Rabbit: February 1971
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: February 1971: Touch (48/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG+ (for blood and evil books)
Word Count: 2692
Workshop?: Suggestions welcome.
February 27, 1971
Touch
February was the worst month. On that question, Sirius and Rabastan were solidly in agreement. Most months had some perk or another, but February was just dreary outside, and usually resulted in the boys feeling rather cooped up and getting into trouble indoors. Rabastan was well aware of this by his eleventh February, so he didn’t have a problem sending away the Elf and looking through books of dark magic with Sirius. It had, in fact, been his idea.
He didn’t even put up a fight when Sirius got bored with the usual selection and suggested they look into the books on the balcony. “Well. All right,” was all he said.
“Brilliant!” Sirius ignored the warning and shelved a treatise on illegal dueling hexes that had proven far more dull than the title-page promised.
“As long as we’re very careful,” Rabastan added. “You remember that one that tried to eat you for not being a Lestrange last time.”
“Hm, no... But I remember one burning you for not being the Heir.” He began climbing the metal spiral stair two at a time. Rabastan grinned and clambered behind him. They had, after all, survived plenty of encounters with books, even vicious ones.
It was hard to know, though, which were hidden up on the balcony due to dangerous content, and which were due to dangerous binding. More than a few growled or shook menacingly when passed, and they found at least one that had been bound with something less wholesome than leather.
“Kreacher always shows up in my face when I get to the good books in our house,” complained Sirius, pulling out a particularly large tome. “Ohh, De Magica Dormientis Mundi? I bet knowing how to give someone nightmares would be dead useful!”
De Magica Dormientis Mundi was a fairly large book, which rested across the knees of both boys sitting side-by-side. The illustrations were exquisite, drawing their attention more to the fantastical dream-like scenes than to the printed words. One, particularly rich and colorful, had two figures walking through a landscape that was somehow at once both a city and a jungle, and yet neither at all.
“Look,” Rabastan said. “It’s just like us!” And indeed, the figures grew closer and seemed to resemble the boys: one taller and paler, with jet-black sleek-straight hair; the other shorter and tawnier skin, with dark brown cowlicks. The second illustrated boy yawned, and Rabastan felt himself yawning as well.
“Weird!” remarked Sirius. “I wonder if...”
Rabastan didn’t hear the rest of wondering. He was in a land of colors, now, and candied hedges transforming into monsters, and singing stars, and caves full of fire… He felt the book slide off their laps, and jolted his head upright. Sirius’s head rested heavy on his shoulder. He murmured and fluttered his long lashes in the midst of a dream, one being illustrated on the pages in front of them. Rabastan slammed the book shut and lightly slapped his friend’s face.
“What? Hey! What’s the idea?”
“The book,” Rabastan whispered, “it put us to sleep.”
Sirius rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I remember... singing stars. Hm. That doesn’t even make sense. It was kind of cool, though. Didn’t seem Dark at all.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather not find out by being its victims. We could end up missing dinner.” He didn’t add, or worse.
Together, they slid the large book back into its place. Sirius began reading the names of books that sounded particularly dark or gruesome, interrupting himself whenever he found an even darker or more gruesome title.
Meanwhile, Rabastan had found himself drawn to a book with no title on the spine: just a sleek volume with a cover that shimmered in the candlelight. He placed a forefinger on the top of the spine and pulled it out. The cover was without a title, too. There was something distinctly foolish about looking into a forbidden book without even knowing the title. He looked over at Sirius, who was already perusing the next set of shelves, and regained confidence. These books were far too dangerous to read alone, but together, they could always be sure to keep out of harm. He would keep Sirius safe, and Sirius him.
He opened the book. The pages were very old, boasting words upon words, all written in Greek. At a glance, it was nothing special, but it had to be on the balcony for a reason. Rabastan squinted at the letters. He knew bits of the language (for this very reason), but he was hardly proficient. He squinted and sounded out the words, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his stomach and the wise voice that told him to shut his mouth and not speak magical words he did not understand. Words contained powerful magic. He knew that. And yet, he felt compelled to speak them.
Four words in, he felt his stomach turn. “Sirius, I don’t feel so well.”
Sirius turned and laughed. “Probably the book. Just put it down.”
Rabastan tried. And failed. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I don’t know. I can’t. And I think I’m going to be sick.” He held the book far from his face, but his hands refused to set it down or close it. He opened his mouth to warn Sirius not to touch it, but he had to close it to swallow the threatening bile. Sirius grabbed hold of the book and yanked it in one quick go, before Rabastan’s rogue fingers could get a better grip.
