Act One, Scene Two - Rabastan Lestrange
Title: Content with my harm. (004. Insides)
(Series thus far can be found here.)
Characters/Pairing: Rabastan, Rosalie, Briallen, Rivalen Lestrange, Ophelie Bungs, Rosalind Bungs; Rabastan/Rosalind.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1468
Summary: Ophelie is let loose and Rosalind... makes a grand entrance? I don't know, I hate writing summaries and may actually end up rewriting this whole scene when I've managed to get the rest out of my brain.
A/N: Um. I've merged several AUs with HP canon. Parts may only make sense if you've read the specific fics by dramathique19, which is where half of Rabastan's brain resides these days. Blame her. Ophelie is dramathique19's brainchild, and so is Rosalind, in everything but name.
Light flooded in through eyes that had not been given permission to close. They were not yet ready to focus; something still reverberated around his skull. Not a pleasant sensation.
"Grandmere Ophelie, I said sit down."
The voice was coming from his left. Left and ahead. But that wasn't ahead, it was above. Darker smudges were obscuring what he knew to be the ceiling. Silver eyes widened in relief as his own focussed properly and the twins beamed up at their brother, confirmation that Papa was indeed alive and as well as could be, given the circumstances. Their concern was marked by a brief peck on either cheek.
"Bitch knocked me out," Rabastan muttered. He tried to raise a hand to the throb in his head, and the girls promptly released the sleeves they had been worriedly tugging at.
"The bitch is still here," Rosalie replied in something of a stage whisper.
"And probably listening," Briallen said pointedly, arching an eyebrow at her sister. "And she's not a bi-”
"Is he alright?" The voice that had silenced Ophelie drew closer and Briallen made room for her brother. Rivalen's rather stoic features reminded Rabastan so much of his own at that age. Merlin, he's eighteen. The young man of the house stood and offered his hand, which was graciously accepted, though it took all three of them to make sure their father was steady on his feet. The world seemed to right itself around him, rocking to and fro before settling. A glance at the chandelier confirmed that the room had not really moved at all. That was mildly disconcerting, truth be told.
He was bleeding. The second woman to draw blood from him today. Having placed herself at a safe distance from Rivalen’s clenched fist, Ophelie still stood. The flurry of French insults that flew at him went ignored until he noted his son’s knuckles were turning white. Rabastan doubted his son would strike a woman. The moment his children began to argue back in a language he didn’t understand, he lost his patience.
“Silence!” Obedience ensued. Only Ophelie could not translate what he had said, and the others weren’t volunteering to interpret. Romanian sounded far harsher than her soft lilt, especially when barked in frustration by an angry Lestrange. The effect, though, was satisfying, and he succeeded in giving her a full lecture on how to behave around her grandchildren before anything interrupted his trail of thought. The twins, who had previously been stifling their amusement at their grandmere’s bewildered expression, had fallen back to stand beside their brother. All of them seemed to be staring through him and it was more than a little irritating. “What’s so important you can’t listen to your father?” he demanded of Rivalen, who met his eyes for all of five seconds before returning his gaze to the doorway.
“Me.”
Rabastan saw the bags in the hallway before he registered anything else. There were oranges rolling across the floor when the shopping had been upset. He was sure there had been plenty of fruit in the kitchen while he was making coffee.
The woman who managed to knock the air out of him had locked her arms around her waist. Her bags, her children, her home.
Rosalind. The perfume in the bedroom, the locked closet. The blasted sodding cuppycake song.
He did not have time to let his arms settle around her.
“You complete bastard!” Punctuated with a fist to the stomach. She’d learned something, at least. One hand flew out to tell Rivalen to back off, and he ushered the others out of the room. Rosalind didn’t even notice them go, emphasising her words with more blows to his chest. “You can’t just walk right back in here. You just left! Left them-Us! Fourteen years. Your children-”
The sentence cut off as her voice cracked. She had lost the words. If he remained impassive for long enough she would continue. And with force. This he knew. Feeling had never been something one could hammer into a Lestrange, but looking the part didn’t make it true. He watched the pain pass behind her eyes. One shove; nowhere near hard enough to move him, but he complied and stepped back. For a second he considered reaching to touch the tension in the air between them; as if Ophelie had cast some sort of barrier to keep him away from her daughter.
“But Reia,” he caught her as she fell to her knees, dropping to the floor with her. Her voice was barely a whisper. The turbulent creature that was almost pacing a moment ago felt wrong, broken, in his arms. She could see it, the lack of recognition as he struggled to place the name. He knew it was significant, but even as something drew taut in his chest he could not remember why. Rosalind’s hands gripped the sides of his face, tears rolling down her own, but this wasn’t affection. It was a command. “Reia!” She pressed her forehead to his as though she was trying to share her own memories, but his expression remained blank. The colour drained from her cheeks despite her temper. “No. No, you have no right to forget her. Fucking-” She slapped him. “-Remember!”
And you do not kill children?
He repeated the name several times. Vasilis’ scream echoed through him. Rosalind’s fingers were brushing away the tears as fast as they fell, but her eyes remained on Rabastan.
