Fic: Primrose Path for alley_skywalker
Title: Primrose Path
Author: aliciadances
Recipient: alley_skywalker
Character(s): Rabastan, Rookwood, Severus, Bellatrix, Narcissa, other assorted Death Eaters and socialites
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1858
Warnings: None
Summary: In 1980, Draco Malfoy's birth is celebrated in style. Four Death Eaters reflect on the party and on sacrifices of war.
Author's/Artist’s Notes (if any): I hope this combination of Death Eater bonding and first war angst is along the lines of what you were looking for! It was fun to write :) Also thanks to S for being a stellar beta as usual.
-"Do I understand, sir, that you mean the Cause for which our heroes have died is not sacred?"
-"If you were run over by a railroad train your death wouldn't sanctify the railroad company, would it?"
(Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind)
***
The embossed invitation called it a birthday party, and Rabastan cannot argue. It is a party in honor of Draco Malfoy's birth, even though he has been in the world for a full month. At heart, pureblood society has been craving a celebration; amid rumors of death and illness surrounding mother and baby, this serves to remind all present of Malfoy power and Malfoy normalcy. Yet, from the constant undercurrent of whispers and strategically formed groups of guests, he knows that the business of war never stops.
In fact, the complete lack of society reporters marks this as a party for the business of war. Rabastan doesn't complain. Rita Skeeter's recently inexhaustible stream of articles describing him as the drunk dandy about town are starting to become boring; the accompanying lectures from Father and Rodolphus about duty are starting to become repetitive. He knows he'll never amount to more than a foot soldier in this war, and he's stopped caring. He's also convinced that some of the ladies he's linked with in Skeeter's Society Snitch don't exist.
Regardless, plenty of ladies are here; all young, all giggling, all looking like gaudy flowers strewn along the twisting paths of the Malfoy gardens. Rabastan avoids the persistent Miss Gibbon and the pathetic Miss Travers. Miraculously, he manages to avoid talking business with any of his friends. Three glasses of champagne later, he edges past the string quartet to see Narcissa and the baby. The rumors are probably true; she looks tired and Lucius keeps glancing protectively from the other side of the patio.
"Oh, Rabastan," she smiles. Maybe it's the twilight and the heady scent of primrose, but he suddenly forgets everything except the sixteen-year old Narcissa Black they were all in love with. These days, spends a lot of time hating her for being irreproachably happy and irreproachably in love. They hug, and despite the fact that she is thinner and the wide blue eyes are harder and wearier than before, Narcissa still glitters in a way no one else in the room can.
"Are you really seeing Miranda Gibbon?" she asks, red mouth quirking with amusement.
"That was a Rita Skeeter creation," he shrugs it off. "Miranda is duller and fatter than ever. I have standards."
She gives him a reproachful look. "Rita's tabloids are the only place I have been able to find news of you, Rabastan."
"I've been away on assignment." It's a half-truth. He won't mention trailing Caradoc Dearborn through Wales, but he also won't mention how he drank himself into a stupor after hearing the rumor that was she was dying because of that stupid baby.
Narcissa just nods, fiddling with her rings. "Be careful," she says unexpectedly, voice low. "After Regulus and Evan and Papa, I could not bear to lose more of my family."
Rabastan grits his teeth and reminds himself for the hundredth time that she is trying to be kind, in her conniving, calculated, Narcissa way. "Sweet of you, but I'm too smart to let anything happen to me," he says lightly.
"Oh, Lucius brushes off my concern with the same words. But Regulus was smart," she says coolly. "And we still do not know what happened. Sometimes, I worry that I will wake up and the whole world as I know it will have disappeared."
"Nothing is going to change," he says, looking down at the sleeping baby.
"Will you look out for Lucius, if you can?"
This is the request he always dreads, but he nods anyway. "If I can, Cissa."
"Thank you." She smiles at him, eyes partly veiled by gold eyelashes. They would all die for her in a heartbeat, he knows. She'll never really care for any of them, he knows. "You're such a dear friend, Rab."
*
"You need to be careful," Rodolphus says grimly. "Are you even paying attention to me?"
