Rabbit: December 1968
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: December 1968: Passing (22/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G
Word Count: 1510
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome. I struggled with this for a while so definitely let me know if something is strained or off.
December 26, 1968
Passing
Rabastan skipped down the hall, stopping to give well wishes to all the portraits. In one nook, a trio of old Lestranges in ruffled collars were singing a jolly carol, while a witch across the hall accompanied on a lute. Even though Christmas was over, the holiday kept on. The Yuletide joy that rang through the echoing chambers at Tor Delorage filled Rabastan’s being. After all, he had just been given his first broom-a good, sturdy one that would hold up as he learned to fly-and Mr. Greengrass had the whole week off, and Rodolphus was home for another week. And on top of it all, they had all been treated to a Quidditch match. Falmouth had trampled Chudley.
He stopped and backed up to the nook of singing men. The middle portrait, the tenor, was the tallest and largest. In it, Carolinus Lestrange (1499-1528) bobbed his head to rhythm as he sang, and it shook through all his layers of robes. Finally, the music swelled, slowed, and the men hit their final notes. Rabastan clapped politely.
“Ah, little Lestrange. Wassail?”
The boy laughed. “Just passing through. May I?”
“My pleasure,” it answered, with a bow, and the whole portrait swung open, revealing a thin, dark passage.
Rabastan swallowed, looking in - even knowing its safety and where it led did not entirely abate natural fears. “Happy Christmas!” he called over his shoulder. He stepped in, though, eager to get back to his room and look at his new gifts. The portrait closed behind him, and he could hear his family of old strike up another carol.
The passage was one he knew well, and was one of the very few that his parents had not gone to lengths to prohibit him from. True, he had been told to always bring a candle in, but Sirius had mocked him last time he had insisted on such a thing. He counted ten steps in and then reached his toe out to feel for the steps down. They were there, as always - one, two, three, four.
Here, the passage became more like a tunnel, but Rabastan was short enough still that he could walk crouching, instead of crawling on all fours. After a large room’s length, it widened and forked and a shaft of grated light shone in from the garden. The sunlight was welcome, and revealed the spiral stair at the left fork.
He looked behind, as if wishing good-bye to the sunlight, and made his way up the steps, feeling his way ahead of him with his hands. Finally, he was at his floor, and almost to his room. The walls up here were wood, not stone, and he walked between rooms. A door in the passage signaled that he had reached the room where the elves slept, under the stair to the third floor. Soon, he would pass Rodolphus’s - and sure enough, just as he turned left, his brother’s voice came through, slightly dampened by the wall.
“-so glad they let you stop by to see. Isn’t it wonderful? We’re sure to take the Cup this year, now that I have it.”
Rabastan hesitated, excited to hear any news about Hogwarts and its Quidditch Cup.
“Quite,” came the unmistakable drawl of Lucius Malfoy. “I thought your father lacked enthusiasm for your Quidditch dreams.”
“He doesn’t hate it. He just doesn’t think it should come before more ‘useful’ pursuits. It’s not like I’m trying to go professional, right? Bringing honor to Slytherin can’t hurt.”
“Words of truth.”
“Anyway, they dressed it up as a gift from Father Christmas. Takes away some of the blame for encouraging me.” Rodolphus laughed.
Lucius chuckled along. “I suppose that’s a good use for Rabbit-our Christmas is far more dull now that we’ve dropped that whole show.”
Rabastan didn’t laugh. He sat on the floor where he had stood, and his vision blurred behind a well of tears. However he tried to make what he had heard fit into everything he’d thought about Christmas, it fell flat. As long as he could remember, he had left carrots and pie for Father Christmas and his reindeer, and now he was hearing that it was all lies?
He couldn’t think, not with the muffled sounds of Rodolphus and Lucius still talking and laughing. Leaning forward, he crawled along, dragging himself down the passage until the wall at his right became a tapestry that let the candelight shine through and give the hidden hall a red glow. He toppled out from the underside of the tapestry and ran to his room.
