Rabbit: January 1971
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: January 1971: Dark (47/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1467
Workshop?: Suggestions welcome.
January 3, 1971
Dark
“Has Algie told you about how the Dark Arts were supposedly banned from Tor Delorage?”
Rabastan looked up from his quill and parchment to see painted light brown eyes glimmering out of a dark portrait of Cordelia Lestrange (1866-1944). She could not have been old at the time of the portrait sitting: perhaps thirty. Her dark brown hair, mostly arranged into an elaborate up-do with a few deliberate flowing locks, faded into the black shadows of her grey dress and the darkness of the plain background. Against the dark, Rabastan could just barely make out a rich purple backing to a tarot card that she held. Her face was soft, gentler than many, but with a few well-placed angles that challenge any accusation of girlish sweetness. Rabastan found something comforting about the dark warmth of his great-great-great aunt, and it was probably for that reason that he had dragged her portrait out of its place and into his room alongside the intimidating portrait of Algernon Lestrange (1864-1939) that he was meant to interview.
“You can’t ban dark magic from Tor Delorage,” Rabastan laughed. “It’s in the stones.”
Algernon peered down through a monocle. He also looked fairly young, but with the carefully shaved moustache and sideburns that Rabastan recognized from family photographs as a mid-life development. His robes were crisp black, except for the stiff white collar that peeked through and bright white gloves. His wavy hair at this time was still cut to a manageable length and tucked under a glossy black traditional wizard’s hat. The painter had sat Algernon indoors in the master study, but with the window to the grounds outside prominently displayed and riding tack hanging from a rack. On the desk were several letters which were legible to a close and observant viewer: one, well-worn, addressed To my dear Brother in a hand unlike the others; several sealed and addressed with the names of Learned Potter, Phineas Nigellus Black, William Avery, and other prominent wizards of the time; and one being drafted with the clear words We will survive.
“What Arabella did not know could not hurt her,” said the patriarch wearily, removing his monocle and polishing it against his lapel.
“I daresay it could,” Cordelia noted wryly.
The boy clasped his knees and caught a smile from his great-great-great aunt. “She had to know about the library,” he pointed out. “And the dungeons. And the tapestry of Morgana.”
“There was never an effort to eradicate all dark magic. I -- not my wife -- merely decided to not permit its active use among my sister and children...”
“Unless his wife was away. Or asleep,” added the sister.
“You will learn, whatever you do,” Algernon advised, “that choosing battles is necessary and that you can gain rather a lot if you are willing to bend but a little.”
“And that it is advantageous to have a Ravenclaw for a sister that is content with simply learning and passing on knowledge rather than cultivating a reputation of her own accomplishments.”
“Passing on to whom?” Rabastan asked. “I mean, you can’t teach if no one knows you know anything.”
“Oh, the children.”
“I thought--”
“Primarily Marius,” continued Cordelia, ignoring the boy’s confusion. “Morwenna took after her mother, unfortunately. But mind, I taught everything I knew to Clovis and Thea and little Algie.”
“Er. Aunt Cordelia, how do you remember teaching anything to them? Algernon wasn’t even born until … 1908, when you were, well, over forty.”
“Of course, and I wasn’t painted ‘til 1931.” She smiled knowingly at the calculation running through Rabastan’s head. “What? Do I not look sixty-five?” He shook his head. “Magic,” the lady in the painting advised with a wink.
“Nothing legal, surely,” Algernon said with a laugh.
“Please, it’s not as if I was sacrificing young maidens. Simply a side-effect of other magic,” she dismissed. “Oh, but Marius’ children, they were quite the pupils. Poor Clovis -- you know, he was standing right in front of my frame when he and his son had their row. I remember...” she laughed dryly. “I was rather shocked, and offered my opinion, and then the boy told me I had advised him to do it years earlier. Well, real Cora, not me.”
Rabastan furrowed his brow. “The boy, Theodore?
“Yes, that’s the one. Still running things.”
“Yes. That’s my father. What row?”
“Oh, that. Over...” She paused, clearly deciding how much the boy should be let in on. Rabastan loathed those pauses. “Clov’s incompetence. You know.”
He didn’t know, not really. Of course, it had occurred to Rabastan that Grandfather had passed on the care of the family to Father early, but he’d never imagined it as a row. He had always thought his grandfather had just decided to spend more time on... whatever it was he did with his time. “Well, I...” he fumbled.
“Surely you’ve noticed, he’s a little... hm.” Her lips pursed. “Not like Nonny here. He lost plenty and became a hero.”
“Come now,” came the diplomatic counter from the taller portrait. “I may have lost a brother, but Merlin knows I leaned on my sister’s support, and he’d lost that too. Though I must say, from all I’ve seen, Theodore has been exceptional, from his first day. It took me much longer to get accustomed.”
“Not much longer,” Cordelia assured “And anyway, our Theo was always meant to step in.”