“Do you need to get a potion from your mum?” Sirius asked, with a disappointed face.
Rabastan shook his head. He knew Sirius would be a good enough sport to not give Rabastan too hard of a time if he had needed to, but he knew it would disappoint. And besides, he only felt a little queasy now. “No, I... I think you fixed it.”
Sirius beamed. “Oh, good.” He went back to pulling books on necromancy and how to preserve one’s own organs for particular uses. Rabastan, meanwhile, spotted a series of three beautifully bound, though well-used, volumes.
These books were relatively small, compared to many of the spellbooks. The spines were simply labelled Vol. I, Vol. II, and Vol. III. Though their matching sizes and labels suggested a set, they were bound each in a different color: first red, then yellow, then green. He tugged at the first, and the others wiggled out as well. The cover did not elaborate beyond “Vol. I”, but the title page inside read: A Treatise on Three Curses Lately Banned, Laid out in According Parts for the Edification of… . Rabastan glanced over the long title and found a list: FIRST, of inflicting the Sensation of PAIN without harm to the CORPUS HOSTIAE; SECOND, of rendering another subservient to the WILL of the Caster; THIRD, of the moste humane manner of ENDING a LIFE.
His interest sufficiently piqued, the boy carefully turned the pages until finding the first chapter and began to read. He had no sooner read the first paragraph when Sirius shoved a gory illustration of an Inferius in between Rabastan’s face and his book.
“Urrrrrrrggghhhh,” Sirius moaned. “I’m a zombiiiiiiiieee.”
Rabastan laughed and shoved the book of necromancy out of his way. “That’s an Inferius, not a Zombi,” he corrected.
Sirius rolled his eyes and took the book back, allowing Rabastan to continue to read: The CRUCIATUS curse, like all three recently forbidden curses, has oft been mischaracterized as inflicting pain, yet it does not-
“Whoa, Rabbit! Look at this!”
Rabastan looked up to see Sirius holding a black book with eerily black pages. As soon as Rabastan made eye contact, Sirius put the book back away and moved on to something else.
He tried to for a third time to read the volume in his hand, but never reached the next paragraph. After two more attempts, he gave up and put the three-volume set back. He scanned the shelves for something else Sirius might find of interest. “Look, here’s one about wandless dark magic.”
“Reckon we could do any of it?”
“I think you have to learn how to use a wand before wandless magic, and to be pretty much amazing,” Rabastan said.
“Eh, something else then. Here!” Sirius pulled out another spellbook, this one tall and thin.
“Ow!” Sirius had successfully opened the book, but earned a nasty paper-cut in the process. He stuck his forefinger in his mouth, read the open page, and then tried to flip through the pages.
They all cut. He dropped the book in shock and looked down at his right hand. It was covered in small cuts -- several on his fingers and a few gashes on his palm. The book on the floor rumbled, as if ready to jump up and resume cutting, when Sirius stomped it shut.
“I guess we’ll have to bring gloves next time,” he said.
The next book on the shelf looked far calmer. That was a relief. Rabastan reached forward with care, and slowly slid it out, waiting for another attack. None came.
The book felt heavy, despite being only slightly larger than an average adult hand, and not any thicker than most. “This must weigh a stone,” said Rabastan, handing it off.
“Wow.” Sirius took the book in his uninjured hand, and lifted the deep red cover with the tips of his pinky. “It’s not in the binding. This is as light as paper!”
They - or rather, Rabastan, having fewer bloody fingers - turned the first page to see the title. It was very long and in Latin, though not with words familiar to either of the boys, and along it near the spine, almost like a bookmark, rested a thin, silver, handleless knife. Rabastan removed it and held it to the light, where it glimmered. Either an enchantment or some diligence had kept it polished and gleaming over the years. A light touch against the pad of his finger confirmed that it was as sharp as it was polished.
“Let me see,” Sirius demanded, dropping the book into Rabastan’s lap and taking the knife with his good left hand.
As he inspected it, Rabastan found a place about twenty or so pages in, and pushed them to the side. They were unnaturally difficult to turn. “It’s the pages,” he said. “All the weight’s in the pages.”
Sirius looked away from the knife and gingerly turned a single page back and forth, testing it. “You’re right. Heavy. And blank.”
Rabastan peered over. Sure enough, every page had a title (this one read “A Curse forr Stripping Magick”) but no instructions.
