, head slammed against the cement.

The foul words that had formed and threatened to burst from Rabastan's throat in an angered yell became a groan, harsh and drawn-out, as the back of his head hit the wall with an entirely unpleasant sound. Already unbalanced by the force he'd placed behind the punch, the strength behind Gaultier's shove took him by surprise, and for a moment, his world consisted of darkness -- and then his sight returned to him, as did sensation, pain from the point of collision streaking through him like so many jolts of a well-placed curse.

"Father," he whispered, the word -- a plea for mercy? -- uttered in a ragged breath. "Father..." And then, after a pause to lick his split and bleeding lip: "Fuck you, Father."

Still, so misbehaved. Gaultier tightened his grip a moment around Rabastan's neck, shoving his head back against the wall once.. no, twice more. Only then did he finally pull away with a satisfied smile, panting hard in attempt to catch his breath. That ought to teach the scoundral.

With his hand lifted and feeling around his jaw, Gaultier paced across the room to seat himself in a nearby chair. A heavy sigh and he finally felt at ease enough to relax, his eyes half-shut as he watched his son. There would be no quick leave, for Sabine would not wish for her precious Rabastan to end the night dead.

If he lost consciousness during the second and third blows, Rabastan was unaware of it, but he suddenly found himself on the floor, sitting in a slumped position against the very wall he had been slammed against. Minutes dragged by, the world around him grey and swimming, and when, finally, he managed to focus on the figure of his father, he stared at him, eyes narrowed in a squint.

A deep breath was drawn before he could speak, but although the two words were uttered haltingly, Gaultier certainly would not miss the hostility that lay behind them. "Still here?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I wish to know whether or not you've learned a lesson." Arms clearly folded over his chest, Gaultier leaned forward enough to make his presence known. He had sat, quite comfortably so, in a chair across the room as he waited for any sign of movement from the bastard-that-be-his-son.

"Your mother might also kill me if she found her precious pansy boy dead on the floor of his flat." A shoulder raised in a rather lazy shrug, Gaultier gave a pleased smile. Sitting back, his entire body was hidden in the shadow of the corner yet again. It'd be another few minutes, when he was sure Rabastan could move, before deciding to apparate home.

As if to say it would take much more than a punch and blow to the head to kill him, Rabastan laughed, the sound that escaped him rough and rather deranged. Gaultier moved first, disappearing from his line of sight by leaning back into the shadow, and Rabastan turned his head so that he was staring up at the ceiling before letting his eyes close.

The old fuck broke my wand, came the distant thought. And then, as he finally registered what his father had said last, another groan of a laugh arose: I should die, and then Maman will kill him. Of course, Sabine would kill him anyway if she saw what Gaultier had done to him -- so either way, it was a win-win situation for Rabastan in terms of his father's fate. And that thought was an entertaining one indeed!

WIP

2008-01-11T22:51:09Z

TYPE: 1:1
WHO: ANDROMEDA BLACK, RABASTAN LESTRANGE
WHAT: [AU] au-ness of doom(?).
WHERE: coast of sparta, greece. also known as a beach.
WHEN: auland of summer, 1977.

" - I am more fit to interpret this than you are. Bird life aplenty is found in the sunny air, not all of it is significant."

The wind, despite the season, prickled on Andromeda's fair skin like sharp knives. So much it made her be covered with a shawl over an hour of her presence on this secluded beach. It was sunrise - she could tell by the hues of amber and different shades of violent and pink in the horizon. She could tell because Andromeda got that same giddy feeling she always got when a new day began; rebirth. She was tired of yesterday, she needed a new day - so, Apollo granted the insomniac woman's request as she sat under the fading moonlight, hearing the hum of Poseidon, reading poetics that were read to her, and now reads freely. Homer.

"As for Odysseus," Andromeda read aloud despite the wind - by the blessing of moderate tide - causing locks of curls to sweep into her face, masking her eyes from the words she knew and loved so dearly; "He perished far from home. You should have perished with him." The kitten in her lap mewed silently and in return, Andromeda gently scratched the calico's ears, as her eyes continued to scan Homer's words for the thousandth time in all her twenty-three years on earth.

With a tilt of her head she placed the book down on her lap as the sun became less pale at little-by-little. "It seems to me Apollo isn't quite done yet, Isis?" She asked the feline, who only mewed for more attention. And with a sigh -- as well as a soft muffled yawn -- she placed her reading aside and gave into the stubborn feline, knowing she was wrapped around that little paw of hers. "Spoiled."

