Rabbit: March 1969
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: March 1969: Broken (25/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G
Word Count: 991
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome. Not sure if this was overdone or not strong enough, waffle waffle waffle.
March 19, 1969
Broken
“Master Rabastan, you are called.”
The boy clapped the old Hogsmeade guide shut, stuffed it back in place, and pushed himself off the carpeted floor of the library. “All right, Ziffly. Let’s go.”
Ziffly bowed as Rabastan came to the door, and then followed close behind at his feet.
“Is Mister Greengrass here, then?” he asked the elf.
“Yes, though Master Lestrange wishes to speak to you first.”
Rabastan stopped walking, furrowed his brow, and looked behind at the little creature. He was already a head taller than the elf, now, even before it hunched over and bowed its head. Ziffly raised his large brown elf-eyes to steal a glance at his youngest master.
“What’s it about?”
“Ziffly does not bring the message. He is only to summon you. Z-Ziffly hopes young Master is not in trouble?”
The boy shook his head and went ahead. “That stupid vase. Don’t worry, Ziffly, I’ll be all right.” How, he wasn’t entirely sure. He swallowed, thinking about the night before, of rotating the old red and black vase, of how the table had been polished a bit too well.
They arrived at the open doorway to the main parlour, where all three adults were waiting. Rabastan’s eyes fluttered between them each, trying with all his might to avoid acknowledging the shards of ancient magical pottery strewn across the room.
“Thank you for joining us, Rabastan. I was just telling Peter about the strangest thing I found when I arrived back home last night. Do you know what that might be?”
Rabastan shook his head.
“How unobservant. You’ve failed to notice the ibecedarium vase has been shattered?”
The boy felt frozen, but managed to shake his head, just enough.
“What did you do to it?” Theodore Lestrange’s voice had abandoned its pretense, and his wand spun in his hands.
Rabastan shook his head yet again, now keeping his eyes on his feet. “I-nothing, Father.”
A stinging wind hit the boy's face, and he squinted in pain. “Look at me and tell me the truth, Rabastan.”
“Sir, I didn’t touch it,” he insisted. “I wasn’t even in here last night.”
“Then who was?” his father asked.
“The elves clean every night,” Rabastan answered, lifting his head again.
Angelique Lestrange folded her arms. “The elf Ziffly cleans the parlours. You think it was him?”
Rabastan bit his lip and nodded, hating that he could feel Ziffly hovering behind him.
“Well,” Father stepped forward, loosening his tie, “I have no need of an elf who destroys priceless artifacts.”
Bam! Rabastan turned his head to see Ziffly on the ground, flailing his skinny limbs and sobbing into the carpet with all its might. “No, no, please Master, please, not cl-cl-clothes.” Rabastan’s heart sunk a little, for he had grown used to having Ziffly at his side through everything, and he wasn’t sure what elves did without families, but he held himself up and stayed strong.
Mr. Greengrass, however, stepped forward. “Sir, if I may?”
Father now had his tie folded in his hand, but he held it at his side and nodded an admission.
Peter Greengrass smoothed a hand through his short red hair and exhaled slowly. “Sir, I asked your son to look at the vase. I don’t want to encroach on your authority - this is your house, your family, and your elf. But I would hate to see you lose so loyal and efficient a servant as I’ve seen this elf to be, all because a boy would not accept responsibility for his actions.”
The head of the Lestrange family looked down his thin nose at the young tutor, nodded, and draped his tie around his neck once more. “Spoken true to your house, Greengrass. Very well. In the spirit of Peter and his apportionment of justice, the elf is spared from freedom, but I expect nothing less than the most severe of punishments. Its skin and bones shall look like this vase, is that clear?”
The elf sat up, tears dripping from the tip of its ski-slope nose. “Ziffly will do anything. Thank you, Master, thank you.”
“You, Greengrass,” Theodore Lestrange continued, speaking over the sound of Ziffly, who had moved to the corner and was now smashing conjured pottery over his own head, “should not have instructed a small child to come near so precious an object.” Crash! “I’m sure you cannot afford its worth, so I’ll be lenient and let a third of its value come from your stipend. And Rabastan…”
Crash! Rabastan looked away from the now bloody and bruised elf, clear fear in his eyes for his portion of the punishment. Crash!
“I’m very pleased that you were wise enough to not heed Mr. Greengrass’s orders on this point.”
Rabastan nodded nervously. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
“Now, if I don’t leave now I shall be late. On to your studies.”
Mr. Greengrass offered a polite bow and then turned, taking large strides into the hallway. “Come, Master Lestrange,” he said, with a voice like ice.
Rabastan took no time to exit the room, though he was not eager for his lesson. As he entered the hall, he heard Maman’s voice, and he lingered to make it out.
“…let him go. Rabbit-”
“Is too frightened to be so careless again.” Crash! He could hear Ziffly’s whimpers now, too. “The Greengrass boy is being disciplined for his folly, and the elf is suffering for the vase. Both wrongs have been treated. It’s finished, Angelique.” Crash!
“You would not teach your son accountability?”
“Accountability is only of use if-”
“Rabastan Lestrange!” Mr. Greengrass had turned in the hall and was staring at the boy. “Your lesson begins now. Come.”
The boy nodded, thinking through their lesson for the day. He would have to be extraordinarily clever today, he decided, so that his tutor would let the incident go and be less stern. His mind already on writing and Greek, he hurried along, leaving the broken pieces behind him.