For a while, he just cried. It was too much to think about. He trusted Rodolphus, he trusted Maman, and most of all he trusted Father. But they had all lied to him, and why? What else wasn’t true? These new thoughts sent him into another fit of sobs, until Laurens had patches of fur drenched in tears.
He sat up and patted Laurens dry. Across his room, a new set of toys was spread around, with his new broom still wearing a giant silver bow. Even that could not bring a smile back to his face.
“What do I do, Laurens?” he asked. The bear just looked at him.
“That’s a good idea. He’ll listen.”
Rabastan wiped his nose. He climbed back off his bed and, carrying Laurens along with him, walked down the hall, around the bend where the tapestry hung, and on down. As he came closer to his brother’s room, Rodolphus and Lucius were walking out the door. Rabastan stood in place, afraid to interrupt and be treated to Lucius’ dry humor.
Standing in place was not invisibility, though, and Rabastan met Lucius’ grey eyes. Rodolphus turned and waved to his brother to come. Slowly, the boy did.
“I can see myself downstairs, Dolph, no worries,” Lucius was saying. He waved and walked toward the grand staircase. “See you Friday!”
“See you, Lucius!” Rodolphus called, before turning back and placing an hand on Rabastan’s shoulder, with a small wearied sigh. “What’s wrong, Rabbit?”
Rabastan shook his head and looked up, rubbing his eyes. “Can I talk to you?”
“You’re doing it now. But yes, you may. Come in.”
Rodolphus led them both into his room, which was nothing like Rabastan’s. It was bigger, to start. With a bigger bed. And instead of regular windows, he had a huge window-seat that looked out on a small courtyard below. And where Rabastan’s walls had Rabastan-sized maps and a tapestry of a dragon, Rodolphus had put a Slytherin flag and a collection of autographed posters of Quidditch players.
Rabastan flopped down on a chair under a group shot of the Pride of Portree side, “1965 League Champions”.
“So, are you going to talk?” Rodolphus knelt next to his little brother.
“Dolphin?” Rabastan started. His brother nodded, patiently. “Who got us our brooms?” He tried to sound as serious as possible. He wanted the truth.
“There was a tag, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but… That’s not what I asked.”
Rodolphus sighed. For a few seconds he just looked at Rabastan, and the answer was clear enough. At last, he gave in. “Father.”
Rabastan’s eyes brimmed with tears again but he had had enough of crying. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered.
“Oh, Rabbit. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” he insisted. “It’s just… it’s just… Father Christmas isn’t real?”
“It isn’t that he’s not real, but he isn’t some other person, no.”
Rabastan glared at Rodolphus for his cleverness. “He’s not real.” He looked at his feet and mumbled, “I don’t know what’s real any more.”
“Yes you do, Rabbit, don’t worry. Your broom’s real, isn’t it? And I am.” Rodolphus smiled, and Rabbit felt a little better, though not all.
“But I know you. What else have you all been making up?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Hogwarts isn’t real! I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anyone.” He sniffled and folded his arms around Laurens.
“That’s not true. It wasn’t a mean lie. It was just to have Christmas be a little more fun. And there’s still Father Christmas, in a way. It’s just that he’s tall and slim and wears reading spectacles and has short dark hair and doesn’t like to be interrupted.” Rodolphus lightly punched Rabastan’s shoulder. “And if you ever don’t know about something, you can ask me. I won’t lie to you. I promise.”
Rabastan finally lifted his chin and met his brother’s eye. “Are dragons real?”
“Yes, of course. Like the one in the bank.”
“Boggarts?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Snorkacks?”
“No.”
Rabastan grinned. “Just testing.”
“Are we better?” Rodolphus leaned back and sat on his floor.
Rabastan nodded slowly. “A little.”
“Well,” mused his brother, “what if we took out our brooms and you learned a bit more? Soon you have to be good enough to come help me find the rogue snitch of Bodmin.”
The young boy met the offer with excitement. “Oh, can we? I’d-” But he stopped himself and drew back, with a question mark in his eyes.
“Yes, Rabbit. It’s real.”
