Even Rabastan knew better than to disturb Gaultier when he was in one of his moods, but a recent altercation with a certain Rosier brat had left him spoiling for a fight. It was an itch that could be cured by an evening spent in a basement at Knockturn, where brute-faced wizards came together for endless bloody rounds of fisticuffs -- only a distressed Sabine had made him promise to avoid the rings, and Rabastan, who was nothing if not a good son to his mother, would obey. For now.
But despite his mother's best intentions, his favorite outlet -- for it was his favorite, and only a good victory fuck after beating his opponent into a pulp came second to it -- was cut off from him. He could not even confront Sabine about it and carefully wheedle permission from her, as she, after a series of loudly slamming doors, could not be found, not even by her youngest son, who was usually in the know about her preferred niches.
And so, frustration that grew by leaps and bounds crawling under his skin, Rabastan strode into his father's study, the banging of the door announcing his arrival as he moved into the centre of the room. The glint of light caught by the glass of whisky caught his gaze, and a slow upward curl of a smile brought mocking amusement to his expression.
"Have you seen my mother?"
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