“It’s probably invisible,” Sirius guessed. “Say a phrase, tap your wand, voila.”
“Well, we haven’t any wands.”
“Yet. Maybe we should swipe it, come time for school. Then we’ll have wands. Though not the pass phrase...”
Rabastan looked at the book intently. Something about the charmed ink was making it heavy. His eyes drew a line from the page, across the shine of the knife, to Sirius’s massive cuts. “Give,” he ordered, gesturing.
Sirius held out the knife grudgingly.
“No, your hand. That one.” He reached across and took Sirius’s bloody right and forcibly pressed it into the page.
“Hey! What’re you-” Words began to form, in darkest red, around the slender hand. When he lifted it, the whole spell had revealed itself … and his hand, though still cut, was considerably less bloody. “O-oh,” he said.
They read through the spell, and by the time they reached the end of the page, the bloody letters were fading into the page.
“Try another page,” suggested Sirius. Rabastan obediently turned the page, but when Sirius pressed his palm again, nothing happened. There was no more blood for the book.
Two sets of eyes shot to the knife, and two mouths opened to accept the sacrifice.
“Give it here,” said Sirius.
“No,” Rabastan shook his head. “You already have one bad hand.” His eyes darted around the page and danced between his hand and Sirius, and back to the knife. He carefully took the knife into his right hand and held his left up, scrunching his face in anticipation of the sharpness. Maybe around other people, he would have put on a brave face, but it was just Sirius. “Here,” he said. “My hand’s too shaky.”
Sirius nodded and took the knife. Luckily, his own cuts were of little inconvenience, as he was left-handed. Rabastan closed his eyes, and Sirius made a quick and shallow slice across the open palm. Immediately blood flowed.
Rabastan was quite glad that the book soaked up blood, because he was not exactly a fan of the sight of it. Like his friend had before him, he pressed his wounded hand into the page, which materialized with letters for a new spell. But when he lifted his hand back up to read the words, blood kept flowing.
“It won’t stop,” he said, panic creeping into his voice.
Sirius turned to check for spying Elves - sometimes they came in use, after all - but finding none, quickly untied the sash-belt from his tunic and wrapped it around Rabastan’s hand to stem the flow. The grey wool quickly soaked through with a reddish black.
“Let’s go,” Sirius decided, and Rabastan nodded enthusiastically. The knife was placed back into the front of the book, and Sirius pushed the book into the gap as they escaped into the hall, looking for the Elf they had so carefully ditched earlier.
But they didn’t run into an Elf. They ran, literally, into someone quite different.
Another adult might have chided a warning about running in the halls, but Theodore simply gazed down at the boys with vague annoyance.
“Sorry, sir.” Rabastan’s voice was small. An Elf would have solved the problem without any reprimand, and Maman would have been kind about it. But they needed help, and help was here. “Actually, Father, could you help? My hand...got cut...”
His father made no reply, but flicked his wand so that Sirius’ blood-soaked belt whipped itself off and cleaned itself. The blood kept flowing. Rabastan wondered if his father would let the cut run its course as punishment, but with a fluid wand movement and a murmured incantation, the cut was healed.
He sighed with relief and lifted his hand to look at the healed palm, but found his wrist grabbed by a much stronger one, and a wand-tip pushing his chin up. His father rarely looked warm or kindly, but at this moment his expression was especially cold and fierce. Rabastan could tell that somehow, his father knew exactly where and how he had been cut.
“Whatever the Blacks allow in their house,” he started, with a quick icy glance at Sirius, “you are not to assume free reign of the library again. I assume that is clear to you now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry, sir,” Sirius mumbled.
“Did you replace the knife?”
“Yes, sir. We’re sorry, sir.”
The tall man stood, satisfied that his son had been scared into good behavior for the moment. “You two will be great wizards someday, but right now you are children. You would do well to remember that.”
The boys nodded dutifully.
“Rabastan,” Theodore continued, “you will have access to books as you gain the ability to use them properly, and not a day sooner. I hardly think I’ve ever left you short of reading material, have I?”
“No, sir.” Rabastan shook his head in agreement
“Very well. Now, go along.” He waved a dismissive hand and continued down the hall before disappearing into the library.
Rabastan and Sirius looked at each other and exhaled into silent nervous laughter.
“Come on,” said Rabastan, “Let’s see if we can’t find something to eat and avoid bleeding to death.”
“I like all the parts of that plan,” agreed Sirius, and the boys barreled back downstairs, hands clean of blood and minds full of new magic.