Chapter Number/Title: December 1968: Passing (22/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G
Word Count: 1510
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome. I struggled with this for a while so definitely let me know if something is strained or off.
December 26, 1968
Passing
Rabastan skipped down the hall, stopping to give well wishes to all the portraits. In one nook, a trio of old Lestranges in ruffled collars were singing a jolly carol, while a witch across the hall accompanied on a lute. Even though Christmas was over, the holiday kept on. The Yuletide joy that rang through the echoing chambers at Tor Delorage filled Rabastan’s being. After all, he had just been given his first broom-a good, sturdy one that would hold up as he learned to fly-and Mr. Greengrass had the whole week off, and Rodolphus was home for another week. And on top of it all, they had all been treated to a Quidditch match. Falmouth had trampled Chudley.
He stopped and backed up to the nook of singing men. The middle portrait, the tenor, was the tallest and largest. In it, Carolinus Lestrange (1499-1528) bobbed his head to rhythm as he sang, and it shook through all his layers of robes. Finally, the music swelled, slowed, and the men hit their final notes. Rabastan clapped politely.
“Ah, little Lestrange. Wassail?”
The boy laughed. “Just passing through. May I?”
“My pleasure,” it answered, with a bow, and the whole portrait swung open, revealing a thin, dark passage.
Rabastan swallowed, looking in - even knowing its safety and where it led did not entirely abate natural fears. “Happy Christmas!” he called over his shoulder. He stepped in, though, eager to get back to his room and look at his new gifts. The portrait closed behind him, and he could hear his family of old strike up another carol.
The passage was one he knew well, and was one of the very few that his parents had not gone to lengths to prohibit him from. True, he had been told to always bring a candle in, but Sirius had mocked him last time he had insisted on such a thing. He counted ten steps in and then reached his toe out to feel for the steps down. They were there, as always - one, two, three, four.
Here, the passage became more like a tunnel, but Rabastan was short enough still that he could walk crouching, instead of crawling on all fours. After a large room’s length, it widened and forked and a shaft of grated light shone in from the garden. The sunlight was welcome, and revealed the spiral stair at the left fork.
He looked behind, as if wishing good-bye to the sunlight, and made his way up the steps, feeling his way ahead of him with his hands. Finally, he was at his floor, and almost to his room. The walls up here were wood, not stone, and he walked between rooms. A door in the passage signaled that he had reached the room where the elves slept, under the stair to the third floor. Soon, he would pass Rodolphus’s - and sure enough, just as he turned left, his brother’s voice came through, slightly dampened by the wall.
“-so glad they let you stop by to see. Isn’t it wonderful? We’re sure to take the Cup this year, now that I have it.”
Rabastan hesitated, excited to hear any news about Hogwarts and its Quidditch Cup.
“Quite,” came the unmistakable drawl of Lucius Malfoy. “I thought your father lacked enthusiasm for your Quidditch dreams.”
“He doesn’t hate it. He just doesn’t think it should come before more ‘useful’ pursuits. It’s not like I’m trying to go professional, right? Bringing honor to Slytherin can’t hurt.”
“Words of truth.”
“Anyway, they dressed it up as a gift from Father Christmas. Takes away some of the blame for encouraging me.” Rodolphus laughed.
Lucius chuckled along. “I suppose that’s a good use for Rabbit-our Christmas is far more dull now that we’ve dropped that whole show.”
Rabastan didn’t laugh. He sat on the floor where he had stood, and his vision blurred behind a well of tears. However he tried to make what he had heard fit into everything he’d thought about Christmas, it fell flat. As long as he could remember, he had left carrots and pie for Father Christmas and his reindeer, and now he was hearing that it was all lies?
He couldn’t think, not with the muffled sounds of Rodolphus and Lucius still talking and laughing. Leaning forward, he crawled along, dragging himself down the passage until the wall at his right became a tapestry that let the candelight shine through and give the hidden hall a red glow. He toppled out from the underside of the tapestry and ran to his room.