It was a little known fact that Rabastan Lestrange had fallen in love with the crystalline water of Greece. Exactly when the affair began, no one could be sure, for Rabastan was a jealous lover and kept his trysts secret.

Few pleasures could top these: floating, as though a weightless, boneless creature, in the sky-blue water, waves rocking him, salt stinging his eyes and forming a coarse, transparent mask on his face. For weeks at a time, with no prior warning, he would disappear -- to spend time in Greece, in the sun; in the sea. During the day, once his hours of lounging in the blindingly white coastal villa and reading whatever was on hand came to an end, he abandoned land and took to the beach, sand crumbling beneath his toes as he headed into the water. And in the mornings, before even the sun had risen, he dived into the waves that washed so gently onto the shore, and swam out as far as he could.

This was one of these mornings. Brisk laps were an ideal beginning to his day, and so accustomed was he to the solitude of the beach -- his beach!, or so he liked to think -- that he was somewhat taken aback when, while surfacing for a gasp of air during his return to the shoreline, he caught sight of a woman, nestled among the dunes. Increasing the speed of his laps left him kneeling on the sand within minutes, and, chest heaving as he regained his breath, he stood and slowly approached the figure, slowing only slightly when recognition dawned on him.

Andromeda was content to be in her own little world. Much like her father, she never was the life of the party, the social bee - even the Queen Bee, to be exact. Not to say she wasn't a bit popular in her class; she was one of the members of Slug Club, without a doubt making her prestigious in his eyes. She went to his parties when studying -- something she nearly always had done in school -- took a toll and, with the encouraging letters from her mother requested of it. She mingled fairly well, mingled with those whom she grew up with -- it was fine. But Andromeda liked her solitary nature to just - be. Sitting on her little blanket, being coddled by her white shawl that matched her white night dress that clung to her, she shivered when the wind began to blow toward her person.

She wasn't necessarily an "out doors" sort of person, but she enjoyed it well enough. An earth child, as she was raised, Andromeda respected and took ample amount of care of her Mother Earth; the Great Mother whom she refers to as her Gaia. And yet, it was more relaxing when she read outside rather than in. She did enjoy a nice book by a roaring fire as she held a first edition copy of long ago in one hand and, in the other, a cup of hot raspberry and peppermint tea. But something about the solitude, the serenity, and the quiet that relaxed her more than any song, any fire, or even any flavor of tea could do.

But her "serenity" was interrupted when that dear calico -- possibly should just be referred to Isis? -- started to hiss and move around, well, moving around enough to startle Andromeda away from her daydreams. "It's just the wa--" but she was interrupted when, only a few feet a way, her eyes laid on a figure of a man ascended toward the two. Isis protectively stood guard and Andromeda, snatching her book in her lap (for all she knew it could be a thief!), tilted her head with slight interest.

The image of the man became clearer-and-clearer and then, a breath caught in her throat.

She knew him.

"Merlin."

inlimis @ 2008-01-04T13:22:00

2008-01-11T22:51:08Z

TYPE: OWL
WHO: GAULTIER LESTRANGE, RABASTAN LESTRANGE
WHEN: 1975

~~Rabastan~~ Boy,

How did our arrangement go? I want details.

~~It was a fucking disaster~~ ~~That cunt of an heir of theirs broke my fa~~

Your arrangement still stands. So, well, ~~all things considered~~.

Rabastan Lestrange

With all the blots of ink, one begins to wonder.

What ~~did you do this ti~~ happened?

I knew I should have sent your brother.

Funny you should say that, Father.

Nothing.

Rabastan Lestrange

Do tell me, Rabastan, that you aren't copping an attitude with me. ~~You know what I'm like when I'm angry.~~

Quit the small talk and tell me what happened else I'll send Rodolphus around to pry.

I would never, Father.

Sirius Black happened.

Rabastan Lestrange

And what was he doing there?

That wasn't part of the agreement.

Details, Rabastan. I don't have all day.

How ~~the fuck~~ in Merlin's name would I know? Apparently even Black heirs have a penchant for prying.

I was there. Regulus was there. And then Sirius was there.

Rabastan Lestrange

And I have the feeling you made it very clear he wasn't welcome.

Do I need to owl the Black's and apologise now or should I wait for an explaination?

But he wasn't welcome.

Of course not. I initiated nothing.

Rabastan Lestrange

Initiated?