Algernon ran his fingers over the wrinkled parchment on his desk, and Rabastan glanced down at the introductory history he had written in his essay:
Vibenius Lestrange (1835-1882) had three children: Theodorus, Algernon, and Cordelia. They were each sorted into different Houses (Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw). But they were rather close. Theodorus, the original heir, fell very ill after he graduated. His brother and sister did not see him much. They were very worried. In 1879, when Algernon was still in school, Theodorus died and Algernon became the new heir. This was before the Wasting struck. Algernon had to learn many things to be a good heir. He finished school and married Arabella Lestrange, and then his father died from the Wasting. This inspired...
Rabastan took his window of opportunity: “Sir, if I may... what do you think you would have done if you... if your brother hadn’t died?”
The stately wizard now wore a quizzical expression. “I can’t say. I’m not even sure the original Algernon could tell you that. Unless you mean,” he said, leaning down to see the boy better, “if I hadn’t inherited all of this responsibility? You have an older brother yourself?”
“Yes, sir,” Rabastan admitted. “My grandfather -- that’s Clovis -- tried to cheer me up by telling me about Great-Uncle Algernon. But dying in a war...”
“Not appealing, hm? So you came to the previous Algernon, I see.”
Rabastan nodded slowly. “Well, and my essay...”
“Listen, sport: becoming heir, even aside from the tragedy, came at a cost. You lose your freedom. Everything is duty. Everything is for the family. See that window?” he gestured and looked out wistfully. “That’s where I belong. Outside. Hunting. Riding. Flying. My true loves. Do you have those?”
“I like flying,” the boy agreed. “Not as much as my brother, but I do like it. And my friends. And family history.”
“Good. Cherish those. If crisis hadn’t struck, I’d be outside. Helping my brother, when I could, but living my own life. But crisis did strike. The Wasting put all of Wizardkind in danger. I cannot say how history would have unraveled without personal loss, but if I had seen Theo suffer my losses, I hope I would have acted just as I did -- only, working with my brother, rather than in his memory.”
“Everyone writes their own destiny,” added Cordelia.
Rabastan laughed dryly. “You’re holding tarot cards,” he noted.
The dark eyes of the painted woman drifted to the obscured card and then back to the viewer, and a knowing smile grew on her face. “Cartomancy tells us what the future will bring, but that does not remove the agency of those who make that future.”
“Well, I don’t know about cards and fortunes,” the patriarch advised with a shrug, “but I know this: whatever the world brings, the man decides how he responds, and that is his choice alone.”
The boy felt relief for the first time in days. “Thank you,” he said. “I think that’s plenty for my essay, and … well, my personal questions, as well.”
“No, no. I’m merely a portrait, after all. If you want to thank me, you’ll have my frame returned to its proper place.”
Rabastan smiled. “Yes, Sir.”
Chapter Number/Title: January 1971: Dark (47/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1467
Workshop?: Suggestions welcome.
January 3, 1971
Dark
“Has Algie told you about how the Dark Arts were supposedly banned from Tor Delorage?”
Rabastan looked up from his quill and parchment to see painted light brown eyes glimmering out of a dark portrait of Cordelia Lestrange (1866-1944). She could not have been old at the time of the portrait sitting: perhaps thirty. Her dark brown hair, mostly arranged into an elaborate up-do with a few deliberate flowing locks, faded into the black shadows of her grey dress and the darkness of the plain background. Against the dark, Rabastan could just barely make out a rich purple backing to a tarot card that she held. Her face was soft, gentler than many, but with a few well-placed angles that challenge any accusation of girlish sweetness. Rabastan found something comforting about the dark warmth of his great-great-great aunt, and it was probably for that reason that he had dragged her portrait out of its place and into his room alongside the intimidating portrait of Algernon Lestrange (1864-1939) that he was meant to interview.
“You can’t ban dark magic from Tor Delorage,” Rabastan laughed. “It’s in the stones.”
Algernon peered down through a monocle. He also looked fairly young, but with the carefully shaved moustache and sideburns that Rabastan recognized from family photographs as a mid-life development. His robes were crisp black, except for the stiff white collar that peeked through and bright white gloves. His wavy hair at this time was still cut to a manageable length and tucked under a glossy black traditional wizard’s hat. The painter had sat Algernon indoors in the master study, but with the window to the grounds outside prominently displayed and riding tack hanging from a rack. On the desk were several letters which were legible to a close and observant viewer: one, well-worn, addressed To my dear Brother in a hand unlike the others; several sealed and addressed with the names of Learned Potter, Phineas Nigellus Black, William Avery, and other prominent wizards of the time; and one being drafted with the clear words We will survive.
“What Arabella did not know could not hurt her,” said the patriarch wearily, removing his monocle and polishing it against his lapel.
“I daresay it could,” Cordelia noted wryly.
The boy clasped his knees and caught a smile from his great-great-great aunt. “She had to know about the library,” he pointed out. “And the dungeons. And the tapestry of Morgana.”
“There was never an effort to eradicate all dark magic. I -- not my wife -- merely decided to not permit its active use among my sister and children...”
“Unless his wife was away. Or asleep,” added the sister.
“You will learn, whatever you do,” Algernon advised, “that choosing battles is necessary and that you can gain rather a lot if you are willing to bend but a little.”