For a while, he just cried. It was too much to think about. He trusted Rodolphus, he trusted Maman, and most of all he trusted Father. But they had all lied to him, and why? What else wasn’t true? These new thoughts sent him into another fit of sobs, until Laurens had patches of fur drenched in tears.
He sat up and patted Laurens dry. Across his room, a new set of toys was spread around, with his new broom still wearing a giant silver bow. Even that could not bring a smile back to his face.
“What do I do, Laurens?” he asked. The bear just looked at him.
“That’s a good idea. He’ll listen.”
Rabastan wiped his nose. He climbed back off his bed and, carrying Laurens along with him, walked down the hall, around the bend where the tapestry hung, and on down. As he came closer to his brother’s room, Rodolphus and Lucius were walking out the door. Rabastan stood in place, afraid to interrupt and be treated to Lucius’ dry humor.
Standing in place was not invisibility, though, and Rabastan met Lucius’ grey eyes. Rodolphus turned and waved to his brother to come. Slowly, the boy did.
“I can see myself downstairs, Dolph, no worries,” Lucius was saying. He waved and walked toward the grand staircase. “See you Friday!”
“See you, Lucius!” Rodolphus called, before turning back and placing an hand on Rabastan’s shoulder, with a small wearied sigh. “What’s wrong, Rabbit?”
Rabastan shook his head and looked up, rubbing his eyes. “Can I talk to you?”
“You’re doing it now. But yes, you may. Come in.”
Rodolphus led them both into his room, which was nothing like Rabastan’s. It was bigger, to start. With a bigger bed. And instead of regular windows, he had a huge window-seat that looked out on a small courtyard below. And where Rabastan’s walls had Rabastan-sized maps and a tapestry of a dragon, Rodolphus had put a Slytherin flag and a collection of autographed posters of Quidditch players.
Rabastan flopped down on a chair under a group shot of the Pride of Portree side, “1965 League Champions”.
“So, are you going to talk?” Rodolphus knelt next to his little brother.
“Dolphin?” Rabastan started. His brother nodded, patiently. “Who got us our brooms?” He tried to sound as serious as possible. He wanted the truth.
“There was a tag, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but… That’s not what I asked.”
Rodolphus sighed. For a few seconds he just looked at Rabastan, and the answer was clear enough. At last, he gave in. “Father.”
Rabastan’s eyes brimmed with tears again but he had had enough of crying. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered.
“Oh, Rabbit. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” he insisted. “It’s just… it’s just… Father Christmas isn’t real?”
“It isn’t that he’s not real, but he isn’t some other person, no.”
Rabastan glared at Rodolphus for his cleverness. “He’s not real.” He looked at his feet and mumbled, “I don’t know what’s real any more.”
“Yes you do, Rabbit, don’t worry. Your broom’s real, isn’t it? And I am.” Rodolphus smiled, and Rabbit felt a little better, though not all.
“But I know you. What else have you all been making up?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Hogwarts isn’t real! I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anyone.” He sniffled and folded his arms around Laurens.
“That’s not true. It wasn’t a mean lie. It was just to have Christmas be a little more fun. And there’s still Father Christmas, in a way. It’s just that he’s tall and slim and wears reading spectacles and has short dark hair and doesn’t like to be interrupted.” Rodolphus lightly punched Rabastan’s shoulder. “And if you ever don’t know about something, you can ask me. I won’t lie to you. I promise.”
Rabastan finally lifted his chin and met his brother’s eye. “Are dragons real?”
“Yes, of course. Like the one in the bank.”
“Boggarts?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Snorkacks?”
“No.”
Rabastan grinned. “Just testing.”
“Are we better?” Rodolphus leaned back and sat on his floor.
Rabastan nodded slowly. “A little.”
“Well,” mused his brother, “what if we took out our brooms and you learned a bit more? Soon you have to be good enough to come help me find the rogue snitch of Bodmin.”
The young boy met the offer with excitement. “Oh, can we? I’d-” But he stopped himself and drew back, with a question mark in his eyes.
“Yes, Rabbit. It’s real.”