What the fuck have you done, boy? Need I remind you that this arrangement with the Black's, though trying, is an important one. You shan't mess this up for the family. Rodolphus is working day and night in hopes of strengthening this alliance and I will not have you ruining all of his hard work.

The apology is on it's way. I expect you to make peace as well and there will be no discussion.

May I remind you, Father, that this family you are so keen on uniting with ours turned down our offer once before. Now their HEIR sees fit to ruin your and Rodolphus' sacrosanct work -- why the fuck are we grovelling to them?

I will not apologise.

Rabastan Lestrange

Boy,

Need I remind you that though they are lower than us in class (as much as they will testify otherwise), they have contacts we -- as in your brother and I, seeing that you are so keen on doing nothing but lying about in bed -- need here in politics. The more contacts you have, Rabastan, the more likely you are to succeed. Remember that.

Groveling is far from what I'm doing. I am simply bending the Black's perception into a beautiful illusion that I care about what happens to their family in the future. It's far from the truth. Be careful and get your facts straight before once insisting on things you know very little to nothing on, boy. I believe I taught you better manners as well.

Watch your language. What would your mother think if she saw such an owl?

By the way, you are apologising if I must force you to write the owl myself. ~~I have no problem doing so.~~

~~More like bending over for the Blacks.~~

Open your eyes, old man. I am caring for my mother, since no one else in this family seems to be aware of her current condition.

Must I sign the apology with 'xoxo' too?

Rabastan Lestrange

Why you spoilt fucking brat.

You're lucky I don't disown you and remove Lestrange from your name completely, you don't deserve it.

Another word, Rabastan. I dare you. Say one more word and believe me when I say I will have your hide mounted above the fireplace, my wife be damned.

[Unsigned]

Right.

Rabastan Lestrange

Expect a visit.

[Unsigned]

WIP

2008-01-11T22:51:07Z

TYPE: GROUP
WHO: Anyone and everyone
WHAT: Bellatrix's and Rodolphus' engagement party.
WHERE: Black Estate
WHEN: Spring, 1975

The threat of rain had been a real possibility all week, and while the clouds mounted through the days, growing darker and more foreboding, it was on this day of days that the sky finally broke and cold pellets began to fall. Were the Black manor a mundane home, this unfortunate turn in weather might have ruined the day’s plans, but no –- this is a wizard’s estate, and not even rain itself could put a damper on festivities.

A protective ward was thus placed upon the courtyard, keeping the rain from hitting the finely dressed guests and the carefully arranged scenery.

Above, silver sunlight filtered through gray clouds and all around the many trees and blooms could be seen swaying in the wet wind; but here all is shielded until moving past the magical barriers, their perimeter marked by wet stone. Within this protective eye, crisp white tablecloths embroidered with silver were draped over the many round tables, each one accompanied by carefully arranged bouquets, floating candles, and fine silverware, with floating trays of food bearing chic appetizers and drinks making routine sweeps about the milling guests. The display was a show of taste and expense, and for the engagement party of Cygnus and Druella Black’s eldest daughter, neither would be withheld.

An engagement for their eldest daughter, and yet Bellatrix seemed to be late for her own party.

Within the estate and tucked away within her room, Bellatrix looked through the window at the lavish display with a moody frown and reddened cheeks. Even from her lofty perch the lilt of elegant music permeated the glass, the sound of which caused the witch to take another long swig from a bottle of ‘borrowed’ champagne. The contents were already nearly empty, which gave good reason for the sharp sway that overtook her tall form upon standing. A knock sounded upon the door, no doubt one of her family members coming to check on her, but a hollered, “I’m coming!” apparently warded off whoever it was.

Dressed in bright red to counter the dreariness outdoors, and in a shortened, youthful robe, Bellatrix was forced to slap a hand on the wall for support before she managed to slip her feet into her pumps. Another gulp from the bottle, followed by an unladylike burp, and Bellatrix was sauntering out of her room, crossing the hall, and after a near disastrous spill on the staircase, was walking out through the glass doors to join the party.

Gaultier pursed his lips, ignoring the ramblings of his wife as his narrowed eyes surveyed the room carefully. The engagement party was agreed upon months in advance, but the arrangements were left in the care of one Monsieur Black; Gaultier having seen him fit to carry out such an important task. There would be no imperfections for he would not allow it, and his sweeping gaze across the room made sure of this. Rodolphus, his perfect son, heir of the Lestrange home deserved nothing but the best.