Augustus Rookwood sighs. "I was not. The cellist and those lovely primroses had me mesmerized, Rodolphus... a thousand apologies." The others cover smiles. Only Augustus can really get away with such flippancy; knowing Rodolphus for nearly forty years has its perks. But if he had to make a list of wishes at the moment, they would be a cigar, a stronger drink, and fifteen minutes of relaxing conversation that does not center on his precarious position as a spy in the Department of Mysteries. It seems that only two out of three can be accomplished at a Malfoy party.
"They suspect a leak," Rodolphus hisses. "Back me up, Patroclus. Antonin. We need to start taking preventative action."
It's Lucius Malfoy who drawls, "But surely this is an easy fix? Augustus, just hire a mudblood secretary. You will be above suspicion." Everyone chuckles. Patroclus Nott calls to a waiter for more drinks.
"But I like my current secretary," Augustus complains, taking the cigar offered by Lucius. "I'm not changing her on Rodolphus' whim."
Antonin strokes his wispy gray beard. "There's no reason we can't discuss this at the logistics meeting tonight, as was initially intended, Rodolphus. Come, let us do the social thing. All this business instead of celebration is unfair to Master Draco."
They slowly separate; Augustus notes that they were the only circle of guests given respectful distance. Of course, Rodolphus commands respect simply by being six-and-a-half feet tall, but he supposes the rest of them derive it from reputation. No one seems to notice or enjoy the feeling overtly; perhaps, the benefit of being a spy is a lingering interest in the small things. He takes another drag of the cigar.
"Don't worry about the leak," Lucius is still standing there, pale eyes narrowed in Rodolphus' general direction. "I'm sure they will plant evidence on someone else and it will blow over in no time. My brother-in-law just loves to spoil a party." And Rodolphus still feels guilty for what happened with Evan, but Lucius has too much tact to mention it.
"Oh, I am not worried," Augustus coughs. "When you have reached my great age, Lucius, none of this will be as surprising or interesting." If Crouch discovers him, it will be nothing less than Azkaban, they all know. But it won't happen. This is his life, and the levels of precaution he's taken surpass the intellectual capacity of many. The other Death Eaters applaud his sacrifice; until they've won the war, Augustus can't publicly drink with a Lestrange or boast about a newborn son like Malfoy. He can only attend a purist party if reporters are banned. For the rest, this would be unbearable, but for Augustus, the secrets in the Department are the only things worth living for. If they catch him... well, they won't. He leaves it at that.
"Stop worrying, Lucius," he adds. "Besides, the bottom line is that Crouch will never suspect a Ravenclaw like myself when the Department of Mysteries has many seedy-looking Slytherins ready to take the fall."
*
Severus still doesn't understand how people can spend money on things that are not books. He stands in a corner with the others, awkward in dress robes, pondering the situation. These are all people who have never wanted for money; people who have never understood the twisted, rotten feeling that comes from eating lukewarm canned soup for every meal. He has gotten to the point where he can nibble and discard lobster canapés with the rest of them without overtly showing outrage--yet, he still has to check himself when Leonidas Mulciber carelessly mentions the fortune he lost betting on the Tutshill Tornadoes last month.
"I want Narcissa to organize my next birthday party," Rabastan ventures, and the first laugh is awkward because the sound still feels raw and wrong after what happened to Evan Rosier and Georgiana Wilkes a few months ago. But the champagne trays come floating around again and before long Tristan Avery and Demetrius Selwyn are trying to flirt with the same Miss Travers and it's easier to laugh.
"Evan and Regulus would have loved this," Leonidas murmurs, and Severus nods in silent agreement. A sense of peace surrounds them momentarily; maybe because it's hard to begrudge anyone the joy of a baby. In a few hours, it will be away from the world of primrose-strewn tablecloths and back to the grimy reality of war. Severus knows the whole thing will end soon and not well. It probably will be fine for the Malfoys, because Merlin knows they've always been adept at saving their own skins. But for Mulciber and Avery and Selwyn? Severus doesn't know. They've become his surrogate family over the years, and the thought of selling them to Dumbledore keeps him awake at night.