“And that it is advantageous to have a Ravenclaw for a sister that is content with simply learning and passing on knowledge rather than cultivating a reputation of her own accomplishments.”
“Passing on to whom?” Rabastan asked. “I mean, you can’t teach if no one knows you know anything.”
“Oh, the children.”
“I thought--”
“Primarily Marius,” continued Cordelia, ignoring the boy’s confusion. “Morwenna took after her mother, unfortunately. But mind, I taught everything I knew to Clovis and Thea and little Algie.”
“Er. Aunt Cordelia, how do you remember teaching anything to them? Algernon wasn’t even born until … 1908, when you were, well, over forty.”
“Of course, and I wasn’t painted ‘til 1931.” She smiled knowingly at the calculation running through Rabastan’s head. “What? Do I not look sixty-five?” He shook his head. “Magic,” the lady in the painting advised with a wink.
“Nothing legal, surely,” Algernon said with a laugh.
“Please, it’s not as if I was sacrificing young maidens. Simply a side-effect of other magic,” she dismissed. “Oh, but Marius’ children, they were quite the pupils. Poor Clovis -- you know, he was standing right in front of my frame when he and his son had their row. I remember...” she laughed dryly. “I was rather shocked, and offered my opinion, and then the boy told me I had advised him to do it years earlier. Well, real Cora, not me.”
Rabastan furrowed his brow. “The boy, Theodore?
“Yes, that’s the one. Still running things.”
“Yes. That’s my father. What row?”
“Oh, that. Over...” She paused, clearly deciding how much the boy should be let in on. Rabastan loathed those pauses. “Clov’s incompetence. You know.”
He didn’t know, not really. Of course, it had occurred to Rabastan that Grandfather had passed on the care of the family to Father early, but he’d never imagined it as a row. He had always thought his grandfather had just decided to spend more time on... whatever it was he did with his time. “Well, I...” he fumbled.
“Surely you’ve noticed, he’s a little... hm.” Her lips pursed. “Not like Nonny here. He lost plenty and became a hero.”
“Come now,” came the diplomatic counter from the taller portrait. “I may have lost a brother, but Merlin knows I leaned on my sister’s support, and he’d lost that too. Though I must say, from all I’ve seen, Theodore has been exceptional, from his first day. It took me much longer to get accustomed.”
“Not much longer,” Cordelia assured “And anyway, our Theo was always meant to step in.”
Algernon ran his fingers over the wrinkled parchment on his desk, and Rabastan glanced down at the introductory history he had written in his essay:
Vibenius Lestrange (1835-1882) had three children: Theodorus, Algernon, and Cordelia. They were each sorted into different Houses (Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw). But they were rather close. Theodorus, the original heir, fell very ill after he graduated. His brother and sister did not see him much. They were very worried. In 1879, when Algernon was still in school, Theodorus died and Algernon became the new heir. This was before the Wasting struck. Algernon had to learn many things to be a good heir. He finished school and married Arabella Lestrange, and then his father died from the Wasting. This inspired...
Rabastan took his window of opportunity: “Sir, if I may... what do you think you would have done if you... if your brother hadn’t died?”
The stately wizard now wore a quizzical expression. “I can’t say. I’m not even sure the original Algernon could tell you that. Unless you mean,” he said, leaning down to see the boy better, “if I hadn’t inherited all of this responsibility? You have an older brother yourself?”
“Yes, sir,” Rabastan admitted. “My grandfather -- that’s Clovis -- tried to cheer me up by telling me about Great-Uncle Algernon. But dying in a war...”
“Not appealing, hm? So you came to the previous Algernon, I see.”
Rabastan nodded slowly. “Well, and my essay...”
“Listen, sport: becoming heir, even aside from the tragedy, came at a cost. You lose your freedom. Everything is duty. Everything is for the family. See that window?” he gestured and looked out wistfully. “That’s where I belong. Outside. Hunting. Riding. Flying. My true loves. Do you have those?”
“I like flying,” the boy agreed. “Not as much as my brother, but I do like it. And my friends. And family history.”
“Good. Cherish those. If crisis hadn’t struck, I’d be outside. Helping my brother, when I could, but living my own life. But crisis did strike. The Wasting put all of Wizardkind in danger. I cannot say how history would have unraveled without personal loss, but if I had seen Theo suffer my losses, I hope I would have acted just as I did -- only, working with my brother, rather than in his memory.”
“Everyone writes their own destiny,” added Cordelia.
Rabastan laughed dryly. “You’re holding tarot cards,” he noted.
The dark eyes of the painted woman drifted to the obscured card and then back to the viewer, and a knowing smile grew on her face. “Cartomancy tells us what the future will bring, but that does not remove the agency of those who make that future.”
“Well, I don’t know about cards and fortunes,” the patriarch advised with a shrug, “but I know this: whatever the world brings, the man decides how he responds, and that is his choice alone.”
The boy felt relief for the first time in days. “Thank you,” he said. “I think that’s plenty for my essay, and … well, my personal questions, as well.”
“No, no. I’m merely a portrait, after all. If you want to thank me, you’ll have my frame returned to its proper place.”
Rabastan smiled. “Yes, Sir.”