Chapter Number/Title: February 1971: Touch (48/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG+ (for blood and evil books)
Word Count: 2692
Workshop?: Suggestions welcome.
February 27, 1971
Touch
February was the worst month. On that question, Sirius and Rabastan were solidly in agreement. Most months had some perk or another, but February was just dreary outside, and usually resulted in the boys feeling rather cooped up and getting into trouble indoors. Rabastan was well aware of this by his eleventh February, so he didn’t have a problem sending away the Elf and looking through books of dark magic with Sirius. It had, in fact, been his idea.
He didn’t even put up a fight when Sirius got bored with the usual selection and suggested they look into the books on the balcony. “Well. All right,” was all he said.
“Brilliant!” Sirius ignored the warning and shelved a treatise on illegal dueling hexes that had proven far more dull than the title-page promised.
“As long as we’re very careful,” Rabastan added. “You remember that one that tried to eat you for not being a Lestrange last time.”
“Hm, no... But I remember one burning you for not being the Heir.” He began climbing the metal spiral stair two at a time. Rabastan grinned and clambered behind him. They had, after all, survived plenty of encounters with books, even vicious ones.
It was hard to know, though, which were hidden up on the balcony due to dangerous content, and which were due to dangerous binding. More than a few growled or shook menacingly when passed, and they found at least one that had been bound with something less wholesome than leather.
“Kreacher always shows up in my face when I get to the good books in our house,” complained Sirius, pulling out a particularly large tome. “Ohh, De Magica Dormientis Mundi? I bet knowing how to give someone nightmares would be dead useful!”
De Magica Dormientis Mundi was a fairly large book, which rested across the knees of both boys sitting side-by-side. The illustrations were exquisite, drawing their attention more to the fantastical dream-like scenes than to the printed words. One, particularly rich and colorful, had two figures walking through a landscape that was somehow at once both a city and a jungle, and yet neither at all.
“Look,” Rabastan said. “It’s just like us!” And indeed, the figures grew closer and seemed to resemble the boys: one taller and paler, with jet-black sleek-straight hair; the other shorter and tawnier skin, with dark brown cowlicks. The second illustrated boy yawned, and Rabastan felt himself yawning as well.
“Weird!” remarked Sirius. “I wonder if...”
Rabastan didn’t hear the rest of wondering. He was in a land of colors, now, and candied hedges transforming into monsters, and singing stars, and caves full of fire… He felt the book slide off their laps, and jolted his head upright. Sirius’s head rested heavy on his shoulder. He murmured and fluttered his long lashes in the midst of a dream, one being illustrated on the pages in front of them. Rabastan slammed the book shut and lightly slapped his friend’s face.
“What? Hey! What’s the idea?”
“The book,” Rabastan whispered, “it put us to sleep.”
Sirius rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I remember... singing stars. Hm. That doesn’t even make sense. It was kind of cool, though. Didn’t seem Dark at all.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather not find out by being its victims. We could end up missing dinner.” He didn’t add, or worse.
Together, they slid the large book back into its place. Sirius began reading the names of books that sounded particularly dark or gruesome, interrupting himself whenever he found an even darker or more gruesome title.
Meanwhile, Rabastan had found himself drawn to a book with no title on the spine: just a sleek volume with a cover that shimmered in the candlelight. He placed a forefinger on the top of the spine and pulled it out. The cover was without a title, too. There was something distinctly foolish about looking into a forbidden book without even knowing the title. He looked over at Sirius, who was already perusing the next set of shelves, and regained confidence. These books were far too dangerous to read alone, but together, they could always be sure to keep out of harm. He would keep Sirius safe, and Sirius him.
He opened the book. The pages were very old, boasting words upon words, all written in Greek. At a glance, it was nothing special, but it had to be on the balcony for a reason. Rabastan squinted at the letters. He knew bits of the language (for this very reason), but he was hardly proficient. He squinted and sounded out the words, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his stomach and the wise voice that told him to shut his mouth and not speak magical words he did not understand. Words contained powerful magic. He knew that. And yet, he felt compelled to speak them.
Four words in, he felt his stomach turn. “Sirius, I don’t feel so well.”
Sirius turned and laughed. “Probably the book. Just put it down.”
Rabastan tried. And failed. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I don’t know. I can’t. And I think I’m going to be sick.” He held the book far from his face, but his hands refused to set it down or close it. He opened his mouth to warn Sirius not to touch it, but he had to close it to swallow the threatening bile. Sirius grabbed hold of the book and yanked it in one quick go, before Rabastan’s rogue fingers could get a better grip.