But when push comes to shove, he would give up anyone and everyone for Lily. Her baby will probably look as much like James Potter as little Draco looks like Lucius, but after everything, the thought of saving them is what he lives for. Severus doesn't believe in getting close to people anymore--you always betray them in the end, he's realized, and it will only hurt more.
Tristan Avery is dangerously drunk. "Such.. good... friends," he slurs, tipping sideways and wrapping an arm around Severus. "Evan should be h-here," he says, red-eyed, "But he would be glad to know we all stick together."
Severus shrugs the arm off.
*
Babies are for people who want to be shackled down, Bellatrix knows. She also knows that people like Cissy and Lucius (that arrogant prick) are probably a detriment to the Cause in the long run, because all they really want is a happy little house and a happy little life for themselves. There's no genius, no fire, no cry for change. She's always been a trailblazer, and she knows the sad little Boy's Club that make up the Inner Circle loathe her. Rodolphus thinks it's amusing, but she sees the real hatred in Patroclus Nott's eyes (pity he's a slow learner with the Cruciatus) and feels the jealousy from Rookwood and Dolohov and Lucius (that arrogant prick) when she is promoted, chosen, loved over all of them.
And yet. They still have the nerve. "When are we going to hear the same joyful tidings from you, my dear Bella?" Nott asks, quaking with suppressed laughter. She would kill them all with her bare hands, here and now, if it weren’t so messy. Besides, Cissy hates a mess, and today is about her and that tiny, miraculous baby. It's dreadful to think that that arrogant prick Lucius Malfoy's son is now the only claimant to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Hopefully he'll naturally take after his mother, but Bellatrix will teach him how to be a Black herself if she has to, damn it.
"A toast," she announces, voice carrying. Despite her unpopularity with the genteel crowd, when Bella Lestrange speaks, everyone stops to listen. There's a brief rustling of robes as people rise and reach for the champagne. "To my nephew and godson, Draco Malfoy. May he have the future that I--that we--are fighting to create." The whispers and the war pause for a moment and together, the glasses are raised.
Author: aliciadances
Recipient: alley_skywalker
Character(s): Rabastan, Rookwood, Severus, Bellatrix, Narcissa, other assorted Death Eaters and socialites
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1858
Warnings: None
Summary: In 1980, Draco Malfoy's birth is celebrated in style. Four Death Eaters reflect on the party and on sacrifices of war.
Author's/Artist’s Notes (if any): I hope this combination of Death Eater bonding and first war angst is along the lines of what you were looking for! It was fun to write :) Also thanks to S for being a stellar beta as usual.
-"Do I understand, sir, that you mean the Cause for which our heroes have died is not sacred?"
-"If you were run over by a railroad train your death wouldn't sanctify the railroad company, would it?"
(Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind)
***
The embossed invitation called it a birthday party, and Rabastan cannot argue. It is a party in honor of Draco Malfoy's birth, even though he has been in the world for a full month. At heart, pureblood society has been craving a celebration; amid rumors of death and illness surrounding mother and baby, this serves to remind all present of Malfoy power and Malfoy normalcy. Yet, from the constant undercurrent of whispers and strategically formed groups of guests, he knows that the business of war never stops.
In fact, the complete lack of society reporters marks this as a party for the business of war. Rabastan doesn't complain. Rita Skeeter's recently inexhaustible stream of articles describing him as the drunk dandy about town are starting to become boring; the accompanying lectures from Father and Rodolphus about duty are starting to become repetitive. He knows he'll never amount to more than a foot soldier in this war, and he's stopped caring. He's also convinced that some of the ladies he's linked with in Skeeter's Society Snitch don't exist.
Regardless, plenty of ladies are here; all young, all giggling, all looking like gaudy flowers strewn along the twisting paths of the Malfoy gardens. Rabastan avoids the persistent Miss Gibbon and the pathetic Miss Travers. Miraculously, he manages to avoid talking business with any of his friends. Three glasses of champagne later, he edges past the string quartet to see Narcissa and the baby. The rumors are probably true; she looks tired and Lucius keeps glancing protectively from the other side of the patio.