“Forgive me,” he breathed as the walls came down. She was tiny. She’d been wearing a light green dress. Dolohov had already seen to her brother. For a moment he was blinded by the memory. His face ached and crumpled under the weight of the stoic mask he could not keep up. The tears flowed freely. As he had knelt before the Dark Lord, now he knelt before Rosalind. He expected no absolution.
Her eyes appeared inches from his, though he could not recall her ever moving. “I hate you.”
Rabastan nodded with a numbed understanding, “You should.” I love you. Standing, he stumbled and landed on his mother’s beloved recliner. He swore as he hit the back of his head against the wall and nearly threw a book from the shelves as the house elf that wasn’t Till appeared with a box of tissues; Till herself appeared a few moments later with a cloth and a bowl of warm water, wringing one ear with her free hand.
“Come here,” Rosalind gestured with one hand, pulling him forward by his shoulder when he didn’t comply. He watched her face as she dried his. “Girls cry, men don’t.”
Had she been wearing make up? He hadn’t noticed, but the tears had left definite tracks down her face. Taking the bowl and cloth from Till, he tried to wipe away any visible evidence that he had hurt her. “Then feel free to tie my hair up in ribbons.” It was meant to be humorous, but his voice deadpanned. Still, he earned a ghost of a smile for his efforts.
With the quietest of sniffles, the cloth was tugged from Rabastan’s fingers. “This was meant for you,” she dabbed at the blood he’d forgotten was there, wincing with him as she hit the point of impact. “Sorry.”
“Don’t ever apologise to me.” The words fell from his mouth before he could even think them and he stood, hands curling around her shoulders. He ignored the voice in his head that kept insisting he did not deserve this and placed a kiss right in the centre of Lind’s forehead, arms folding around her.
“Mother always said to kiss someone on the forehead is a promise to guard and protect them forever,” Calliope had said as Rashnu did just that. The brothers stood in the doorway, waiting for their father to join them. This was a family assignment. No guarantee of survival, naturally.
“I do not intend to break that promise,” was his answer. It had been the first time they could recall their father ever sounding hurt.
“Nor do we, for that matter.” Rabastan had nudged his father aside as he and his brother both planted promises of protection on their mother’s forehead. The value behind the sentiment had been lost when Rod tried to kiss Rashnu in the same manner.
“I take it you’re staying.” Startled by Ophelie’s appearance, Rabastan stepped back as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. He stared at the figure in the doorway, unsure as to whether she expected an answer. Her tone had suggested it wasn’t really a question.
“He is,” Rosalind answered before he could. You will never cease to confuse me, woman.
“Good, because Till and Kipp have already rearranged the bedrooms.”
(Series thus far can be found here.)
Characters/Pairing: Rabastan, Rosalie, Briallen, Rivalen Lestrange, Ophelie Bungs, Rosalind Bungs; Rabastan/Rosalind.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1468
Summary: Ophelie is let loose and Rosalind... makes a grand entrance? I don't know, I hate writing summaries and may actually end up rewriting this whole scene when I've managed to get the rest out of my brain.
A/N: Um. I've merged several AUs with HP canon. Parts may only make sense if you've read the specific fics by dramathique19, which is where half of Rabastan's brain resides these days. Blame her. Ophelie is dramathique19's brainchild, and so is Rosalind, in everything but name.
Light flooded in through eyes that had not been given permission to close. They were not yet ready to focus; something still reverberated around his skull. Not a pleasant sensation.
"Grandmere Ophelie, I said sit down."
The voice was coming from his left. Left and ahead. But that wasn't ahead, it was above. Darker smudges were obscuring what he knew to be the ceiling. Silver eyes widened in relief as his own focussed properly and the twins beamed up at their brother, confirmation that Papa was indeed alive and as well as could be, given the circumstances. Their concern was marked by a brief peck on either cheek.
"Bitch knocked me out," Rabastan muttered. He tried to raise a hand to the throb in his head, and the girls promptly released the sleeves they had been worriedly tugging at.
"The bitch is still here," Rosalie replied in something of a stage whisper.
"And probably listening," Briallen said pointedly, arching an eyebrow at her sister. "And she's not a bi-”
"Is he alright?" The voice that had silenced Ophelie drew closer and Briallen made room for her brother. Rivalen's rather stoic features reminded Rabastan so much of his own at that age. Merlin, he's eighteen. The young man of the house stood and offered his hand, which was graciously accepted, though it took all three of them to make sure their father was steady on his feet. The world seemed to right itself around him, rocking to and fro before settling. A glance at the chandelier confirmed that the room had not really moved at all. That was mildly disconcerting, truth be told.
He was bleeding. The second woman to draw blood from him today. Having placed herself at a safe distance from Rivalen’s clenched fist, Ophelie still stood. The flurry of French insults that flew at him went ignored until he noted his son’s knuckles were turning white. Rabastan doubted his son would strike a woman. The moment his children began to argue back in a language he didn’t understand, he lost his patience.