“Do you need to get a potion from your mum?” Sirius asked, with a disappointed face.
Rabastan shook his head. He knew Sirius would be a good enough sport to not give Rabastan too hard of a time if he had needed to, but he knew it would disappoint. And besides, he only felt a little queasy now. “No, I... I think you fixed it.”
Sirius beamed. “Oh, good.” He went back to pulling books on necromancy and how to preserve one’s own organs for particular uses. Rabastan, meanwhile, spotted a series of three beautifully bound, though well-used, volumes.
These books were relatively small, compared to many of the spellbooks. The spines were simply labelled Vol. I, Vol. II, and Vol. III. Though their matching sizes and labels suggested a set, they were bound each in a different color: first red, then yellow, then green. He tugged at the first, and the others wiggled out as well. The cover did not elaborate beyond “Vol. I”, but the title page inside read: A Treatise on Three Curses Lately Banned, Laid out in According Parts for the Edification of… . Rabastan glanced over the long title and found a list: FIRST, of inflicting the Sensation of PAIN without harm to the CORPUS HOSTIAE; SECOND, of rendering another subservient to the WILL of the Caster; THIRD, of the moste humane manner of ENDING a LIFE.
His interest sufficiently piqued, the boy carefully turned the pages until finding the first chapter and began to read. He had no sooner read the first paragraph when Sirius shoved a gory illustration of an Inferius in between Rabastan’s face and his book.
“Urrrrrrrggghhhh,” Sirius moaned. “I’m a zombiiiiiiiieee.”
Rabastan laughed and shoved the book of necromancy out of his way. “That’s an Inferius, not a Zombi,” he corrected.
Sirius rolled his eyes and took the book back, allowing Rabastan to continue to read: The CRUCIATUS curse, like all three recently forbidden curses, has oft been mischaracterized as inflicting pain, yet it does not-
“Whoa, Rabbit! Look at this!”
Rabastan looked up to see Sirius holding a black book with eerily black pages. As soon as Rabastan made eye contact, Sirius put the book back away and moved on to something else.
He tried to for a third time to read the volume in his hand, but never reached the next paragraph. After two more attempts, he gave up and put the three-volume set back. He scanned the shelves for something else Sirius might find of interest. “Look, here’s one about wandless dark magic.”
“Reckon we could do any of it?”
“I think you have to learn how to use a wand before wandless magic, and to be pretty much amazing,” Rabastan said.
“Eh, something else then. Here!” Sirius pulled out another spellbook, this one tall and thin.
“Ow!” Sirius had successfully opened the book, but earned a nasty paper-cut in the process. He stuck his forefinger in his mouth, read the open page, and then tried to flip through the pages.
They all cut. He dropped the book in shock and looked down at his right hand. It was covered in small cuts -- several on his fingers and a few gashes on his palm. The book on the floor rumbled, as if ready to jump up and resume cutting, when Sirius stomped it shut.
“I guess we’ll have to bring gloves next time,” he said.
The next book on the shelf looked far calmer. That was a relief. Rabastan reached forward with care, and slowly slid it out, waiting for another attack. None came.
The book felt heavy, despite being only slightly larger than an average adult hand, and not any thicker than most. “This must weigh a stone,” said Rabastan, handing it off.
“Wow.” Sirius took the book in his uninjured hand, and lifted the deep red cover with the tips of his pinky. “It’s not in the binding. This is as light as paper!”
They - or rather, Rabastan, having fewer bloody fingers - turned the first page to see the title. It was very long and in Latin, though not with words familiar to either of the boys, and along it near the spine, almost like a bookmark, rested a thin, silver, handleless knife. Rabastan removed it and held it to the light, where it glimmered. Either an enchantment or some diligence had kept it polished and gleaming over the years. A light touch against the pad of his finger confirmed that it was as sharp as it was polished.
“Let me see,” Sirius demanded, dropping the book into Rabastan’s lap and taking the knife with his good left hand.
As he inspected it, Rabastan found a place about twenty or so pages in, and pushed them to the side. They were unnaturally difficult to turn. “It’s the pages,” he said. “All the weight’s in the pages.”
Sirius looked away from the knife and gingerly turned a single page back and forth, testing it. “You’re right. Heavy. And blank.”
Rabastan peered over. Sure enough, every page had a title (this one read “A Curse forr Stripping Magick”) but no instructions.