"Oh, Rabastan," she smiles. Maybe it's the twilight and the heady scent of primrose, but he suddenly forgets everything except the sixteen-year old Narcissa Black they were all in love with. These days, spends a lot of time hating her for being irreproachably happy and irreproachably in love. They hug, and despite the fact that she is thinner and the wide blue eyes are harder and wearier than before, Narcissa still glitters in a way no one else in the room can.
"Are you really seeing Miranda Gibbon?" she asks, red mouth quirking with amusement.
"That was a Rita Skeeter creation," he shrugs it off. "Miranda is duller and fatter than ever. I have standards."
She gives him a reproachful look. "Rita's tabloids are the only place I have been able to find news of you, Rabastan."
"I've been away on assignment." It's a half-truth. He won't mention trailing Caradoc Dearborn through Wales, but he also won't mention how he drank himself into a stupor after hearing the rumor that was she was dying because of that stupid baby.
Narcissa just nods, fiddling with her rings. "Be careful," she says unexpectedly, voice low. "After Regulus and Evan and Papa, I could not bear to lose more of my family."
Rabastan grits his teeth and reminds himself for the hundredth time that she is trying to be kind, in her conniving, calculated, Narcissa way. "Sweet of you, but I'm too smart to let anything happen to me," he says lightly.
"Oh, Lucius brushes off my concern with the same words. But Regulus was smart," she says coolly. "And we still do not know what happened. Sometimes, I worry that I will wake up and the whole world as I know it will have disappeared."
"Nothing is going to change," he says, looking down at the sleeping baby.
"Will you look out for Lucius, if you can?"
This is the request he always dreads, but he nods anyway. "If I can, Cissa."
"Thank you." She smiles at him, eyes partly veiled by gold eyelashes. They would all die for her in a heartbeat, he knows. She'll never really care for any of them, he knows. "You're such a dear friend, Rab."
*
"You need to be careful," Rodolphus says grimly. "Are you even paying attention to me?"
Augustus Rookwood sighs. "I was not. The cellist and those lovely primroses had me mesmerized, Rodolphus... a thousand apologies." The others cover smiles. Only Augustus can really get away with such flippancy; knowing Rodolphus for nearly forty years has its perks. But if he had to make a list of wishes at the moment, they would be a cigar, a stronger drink, and fifteen minutes of relaxing conversation that does not center on his precarious position as a spy in the Department of Mysteries. It seems that only two out of three can be accomplished at a Malfoy party.
"They suspect a leak," Rodolphus hisses. "Back me up, Patroclus. Antonin. We need to start taking preventative action."
It's Lucius Malfoy who drawls, "But surely this is an easy fix? Augustus, just hire a mudblood secretary. You will be above suspicion." Everyone chuckles. Patroclus Nott calls to a waiter for more drinks.
"But I like my current secretary," Augustus complains, taking the cigar offered by Lucius. "I'm not changing her on Rodolphus' whim."
Antonin strokes his wispy gray beard. "There's no reason we can't discuss this at the logistics meeting tonight, as was initially intended, Rodolphus. Come, let us do the social thing. All this business instead of celebration is unfair to Master Draco."
They slowly separate; Augustus notes that they were the only circle of guests given respectful distance. Of course, Rodolphus commands respect simply by being six-and-a-half feet tall, but he supposes the rest of them derive it from reputation. No one seems to notice or enjoy the feeling overtly; perhaps, the benefit of being a spy is a lingering interest in the small things. He takes another drag of the cigar.
"Don't worry about the leak," Lucius is still standing there, pale eyes narrowed in Rodolphus' general direction. "I'm sure they will plant evidence on someone else and it will blow over in no time. My brother-in-law just loves to spoil a party." And Rodolphus still feels guilty for what happened with Evan, but Lucius has too much tact to mention it.