Chapter Number/Title: March 1969: Broken (25/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G
Word Count: 991
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome. Not sure if this was overdone or not strong enough, waffle waffle waffle.
March 19, 1969
Broken
“Master Rabastan, you are called.”
The boy clapped the old Hogsmeade guide shut, stuffed it back in place, and pushed himself off the carpeted floor of the library. “All right, Ziffly. Let’s go.”
Ziffly bowed as Rabastan came to the door, and then followed close behind at his feet.
“Is Mister Greengrass here, then?” he asked the elf.
“Yes, though Master Lestrange wishes to speak to you first.”
Rabastan stopped walking, furrowed his brow, and looked behind at the little creature. He was already a head taller than the elf, now, even before it hunched over and bowed its head. Ziffly raised his large brown elf-eyes to steal a glance at his youngest master.
“What’s it about?”
“Ziffly does not bring the message. He is only to summon you. Z-Ziffly hopes young Master is not in trouble?”
The boy shook his head and went ahead. “That stupid vase. Don’t worry, Ziffly, I’ll be all right.” How, he wasn’t entirely sure. He swallowed, thinking about the night before, of rotating the old red and black vase, of how the table had been polished a bit too well.
They arrived at the open doorway to the main parlour, where all three adults were waiting. Rabastan’s eyes fluttered between them each, trying with all his might to avoid acknowledging the shards of ancient magical pottery strewn across the room.
“Thank you for joining us, Rabastan. I was just telling Peter about the strangest thing I found when I arrived back home last night. Do you know what that might be?”
Rabastan shook his head.
“How unobservant. You’ve failed to notice the ibecedarium vase has been shattered?”
The boy felt frozen, but managed to shake his head, just enough.
“What did you do to it?” Theodore Lestrange’s voice had abandoned its pretense, and his wand spun in his hands.
Rabastan shook his head yet again, now keeping his eyes on his feet. “I-nothing, Father.”
A stinging wind hit the boy's face, and he squinted in pain. “Look at me and tell me the truth, Rabastan.”
“Sir, I didn’t touch it,” he insisted. “I wasn’t even in here last night.”
“Then who was?” his father asked.
“The elves clean every night,” Rabastan answered, lifting his head again.
Angelique Lestrange folded her arms. “The elf Ziffly cleans the parlours. You think it was him?”
Rabastan bit his lip and nodded, hating that he could feel Ziffly hovering behind him.
“Well,” Father stepped forward, loosening his tie, “I have no need of an elf who destroys priceless artifacts.”
Bam! Rabastan turned his head to see Ziffly on the ground, flailing his skinny limbs and sobbing into the carpet with all its might. “No, no, please Master, please, not cl-cl-clothes.” Rabastan’s heart sunk a little, for he had grown used to having Ziffly at his side through everything, and he wasn’t sure what elves did without families, but he held himself up and stayed strong.
Mr. Greengrass, however, stepped forward. “Sir, if I may?”
Father now had his tie folded in his hand, but he held it at his side and nodded an admission.
Peter Greengrass smoothed a hand through his short red hair and exhaled slowly. “Sir, I asked your son to look at the vase. I don’t want to encroach on your authority - this is your house, your family, and your elf. But I would hate to see you lose so loyal and efficient a servant as I’ve seen this elf to be, all because a boy would not accept responsibility for his actions.”
The head of the Lestrange family looked down his thin nose at the young tutor, nodded, and draped his tie around his neck once more. “Spoken true to your house, Greengrass. Very well. In the spirit of Peter and his apportionment of justice, the elf is spared from freedom, but I expect nothing less than the most severe of punishments. Its skin and bones shall look like this vase, is that clear?”
The elf sat up, tears dripping from the tip of its ski-slope nose. “Ziffly will do anything. Thank you, Master, thank you.”
“You, Greengrass,” Theodore Lestrange continued, speaking over the sound of Ziffly, who had moved to the corner and was now smashing conjured pottery over his own head, “should not have instructed a small child to come near so precious an object.” Crash! “I’m sure you cannot afford its worth, so I’ll be lenient and let a third of its value come from your stipend. And Rabastan…”
Crash! Rabastan looked away from the now bloody and bruised elf, clear fear in his eyes for his portion of the punishment. Crash!
“I’m very pleased that you were wise enough to not heed Mr. Greengrass’s orders on this point.”
Rabastan nodded nervously. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
“Now, if I don’t leave now I shall be late. On to your studies.”
Mr. Greengrass offered a polite bow and then turned, taking large strides into the hallway. “Come, Master Lestrange,” he said, with a voice like ice.
Rabastan took no time to exit the room, though he was not eager for his lesson. As he entered the hall, he heard Maman’s voice, and he lingered to make it out.
“…let him go. Rabbit-”
“Is too frightened to be so careless again.” Crash! He could hear Ziffly’s whimpers now, too. “The Greengrass boy is being disciplined for his folly, and the elf is suffering for the vase. Both wrongs have been treated. It’s finished, Angelique.” Crash!
“You would not teach your son accountability?”
“Accountability is only of use if-”
“Rabastan Lestrange!” Mr. Greengrass had turned in the hall and was staring at the boy. “Your lesson begins now. Come.”
The boy nodded, thinking through their lesson for the day. He would have to be extraordinarily clever today, he decided, so that his tutor would let the incident go and be less stern. His mind already on writing and Greek, he hurried along, leaving the broken pieces behind him.