Act One, Scene One - Rabastan Lestrange
Title: His Acts Being Seven Ages. (090. Home)
Characters/Pairing: Rabastan Lestrange, Rosalie & Briallen Lestrange, Till. Rivalen mentioned.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1131
Summary: The Master of the House returns home.
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.
It was worryingly easy to get into the manor. True, the charms he had set up around the estate had not been engineered to keep out Lestranges. And there was a chance that any measures taken since may have been cancelled out by his own precautions. He couldn’t remember if Rodolphus had ever placed his own defenses here or whether those put down by Rashnu would still be active.
Unsurprisingly, Till had opened the door before he reached the last step. The old elf was beside herself and he placated her apparently desperate need to serve by allowing her to cut his hair. She fetched a basin of warm water and stood at his feet most faithfully while he shaved. Rabastan wondered briefly if his face was genuinely lighter or if it just felt that way.
There was no mention of the current occupants of the manor. Till was trained to only ever speak when spoken to, and he had not asked. However, from the state of the rooms it was quite obvious that someone besides the house elf had been living here for some time. After a rather heated discussion, he gave in to having a proper wash and let Till run the bath. Fresh clothes were laid out on the bed in what used to be his bedroom - which now looked and smelled entirely feminine. The full length mirror had been moved to cover the closet door which, in turn, was bolted. Rosalind.
He finished dressing, but neglected to stow his wand away, reacting to the creaking of the floorboards outside before he realised he had heard them. Eventually, his eyes focussed on his target. She had cast her spell before him, leaving a hole in her daughter’s door and a few nasty splinters in his face. His spell had caught her only a moment later. A gagged and bound Ophelie glared at him through the destroyed door panels, the colour high in her cheeks. Brushing himself off, Rabastan opened the door and stepped through, ignoring the blur of a house elf that was already unscrewing the hinges, ready to bring in a replacement. Distressed violet eyes met his thousand mile stare, but Rabastan was the first to break eye contact.
“Time was… I would have killed you without a second thought. No disabling spells. But,” he raised his eyes again, “I’m not going to. I’m just going to leave you here, like this, until I’m certain you’re not going to try and kill me again.”
An hour later, Rabastan had only just succeeded in wrestling control of the kitchen from Till - all he wanted was a coffee - and established that there was now a second house elf in the Lestrange household. This elf came in the form of Kipp and he was quite enamoured with Till although she remained oblivious. As the front door slammed shut, Rabastan took the kettle off the heat, removing another would-be weapon. His wand was upstairs. Someone was chattering in the hall - two women, one man - and footsteps were approaching faster than he liked. There was never a good time to reintroduce oneself to one’s children after breaking out of prison. At least he hadn’t made a conscious effort to break out, but he highly doubted that was a redeeming factor. Only one solid murder conviction, the rest were all suspected. The girls wouldn’t even remember their father. Suddenly he regretted not taking the time to look around more. Perhaps there were photographs…
Someone dropped their luggage and he felt them draw their wand. Mostly because it was stabbing him in the back of the neck. He kept his eyes on the kettle and raised his hands to show he was unarmed. Half of him suddenly realised how good a weapon boiling water was regarding the assailant’s proximity. The other half tried to gauge the likelihood of the others attacking him if he attempted to disable the person holding him at wand point. Rabastan took a deep breath. Perfume. And, from the sound of her breathing, she was a fair deal shorter than he was. Seizing the girl’s wrist, he squeezed until she dropped her wand, barely giving himself enough time to fully register the angry grey eyes that stared back at him before realising that her mirror image had also raised her wand, firing off two curses in quick succession. The first sliced open the skin across his left cheekbone, which promptly began to bleed profusely, while the second hurled him against the cupboards and left him slumped on the floor. As the first girl - Rosalie - retrieved her wand, rubbing the reeling back into her wrist, he reminded himself they were Lestranges. And Ophelie had taught them well. All of his apologies for that defensive action were drowned out by Till’s hysteria as she placed herself firmly between her Master and his daughters, insisting that they were not to harm their father. She conveniently ignored his remarks about deserving such a reaction.
Pulling himself from the floor, he took a seat at the kitchen table and politely requested a coffee as he poked at the wound on his face. He had had no feeling in that cheek for years now, else his forgiveness towards his attackers might have been rather more limited. Till set the mug down in front of him and an uncomfortable silence fell across the room. Rabastan noted that he had yet to see Rivalen. Both girls took the chairs either side of him. It made him feel caged; that was quickly suppressed. If they were anything like himself, it was deliberate. They seemed to hold him in a strange sort of regard. They were obviously not afraid of him. What had they to fear from a father they did not remember?
Apparently driven by some nuance of guilt, Briallen pulled out a handkerchief to clean up his face. Fourteen years and he could still tell the difference between them. “I’m sorry about that,” it was obvious that apologies did not come naturally to her - especially when she felt justified in her actions.
“You were defending your sister,” was the calm reply. “And I have no right to pass judgement. Except on those skirts. They’re too bloody short.” The twins exchanged amused glances that he made a point of ignoring.
“Grandfather wrote to Mama telling her to expect your arrival,” Rosalie said at length.
“And she thought she could hide it from us,” Briallen chimed with a distinct note of triumph. They had been rifling through their mother’s correspondence. His mind automatically rejected the fact that she was not their birth mother.
A male voice - Rivalen, no doubt - sounded the alarm from upstairs. Rabastan winced.