“Silence!” Obedience ensued. Only Ophelie could not translate what he had said, and the others weren’t volunteering to interpret. Romanian sounded far harsher than her soft lilt, especially when barked in frustration by an angry Lestrange. The effect, though, was satisfying, and he succeeded in giving her a full lecture on how to behave around her grandchildren before anything interrupted his trail of thought. The twins, who had previously been stifling their amusement at their grandmere’s bewildered expression, had fallen back to stand beside their brother. All of them seemed to be staring through him and it was more than a little irritating. “What’s so important you can’t listen to your father?” he demanded of Rivalen, who met his eyes for all of five seconds before returning his gaze to the doorway.
“Me.”
Rabastan saw the bags in the hallway before he registered anything else. There were oranges rolling across the floor when the shopping had been upset. He was sure there had been plenty of fruit in the kitchen while he was making coffee.
The woman who managed to knock the air out of him had locked her arms around her waist. Her bags, her children, her home.
Rosalind. The perfume in the bedroom, the locked closet. The blasted sodding cuppycake song.
He did not have time to let his arms settle around her.
“You complete bastard!” Punctuated with a fist to the stomach. She’d learned something, at least. One hand flew out to tell Rivalen to back off, and he ushered the others out of the room. Rosalind didn’t even notice them go, emphasising her words with more blows to his chest. “You can’t just walk right back in here. You just left! Left them-Us! Fourteen years. Your children-”
The sentence cut off as her voice cracked. She had lost the words. If he remained impassive for long enough she would continue. And with force. This he knew. Feeling had never been something one could hammer into a Lestrange, but looking the part didn’t make it true. He watched the pain pass behind her eyes. One shove; nowhere near hard enough to move him, but he complied and stepped back. For a second he considered reaching to touch the tension in the air between them; as if Ophelie had cast some sort of barrier to keep him away from her daughter.
“But Reia,” he caught her as she fell to her knees, dropping to the floor with her. Her voice was barely a whisper. The turbulent creature that was almost pacing a moment ago felt wrong, broken, in his arms. She could see it, the lack of recognition as he struggled to place the name. He knew it was significant, but even as something drew taut in his chest he could not remember why. Rosalind’s hands gripped the sides of his face, tears rolling down her own, but this wasn’t affection. It was a command. “Reia!” She pressed her forehead to his as though she was trying to share her own memories, but his expression remained blank. The colour drained from her cheeks despite her temper. “No. No, you have no right to forget her. Fucking-” She slapped him. “-Remember!”
And you do not kill children?
He repeated the name several times. Vasilis’ scream echoed through him. Rosalind’s fingers were brushing away the tears as fast as they fell, but her eyes remained on Rabastan.
“Forgive me,” he breathed as the walls came down. She was tiny. She’d been wearing a light green dress. Dolohov had already seen to her brother. For a moment he was blinded by the memory. His face ached and crumpled under the weight of the stoic mask he could not keep up. The tears flowed freely. As he had knelt before the Dark Lord, now he knelt before Rosalind. He expected no absolution.
Her eyes appeared inches from his, though he could not recall her ever moving. “I hate you.”
Rabastan nodded with a numbed understanding, “You should.” I love you. Standing, he stumbled and landed on his mother’s beloved recliner. He swore as he hit the back of his head against the wall and nearly threw a book from the shelves as the house elf that wasn’t Till appeared with a box of tissues; Till herself appeared a few moments later with a cloth and a bowl of warm water, wringing one ear with her free hand.
“Come here,” Rosalind gestured with one hand, pulling him forward by his shoulder when he didn’t comply. He watched her face as she dried his. “Girls cry, men don’t.”
Had she been wearing make up? He hadn’t noticed, but the tears had left definite tracks down her face. Taking the bowl and cloth from Till, he tried to wipe away any visible evidence that he had hurt her. “Then feel free to tie my hair up in ribbons.” It was meant to be humorous, but his voice deadpanned. Still, he earned a ghost of a smile for his efforts.
With the quietest of sniffles, the cloth was tugged from Rabastan’s fingers. “This was meant for you,” she dabbed at the blood he’d forgotten was there, wincing with him as she hit the point of impact. “Sorry.”
“Don’t ever apologise to me.” The words fell from his mouth before he could even think them and he stood, hands curling around her shoulders. He ignored the voice in his head that kept insisting he did not deserve this and placed a kiss right in the centre of Lind’s forehead, arms folding around her.
“Mother always said to kiss someone on the forehead is a promise to guard and protect them forever,” Calliope had said as Rashnu did just that. The brothers stood in the doorway, waiting for their father to join them. This was a family assignment. No guarantee of survival, naturally.
“I do not intend to break that promise,” was his answer. It had been the first time they could recall their father ever sounding hurt.
“Nor do we, for that matter.” Rabastan had nudged his father aside as he and his brother both planted promises of protection on their mother’s forehead. The value behind the sentiment had been lost when Rod tried to kiss Rashnu in the same manner.
“I take it you’re staying.” Startled by Ophelie’s appearance, Rabastan stepped back as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. He stared at the figure in the doorway, unsure as to whether she expected an answer. Her tone had suggested it wasn’t really a question.
“He is,” Rosalind answered before he could. You will never cease to confuse me, woman.
“Good, because Till and Kipp have already rearranged the bedrooms.”