Drumming fingers danced across the clothed table, stroking the silken material as a smirk began to form across his once emotionless face. The entertainment was certainly lacking, for he was growing more and more bored with each passing minute. What in Merlin's name could be more important to the future Mrs Lestrange than her own damn engagement party? The very idea of Bellatrix not taking this serious enough sent waves of anger through out Gaultier, and all he could muster was a simple disgruntled noise in the back of his throat.

"Wine." The word was whispered after a long drawn out and rather awkward pause, clearly announcing his inability to pay much attention to his wife in a place of public. "I need more wine."

Sabine noted Bellatrix's absence just as clearly as her husband but chose to ignore it for the meantime and put it into her store of hatred for the Black family. However important the alliance between their families, the two young ladies involved with her sons were both decidedly more trouble than their collective worth.

She did not blame her husband for his distraction considering the situation, and her own piqued look was mostly for her absent future daughter-in-law, but his complete lack of interest was not what she needed to sweeten her mood. Nevertheless, this was a joint endeavour, and Sabine subtly flicked her wrist towards a tray laden with glasses which began to swiftly move against the flow towards them.

"Wine is coming, dearest. Although you should not drink too much so quickly. It will sit ill with your tonics."
Sabine would have given a tut were it not such poor common manners. The Black Girl (Andromeda had been 'The Black Child') would put them all into an early grave.

A smile then and Gaultier turned his head enough to meet Sabine's gaze, his eyes roaming over her pale perfectly made up face. My, was his wife the most beautiful woman there in the room; no Black could ever compare. "Darling, you shant worry." The words, whispered, and Gaultier's fingers found Sabine's own. With his gaze now firmly settled to his wife's, he allowed their fingers to lace together over the table before they were lifted, each of Sabine's knuckles now lightly brushed with his lips. "I'll be just fine for I have you to take care of me."

For once, Gaultier allowed himself to be lost in the beauty that was his wife, ignoring the loud bumbling about them. His sons, his perfect darling Rodolphus had slipped off to some place or other and was no where to be seen and Rabastan the same, thankfully. As Gaultier's fingers slipped from Sabine's own they lifted enough to brush lightly along the softness of her cheek. "We should have organised the party ourselves."

"It is far more proper to have it here though dearest." Despite her perfectly polite words, the agreement in her expression would be easily read by her husband of many years.
A smile settled on Sabine's lips as Gaultier brushed her cheek. "All will be well, I am sure. It is early yet." Her hand reached up and touched his gently before returning to her side, and Sabine thought for a moment that all really would be well, temporary forgetting that the engagement was simply a follow-up to the Black Debacle and would never be as simple as all that.

"You and Rodolphus have worked so hard I have barely seen you these past weeks. I am terribly proud of you both."
Happy as she was to spend time with her husband, the celebration did not fill her with any joy, and if the young woman in question did not have the grace to present herself at her own engagement party, Sabine could see a great deal of strife ahead.

"Gaultier, Sabine, how nice. We did not expect you until later this afternoon." Coming from across the courtyard, Cygnus reached the table the elder Lestranges were seated at, accompanied by the tray Sabine had summoned. As ever, the tone of his voice disguised the true meaning of his words: how nice, indeed, that they were so punctual, no doubt to needlessly reassure themselves that this engagement would not fall apart. But Bellatrix was not Andromeda: she was, if anything, unimpressed by this new obligation of hers, but she possessed not a single treacherous bone in her body, and would show. Others in the family had had their fears -- Walburga's maid was skulking around near Bellatrix's chambers, Druella informed him -- but Cygnus knew she would show. And even with the memory of Andromeda's actions hanging above the Blacks, seeing Monsieur and Madame Lestrange sitting so stiffly in their chairs gave him a modicum of satisfaction.

They could wait, he decided, smiling that barely detectable smile of his as he moved to shake Gaultier's hand, and kiss Sabine's. Andromeda's desertion and the subsequent nullification of her engagement to their hotheaded son did not elevate the Lestrange family above the Blacks; it chilled their relationship, yes, but they wanted a share of the markets the Blacks controlled, did they not? And the French were always so easily offended.

They could wait.

Click. Click. Click.

Bellatrix’s pumps clacked soundly upon the ground, her stroll bearing remnants of her typical feline prowl -- supposing said feline happened upon a dish of champagne.

She glided through the glass doors easily enough, exempting a bump or two, and proceeded to the greater courtyard with only a single stop -- to snag a glass of wine from a passing tray. On she walked, a woman with a mission -- or perhaps an obligation -- with those icy blue eyes of hers swinging through the milling crowd in search of someone. It would appear that her fiancée was just as elusive as her. But no matter. Bellatrix, preparing to slip off once more, spotted her father and in-laws at a table not too far away, and while she hesitated a moment -- no doubt wondering if she could slip off unseen -- she rounded about on her heel to briskly approach them.