“Your brother found Ophelie.”
Characters/Pairing: Rabastan Lestrange, Rosalie & Briallen Lestrange, Till. Rivalen mentioned.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1131
Summary: The Master of the House returns home.
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.
It was worryingly easy to get into the manor. True, the charms he had set up around the estate had not been engineered to keep out Lestranges. And there was a chance that any measures taken since may have been cancelled out by his own precautions. He couldn’t remember if Rodolphus had ever placed his own defenses here or whether those put down by Rashnu would still be active.
Unsurprisingly, Till had opened the door before he reached the last step. The old elf was beside herself and he placated her apparently desperate need to serve by allowing her to cut his hair. She fetched a basin of warm water and stood at his feet most faithfully while he shaved. Rabastan wondered briefly if his face was genuinely lighter or if it just felt that way.
There was no mention of the current occupants of the manor. Till was trained to only ever speak when spoken to, and he had not asked. However, from the state of the rooms it was quite obvious that someone besides the house elf had been living here for some time. After a rather heated discussion, he gave in to having a proper wash and let Till run the bath. Fresh clothes were laid out on the bed in what used to be his bedroom - which now looked and smelled entirely feminine. The full length mirror had been moved to cover the closet door which, in turn, was bolted. Rosalind.
He finished dressing, but neglected to stow his wand away, reacting to the creaking of the floorboards outside before he realised he had heard them. Eventually, his eyes focussed on his target. She had cast her spell before him, leaving a hole in her daughter’s door and a few nasty splinters in his face. His spell had caught her only a moment later. A gagged and bound Ophelie glared at him through the destroyed door panels, the colour high in her cheeks. Brushing himself off, Rabastan opened the door and stepped through, ignoring the blur of a house elf that was already unscrewing the hinges, ready to bring in a replacement. Distressed violet eyes met his thousand mile stare, but Rabastan was the first to break eye contact.
“Time was… I would have killed you without a second thought. No disabling spells. But,” he raised his eyes again, “I’m not going to. I’m just going to leave you here, like this, until I’m certain you’re not going to try and kill me again.”
An hour later, Rabastan had only just succeeded in wrestling control of the kitchen from Till - all he wanted was a coffee - and established that there was now a second house elf in the Lestrange household. This elf came in the form of Kipp and he was quite enamoured with Till although she remained oblivious. As the front door slammed shut, Rabastan took the kettle off the heat, removing another would-be weapon. His wand was upstairs. Someone was chattering in the hall - two women, one man - and footsteps were approaching faster than he liked. There was never a good time to reintroduce oneself to one’s children after breaking out of prison. At least he hadn’t made a conscious effort to break out, but he highly doubted that was a redeeming factor. Only one solid murder conviction, the rest were all suspected. The girls wouldn’t even remember their father. Suddenly he regretted not taking the time to look around more. Perhaps there were photographs…
Someone dropped their luggage and he felt them draw their wand. Mostly because it was stabbing him in the back of the neck. He kept his eyes on the kettle and raised his hands to show he was unarmed. Half of him suddenly realised how good a weapon boiling water was regarding the assailant’s proximity. The other half tried to gauge the likelihood of the others attacking him if he attempted to disable the person holding him at wand point. Rabastan took a deep breath. Perfume. And, from the sound of her breathing, she was a fair deal shorter than he was. Seizing the girl’s wrist, he squeezed until she dropped her wand, barely giving himself enough time to fully register the angry grey eyes that stared back at him before realising that her mirror image had also raised her wand, firing off two curses in quick succession. The first sliced open the skin across his left cheekbone, which promptly began to bleed profusely, while the second hurled him against the cupboards and left him slumped on the floor. As the first girl - Rosalie - retrieved her wand, rubbing the reeling back into her wrist, he reminded himself they were Lestranges. And Ophelie had taught them well. All of his apologies for that defensive action were drowned out by Till’s hysteria as she placed herself firmly between her Master and his daughters, insisting that they were not to harm their father. She conveniently ignored his remarks about deserving such a reaction.
Pulling himself from the floor, he took a seat at the kitchen table and politely requested a coffee as he poked at the wound on his face. He had had no feeling in that cheek for years now, else his forgiveness towards his attackers might have been rather more limited. Till set the mug down in front of him and an uncomfortable silence fell across the room. Rabastan noted that he had yet to see Rivalen. Both girls took the chairs either side of him. It made him feel caged; that was quickly suppressed. If they were anything like himself, it was deliberate. They seemed to hold him in a strange sort of regard. They were obviously not afraid of him. What had they to fear from a father they did not remember?
Apparently driven by some nuance of guilt, Briallen pulled out a handkerchief to clean up his face. Fourteen years and he could still tell the difference between them. “I’m sorry about that,” it was obvious that apologies did not come naturally to her - especially when she felt justified in her actions.
“You were defending your sister,” was the calm reply. “And I have no right to pass judgement. Except on those skirts. They’re too bloody short.” The twins exchanged amused glances that he made a point of ignoring.
“Grandfather wrote to Mama telling her to expect your arrival,” Rosalie said at length.
“And she thought she could hide it from us,” Briallen chimed with a distinct note of triumph. They had been rifling through their mother’s correspondence. His mind automatically rejected the fact that she was not their birth mother.
A male voice - Rivalen, no doubt - sounded the alarm from upstairs. Rabastan winced.
“Your brother found Ophelie.”