“It’s probably invisible,” Sirius guessed. “Say a phrase, tap your wand, voila.”
“Well, we haven’t any wands.”
“Yet. Maybe we should swipe it, come time for school. Then we’ll have wands. Though not the pass phrase...”
Rabastan looked at the book intently. Something about the charmed ink was making it heavy. His eyes drew a line from the page, across the shine of the knife, to Sirius’s massive cuts. “Give,” he ordered, gesturing.
Sirius held out the knife grudgingly.
“No, your hand. That one.” He reached across and took Sirius’s bloody right and forcibly pressed it into the page.
“Hey! What’re you-” Words began to form, in darkest red, around the slender hand. When he lifted it, the whole spell had revealed itself … and his hand, though still cut, was considerably less bloody. “O-oh,” he said.
They read through the spell, and by the time they reached the end of the page, the bloody letters were fading into the page.
“Try another page,” suggested Sirius. Rabastan obediently turned the page, but when Sirius pressed his palm again, nothing happened. There was no more blood for the book.
Two sets of eyes shot to the knife, and two mouths opened to accept the sacrifice.
“Give it here,” said Sirius.
“No,” Rabastan shook his head. “You already have one bad hand.” His eyes darted around the page and danced between his hand and Sirius, and back to the knife. He carefully took the knife into his right hand and held his left up, scrunching his face in anticipation of the sharpness. Maybe around other people, he would have put on a brave face, but it was just Sirius. “Here,” he said. “My hand’s too shaky.”
Sirius nodded and took the knife. Luckily, his own cuts were of little inconvenience, as he was left-handed. Rabastan closed his eyes, and Sirius made a quick and shallow slice across the open palm. Immediately blood flowed.
Rabastan was quite glad that the book soaked up blood, because he was not exactly a fan of the sight of it. Like his friend had before him, he pressed his wounded hand into the page, which materialized with letters for a new spell. But when he lifted his hand back up to read the words, blood kept flowing.
“It won’t stop,” he said, panic creeping into his voice.
Sirius turned to check for spying Elves - sometimes they came in use, after all - but finding none, quickly untied the sash-belt from his tunic and wrapped it around Rabastan’s hand to stem the flow. The grey wool quickly soaked through with a reddish black.
“Let’s go,” Sirius decided, and Rabastan nodded enthusiastically. The knife was placed back into the front of the book, and Sirius pushed the book into the gap as they escaped into the hall, looking for the Elf they had so carefully ditched earlier.
But they didn’t run into an Elf. They ran, literally, into someone quite different.
Another adult might have chided a warning about running in the halls, but Theodore simply gazed down at the boys with vague annoyance.
“Sorry, sir.” Rabastan’s voice was small. An Elf would have solved the problem without any reprimand, and Maman would have been kind about it. But they needed help, and help was here. “Actually, Father, could you help? My hand...got cut...”
His father made no reply, but flicked his wand so that Sirius’ blood-soaked belt whipped itself off and cleaned itself. The blood kept flowing. Rabastan wondered if his father would let the cut run its course as punishment, but with a fluid wand movement and a murmured incantation, the cut was healed.
He sighed with relief and lifted his hand to look at the healed palm, but found his wrist grabbed by a much stronger one, and a wand-tip pushing his chin up. His father rarely looked warm or kindly, but at this moment his expression was especially cold and fierce. Rabastan could tell that somehow, his father knew exactly where and how he had been cut.
“Whatever the Blacks allow in their house,” he started, with a quick icy glance at Sirius, “you are not to assume free reign of the library again. I assume that is clear to you now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry, sir,” Sirius mumbled.
“Did you replace the knife?”
“Yes, sir. We’re sorry, sir.”
The tall man stood, satisfied that his son had been scared into good behavior for the moment. “You two will be great wizards someday, but right now you are children. You would do well to remember that.”
The boys nodded dutifully.
“Rabastan,” Theodore continued, “you will have access to books as you gain the ability to use them properly, and not a day sooner. I hardly think I’ve ever left you short of reading material, have I?”
“No, sir.” Rabastan shook his head in agreement
“Very well. Now, go along.” He waved a dismissive hand and continued down the hall before disappearing into the library.
Rabastan and Sirius looked at each other and exhaled into silent nervous laughter.
“Come on,” said Rabastan, “Let’s see if we can’t find something to eat and avoid bleeding to death.”
“I like all the parts of that plan,” agreed Sirius, and the boys barreled back downstairs, hands clean of blood and minds full of new magic.