¤ Happy
It was very early on a Saturday morning, but Rabastan found himself wide awake and staring at the sun drenched, nearly sheer curtains that draped in front of the window. Being up at such an hour was so annoyingly unnecessary that Rabastan found himself clawing at the pillow under his head, pressing his face further into the comforter as he attempted to put himself back to sleep. But, his mind was now whirring with all the things he had to do today, and once his thoughts began to spin, there was no rest for Rabastan.
He sighed greatly, sitting up and throwing the sheets off of himself, and partially off of Octavia. He looked over her for a moment before pushing out of bed and toward the closet. Rabastan heard her stir behind him but he paid no mind, and opened the doors with a lackluster tug. He really did not want to deal with the idiots at the Ministry, today, but they'd rescheduled their evaluation for today, because apparently it was going to take longer than a normal work day allowed.
Beautiful.
"Honestly?"
Octavia's scratchy voice came from the behind him, and Rabastan kept an annoyed breath to himself. He continued looking for robes, and simply nodded.
"I've complained numerous times about this meeting, Octavia, do not tell me you've forgotten."
"I'm simply astounded that you're actually going to show up," was her retort, and Rabastan smirked to himself as he unbuttoned the robes, yawning for a moment before slipping the fabric over his arms. He turned back to his wife, buttoning the robes back up with his eyebrows high.
"Now, now. I'm the perfect example of a Ministry worker, dear," he said in as pleasant of a tone as he could muster. He should probably practice that for when his superiors came down to the archives, or they would have an honest reason for being suspicious of his behavior down there. Rabastan watched Octavia sit up in the sheets, leaning forward slightly to seemingly examine him.
"You won't be impressing them with inside-out robes, love," she drawled, eyebrows waggling greatly. Rabastan's smirk fell and he looked down at himself, surprised to find that his clothing was put on the wrong way. In his sleeping stupor he must have missed this rather important fact. He looked back up at Octavia, who was holding back a very teasing grin, and Rabastan couldn't help the smile that crossed his features, and he pulled a face at her as he tugged the robes off.
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¤ Crying
He could never get rid of it, the numbing cold of his hands. No matter how he blew on his fingers, no matter how he rubbed them together or buried them within the thin layers of clothes he'd been provided, his hands were always freezing, ready to snap off at any given moment. Rabastan knew it was the dementors' prescense that caused the cold, that even though they were confined in the tiny cells of Azkaban in the far north sea, they couldn't let their prisoners die of the cold. No, they'd just let them go insane making them think they were going to freeze to death, a slow, torturous death that was most deserved by the occupants of these confinements.
Rabastan was sane enough, still, to understand that this was the punishment for his actions. He wasn't like Bellatrix, or Rodolphus---he knew that the crimes he committed were only beneficial to him while the Dark Lord was in power. Once Voldemort had fell, Rabastan had known the end was near. He'd managed to stay out of trouble for the few months after the Potters had somehow defeated his master, and unlike his brother and sister-in-law, Rabastan had been...fine with not carrying on the cause. He had wanted power, and while the Dark Lord was around, he had it---what was he now? The second son of a pureblood family, who wouldn't receive any gain of a proper inheritance unless his brother died, and with Bellatrix as a wife, Rodolphus would remain alive for as long as she wanted him to be.
It had become easier to not think of his terrible place in the fate of the world, and Rabastan had never verbally admitted that it was because of his wife and daughter. He had despised Octavia for the first year of their marriage, barely acknowledging her until she disappeared in the earthquake, and only paying her mind when she returned because she'd led him to believe that she was carrying her son. When she bore a daughter, Rabastan's repulsion of the idea only lasted until he was told to take the little girl in his arms. Lenore was literally the light of his life, and he had easily found some sort of meaning to his time here on earth instead of letting all of his focus be on his master's bidding.
He missed them terribly. He missed Octavia and Lenore so much that his entire body felt cramped and constricted, like even if he was allowed to move beyond the stone walls of his Azkaban cell, he wouldn't be able to. Rabastan knew that the dementors were helping him feel this way, but even before he'd been banished to the island prison, his body had begun to shut down. Seeing Octavia showing her staunch support of him during the quick and hasty trial had helped him keep his mind in tact. The anger he felt toward Rodolphus and Bellatrix for forcing him along had been driving him mad, and the idea that Barty Crouch Jr. might get off for the crime because of who his father was...before he saw Octavia in the crowd, Rabastan had been ready to hurl out whatever wandless magic his fury could conjure.
