OWL: To Lucius Malfoy

[pb_rabastan]

Characters: Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy
Location: Respective locations.
Date: 3rd September, 1999.
Status/Warning: Private/mild swearing.
Summary: Somehow Rabastan has found himself rather perplexed.
Completion: Incomplete

Comments

[pb_rabastan]

Cigarette tucked safely in the corner of his mouth, Rabastan stared at the empty bottle in contempt. Well, drinking himself into sobriety was definitely not an option anymore. He hadn't closed the window, and just held of a slightly shaky hand to retrieve the letter. Once read, he cast it aside and automatically began to reply.

A change for the better?
That was our goal once.
Now the very concept is laughable.

He spent a moment wondering why his letters had almost begun to resemble haiku poems before turning his attention back to Lucius' reply.

So you've noticed, then.
And some of us have neither the luxury nor the inclination to wait.

Rabastan looked over the letter, eyebrows raised and set quill to parchment again.

When it comes to writing, I appear to be more articulate than I have any right to be, given my current condition.
Reminds me of school. Four foot essays and firewhiskey.

Smirking slightly at the memory, he flicked his wand and the writing disappeared. The folding part wasn't quite as easy, but he got there in the end. Again, impatient owl. He taunted it for a few minutes, refusing to hand over the letter until he grew bored of that game. "Yeah, you know where you're going," he grumbled after it.

[pb_lucius]

Another reply from Rabastan, no doubt. Lucius opened the parchment, wondering how drunk his former associate had gotten in the interim between his last note and this one. After reading the note it became apparent to Lucius that Rabastan was not so drunk that he could not write legibly, though there seemed to be a slight amount of bitterness and frustration to his letter. Lucius had doubts about whether it would have crept in if Rabastan had been sober.

Lucius had to smile at the reference to school. He remembered the days of "four foot essays and Firewhiskey" as well as Rabastan did. Lucius sighed: things were so much easier then, when they were all so secure in the knowledge of their own superiority. Not that Lucius doubted the superiority of the old, pure-blood families in any way of course, but somewhere along the line the innocence of youth had faded. That innocence had told him that there was no way they could fail, ever, because they were pure-bloods, and pure-bloods were superior. Pure-bloods never lost. He did not want to acknowledge it, but in place of that innocence there was cynicism and no small amount of bitterness. Lucius shook his head, not entirely used to such morose thoughts, and turned his attention to writing a reply.

And should it not be our goal now? he wrote, aware that Rabastan might take the opportunity in his reply to talk about what he thought should be done to change the Wizarding world. Lucius thought that if he knew Rabastan as well as he thought he did, the solution would involve violence and bloodshed, especially if Rabastan was drunk. He did not think that Rabastan would be that obvious, and so far all of the letters they had exchanged would have to be read together in order for anyone to piece together what they were talking about.

I have indeed. I would have been offended that you would think me so obtuse as to have not noticed, but given your… condition, I will let that go.

Then I would suggest that you find a way to channel your inclinations in a way that will be productive.

I remember those days, and with a good deal more fondness than I recall recent events.

Lucius re-read his last line. It was rather more personal than anything else he’d written so far, and he almost crossed it out. Still, Rabastan was one of his oldest friends, former Death Eater or no, and he was Narcissa’s brother-in-law. He was practically family.

[pb_rabastan]

The lack of alcohol just pushed Rabastan to switch vices rather than combine them as he would usually have preferred. Far too many cigarettes were being consumed and, since he had lost the lighter and forgotten there were matches in his pocket, he was lighting his cigarettes with his wand -- well away from his face. And here came the owl again.

Good question.
That answer depends entirely on your version of 'better' and probably whether I feel like playing the diplomat. And that has never been my forte.
My own personal definition varies on an hourly basis. While this keeps me fairly occupied, it doesn't lend itself to longterm planning.

I did not mean to offend, but our concepts of what does or does not seem right may differ these days.
Or you may be closer to the situation than I anticipated. I'm a bit of an outsider.
Both experience and my current situation leave me with a strange degree of objectivity.
My condition has taken a turn for the worst, if I am honest. The scotch ran out.

Productive? You may have to elaborate on that point. I'm not in a position to channel much of anything.

Recent events. Rabastan repeated the phrase out loud, his face hardening as his mind fought with varying emotional reactions. This was why he needed the damned scotch.

We tried. His quills paused above the paper while he considered what came next. That statement didn't cover... anything. His failure was not ours. Even at such a level, that incompetence does not make us lesser men, nor does it undermine what we fought for.

He leaned back in his seat and stared at the parchment. No, he couldn't leave that on such a serious note. It was too bloody depressing.

And the bastards still haven't caught me.

And he'd be damned if they were ever going to.