"Oh, I am not worried," Augustus coughs. "When you have reached my great age, Lucius, none of this will be as surprising or interesting." If Crouch discovers him, it will be nothing less than Azkaban, they all know. But it won't happen. This is his life, and the levels of precaution he's taken surpass the intellectual capacity of many. The other Death Eaters applaud his sacrifice; until they've won the war, Augustus can't publicly drink with a Lestrange or boast about a newborn son like Malfoy. He can only attend a purist party if reporters are banned. For the rest, this would be unbearable, but for Augustus, the secrets in the Department are the only things worth living for. If they catch him... well, they won't. He leaves it at that.
"Stop worrying, Lucius," he adds. "Besides, the bottom line is that Crouch will never suspect a Ravenclaw like myself when the Department of Mysteries has many seedy-looking Slytherins ready to take the fall."
*
Severus still doesn't understand how people can spend money on things that are not books. He stands in a corner with the others, awkward in dress robes, pondering the situation. These are all people who have never wanted for money; people who have never understood the twisted, rotten feeling that comes from eating lukewarm canned soup for every meal. He has gotten to the point where he can nibble and discard lobster canapés with the rest of them without overtly showing outrage--yet, he still has to check himself when Leonidas Mulciber carelessly mentions the fortune he lost betting on the Tutshill Tornadoes last month.
"I want Narcissa to organize my next birthday party," Rabastan ventures, and the first laugh is awkward because the sound still feels raw and wrong after what happened to Evan Rosier and Georgiana Wilkes a few months ago. But the champagne trays come floating around again and before long Tristan Avery and Demetrius Selwyn are trying to flirt with the same Miss Travers and it's easier to laugh.
"Evan and Regulus would have loved this," Leonidas murmurs, and Severus nods in silent agreement. A sense of peace surrounds them momentarily; maybe because it's hard to begrudge anyone the joy of a baby. In a few hours, it will be away from the world of primrose-strewn tablecloths and back to the grimy reality of war. Severus knows the whole thing will end soon and not well. It probably will be fine for the Malfoys, because Merlin knows they've always been adept at saving their own skins. But for Mulciber and Avery and Selwyn? Severus doesn't know. They've become his surrogate family over the years, and the thought of selling them to Dumbledore keeps him awake at night.
But when push comes to shove, he would give up anyone and everyone for Lily. Her baby will probably look as much like James Potter as little Draco looks like Lucius, but after everything, the thought of saving them is what he lives for. Severus doesn't believe in getting close to people anymore--you always betray them in the end, he's realized, and it will only hurt more.
Tristan Avery is dangerously drunk. "Such.. good... friends," he slurs, tipping sideways and wrapping an arm around Severus. "Evan should be h-here," he says, red-eyed, "But he would be glad to know we all stick together."
Severus shrugs the arm off.
*
Babies are for people who want to be shackled down, Bellatrix knows. She also knows that people like Cissy and Lucius (that arrogant prick) are probably a detriment to the Cause in the long run, because all they really want is a happy little house and a happy little life for themselves. There's no genius, no fire, no cry for change. She's always been a trailblazer, and she knows the sad little Boy's Club that make up the Inner Circle loathe her. Rodolphus thinks it's amusing, but she sees the real hatred in Patroclus Nott's eyes (pity he's a slow learner with the Cruciatus) and feels the jealousy from Rookwood and Dolohov and Lucius (that arrogant prick) when she is promoted, chosen, loved over all of them.
And yet. They still have the nerve. "When are we going to hear the same joyful tidings from you, my dear Bella?" Nott asks, quaking with suppressed laughter. She would kill them all with her bare hands, here and now, if it weren’t so messy. Besides, Cissy hates a mess, and today is about her and that tiny, miraculous baby. It's dreadful to think that that arrogant prick Lucius Malfoy's son is now the only claimant to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Hopefully he'll naturally take after his mother, but Bellatrix will teach him how to be a Black herself if she has to, damn it.
"A toast," she announces, voice carrying. Despite her unpopularity with the genteel crowd, when Bella Lestrange speaks, everyone stops to listen. There's a brief rustling of robes as people rise and reach for the champagne. "To my nephew and godson, Draco Malfoy. May he have the future that I--that we--are fighting to create." The whispers and the war pause for a moment and together, the glasses are raised.