"Good day," she drawled upon arriving at their table, her already tall vantage aiding in looking down at the seated French couple; no doubt in all respects.

To her father she looked next, and where there had been a bland expression before, there was now a certain brightening -- or perhaps it was just the rose in her cheeks. "Hello fa--"
She hiccuped, soundly and loudly.

Bursting into a quick round of laughter, Bellatrix lifted her hand to press the back of it to her ruby lips. While the laughter ended soon enough, there remained a shiny amusement that lingered in her eyes. Surely her fine spirits were due to the happy celebration.

Proper. Oh yes, proper indeed. There was nothing proper about a drunk wife-to-be and a father who clearly had little to no control over his raunchy children. My, what a pitiful excuse of a honourable family: one daughter running stir crazy over a muggle boy, no less, and another not taking the very important marriage arrangement serious enough for Gaultier's liking; it all made his skin crawl. Pursing his lips, it was all Gaultier could do to turn away from the group with a loud hiss of annoyance in the back of his throat. He could not, would not, grace these miserable people with his presence much longer. No, for Gaultier's patience could not stand it.

A single hand was raised and waved in the direction of the two lingering Blacks as Gaultier took his leave, making his way quickly toward the garden despite the down pour of rain. The very idea of continuing this alliance was now becoming a sour subject, and the more he thought on the idea, the more Gaultier's anger grew.

Her fine spirits were surely due to the happy celebration! Certainly a recrimination at this display of giggly inebriation would be well and proper at this point, but Cygnus, as he regarded his eldest daughter, could only feel relief that Bellatrix was here -- and not only here, but smiling. She was so unlike her parents: where Druella and Cygnus hid their dislike behind stiff smiles, Bellatrix's impressions, voiced or not, could always be read from the expression on her face. And so perhaps, if she was laughing now, there existed some hope that this marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange was not one she entered unhappily.

He pressed a hand against her back, about to reply to her hiccup-addled greeting, but was interrupted by Gaultier's sudden departure. With a barely detectable squint of his left eye -- the forerunner of the tick that Bellatrix suffered from in moments of pure fury -- he followed his daughter's soon-to-be father-in-law's hurried exit, and then turned his gaze onto the remaining Lestrange.

"I seem to keep missing your son." The words, uttered in a French made flawless by years of conversing with Druella, were seemingly mild, but the good lady sitting before them would certainly notice the note of frostiness that lay behind them. "Perhaps Gaultier will track him down and send him my way? I have something to give him."

"Well, he is certainly here, Cygnus." Sabine's light tone was edged in steely annoyance. "I'm sure Gaultier will direct him to us presently, and if he is delayed I will be more than happy to find my son for you. It is part of the joyful link between parent and child, to always know what the latter is doing and where to find them, no?"
The smile she directed at Cygnus was clearly edged, although to an outward observer it would look entirely courteous. "Rodolphus never strays far, he is a good man. Of course, he will always be my boy though - that feeling never fades although he is entirely grown now. I'm sure you understand it too."

Sabine also gave a small smile to her future daughter-in-law, inwardly sighing for the umpteenth time. Gaultier had been so sure the match was what was needed, but still. Bellatrix Black would not have been her choice in bride for her eldest son.
"You look beautiful as always, Bellatrix. I am sorry my son is not here to greet you immediately."

Cygnus inclined his head at Sabine's first question, an indulgent smile appearing on his thin lips. Of Rodolphus he'd heard nothing but good, noteworthy things, but the fact that he had yet to formally greet the father of the bride on this auspicious occasion rankled slightly.

The smile widened as Sabine complimented Bellatrix. Cygnus was under no illusions as to what the Lestranges really thought about their family, and even though his beloved daughter was now engaged to their beloved son, Sabine's words were probably delivered with some reluctance. And as for Bellatrix, had she been sober, words of praise on something she had little control over would probably leave her discomfited.

"We will root the elusive groom out, never fear." Lightly squeezing Bellatrix's arm, he kissed her cheek, then glanced down at Sabine. "Sabine, it's been a pleasure, and I'll catch up with you later, but for now I must leave you two ladies." After a final kiss on his daughter's cheek, he left them, directing one of the help to fix Bellatrix a cup of coffee before continuing on his way.