Instead, he remained quiet and calm, living up to the idea that he was just the younger brother of this ridiculous and insane pureblood family. He was just following along. He had to do it. His brother was the crazy one.
Rabastan had enough sense not to speak out against his brother or Bellatrix, or any of his fellow death eaters. It was part of why the trial had ended so quickly---none of the defendants except for Barty had caused much of a scene; Bellatrix was too smug, Rodolphus never was one for many words, and Rabastan was too smart to put himself in such danger in case that one day he could be released. They were sentenced to life, of course----but there would still be chances to see Octavia, and Lenore. They couldn't deny him of his family, could they? He had never looked into the rules and regulations of Azkaban as a prison, and he'd been too lost in his own thoughts during the trail to truly pay attention to these sort of details, but---he would be able to see his wife and daughter, right?
Rabastan had taken to cramming himself into the corner of the cell, pulling his knees to him and rubbing his hands on his chest. They could never be warm enough, was this punishment for all the terrible things he'd done with his hands? With his wand, with a knife, with the letters he'd written that sent people to their deaths? His hands were going to fall off so that he'd never be able to do those things again. They were going to let his fingers crack off his knuckles and clatter to the floor of this godforsaken cell---
"Lestrange!"
His head shot up, not having heard his name spoken in what felt like weeks---months? He didn't know. Rabastan didn't move from his corner however as he glared at the auror that was on guard duty, his eagle patronus perched upon his shoulder. He looked solemn; maybe the patronus wasn't strong enough to fend off the ghastly desires of the hundreds of dementors floating by.
"I have news for you, Lestrange."
Rabastan's eyes narrowed but he made no further movement toward the guard. News? He was either going to get The Kiss, or---was he being allowed to see Octavia? Maybe it was once a year, maybe she had something important to share, maybe Lenore was walking and she'd wanted him to know. Rabastan felt his body heat up for the first time since he'd entered the prison; the prospect of any news from Octavia brought him a warmth that he hadn't cherished until he could no longer have it at a regular basis. His blue eyes pierced the guard's, and he wondered if it was a letter, or a personal visit that he'd receive from her.
"Your wife and kid are dead."
He was frozen, again. Ice filled the arteries of his heart and Rabastan felt as if he'd finally succumbed to the joint locking symptoms that freezing to death brought. He shook his head.
"You're lying." His voice hadn't been used in weeks, he hadn't had a reason to say a word, or to let out screams like his sister-in-law, her cackles reverberating down the narrow corridors of the prison. Rabastan watched the guard shake his head and he felt the ice in his veins melt completely away as a fire billowed up from his chest. He shot up to his feet, the fastest he's moved in ages so his legs were weak and uncontrollable. Rabastan threw himself against the bars of the cell---bars that allowed the dementors to stick their hands through to torture him while he slept. "Say that again," he growled.
The guard's expression didn't change, and he held up an issue of the Daily Prophet. Rabastan reached through the bars and grabbed it, turning away from the guard to see for himself. He didn't have to read the article to know---the image on the front page of the paper was a large, destructive fire of the home he'd shared with Octavia and Lenore. That was their home, and the caption underneath explained that their bodies had been found in the wreckage, burnt beyond recognition---
His legs finally gave way and Rabastan collapsed to the ground. In some distant part of his mind he heard the guard walk away, but the wracking of sobs against his chest drained out the noise. He'd never felt such a pain before, he'd never felt like wanting to die like he did now, and he wailed in such agony that he heard his cry again and again as it bounced around the walls of his cell. He'd almost been given the Kiss and hadn't for a second hoped that they agreed to send him to his death, but now he wish they had.
Rabastan wished they had killed him. He wished that one of these dementors would take a risk and Kiss him, to suck away all the pain and anguish he was feeling at the thought of----his baby, his baby girl was dead, Octavia was dead---everything he had to live for was dead and gone, and for the first time he felt ashamed for the crimes he'd committed. Was this his real punishment? Was this what he'd finally earned as a rightly sentencing against his crimes?
His fingers cracked in the cold.
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