Sooner or later...
Who: Rabastan Lestrange
Where: His home
When: 20 August 2001
Status: Complete
It wasn't his fault that he was a few days behind in his current events. And if Rabastan could have had his way, he never would have seen that Prophet article. With a snarl, he threw the nearly week-old Daily Prophet down with a snarl.
Bloody brilliant, just bloody brilliant.
He stalked across his study and to the liquor cabinet that lay against one wall. The door was flung open, Rabastan pouring himself a healthy glass of brandy. That was followed by a second and half of a third before he no longer felt like ripping someone's head off. Right now, he would settle for disembowelment. Or maybe even a gentle game of pin the brain on the Muggle.
Of course though, Rabastan reasoned as he sunk into the soft leather chair, half-filled glass between his fingers, this figured. Once more he was passed over because of some infantile reason or another. Was this still his punishment for the failure at Azkaban? That had been as much Bellatrix's fault as his own. But at the same time, though the chit had been killed, they had still managed to take out the head of the Order.
Didn't that count for something?
And McGonagall... of course that had been a complete failure as well. Still, it seemed he was the only one who wasn't getting any credit. The only one who was continually passed over and ignored. He was a Lestrange afterall. It wasn't as if he were some Muggle hick trying to pass as a Pureblood.
Soon, very soon it was going to be his turn. Rabastan summoned the paper, balling it up and tossing it onto the fire. He couldn't help but smirk as he watched Severus' face curl and peel in the heat as the Prophet went up in flames.
When it was he who was sitting at the right side of their Lord, he would relish in the opportunity to watch them become nothing more than the expendable pawns they were.
Where: His home
When: 20 August 2001
Status: Complete
It wasn't his fault that he was a few days behind in his current events. And if Rabastan could have had his way, he never would have seen that Prophet article. With a snarl, he threw the nearly week-old Daily Prophet down with a snarl.
Bloody brilliant, just bloody brilliant.
He stalked across his study and to the liquor cabinet that lay against one wall. The door was flung open, Rabastan pouring himself a healthy glass of brandy. That was followed by a second and half of a third before he no longer felt like ripping someone's head off. Right now, he would settle for disembowelment. Or maybe even a gentle game of pin the brain on the Muggle.
Of course though, Rabastan reasoned as he sunk into the soft leather chair, half-filled glass between his fingers, this figured. Once more he was passed over because of some infantile reason or another. Was this still his punishment for the failure at Azkaban? That had been as much Bellatrix's fault as his own. But at the same time, though the chit had been killed, they had still managed to take out the head of the Order.
Didn't that count for something?
And McGonagall... of course that had been a complete failure as well. Still, it seemed he was the only one who wasn't getting any credit. The only one who was continually passed over and ignored. He was a Lestrange afterall. It wasn't as if he were some Muggle hick trying to pass as a Pureblood.
Soon, very soon it was going to be his turn. Rabastan summoned the paper, balling it up and tossing it onto the fire. He couldn't help but smirk as he watched Severus' face curl and peel in the heat as the Prophet went up in flames.
When it was he who was sitting at the right side of their Lord, he would relish in the opportunity to watch them become nothing more than the expendable pawns they were.