Rabbit: April 1971
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: April 1971: Too Much (50/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2000
Workshop?: Suggestions welcome.
April 3, 1971
Too Much
“You don’t get it, do you? This is important to him,” Rabastan had insisted. And for once, his parents listened. For here they were, in the high stands of the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch, watching Rodolphus captain the Slytherin side to victory and the Quidditch Cup. Or at least, hopefully to victory: Rodolphus had explained to Rabastan how Slytherin needed to beat Hufflepuff by ninety points in order to win the Cup. That meant Slytherin either needed an enormous lead or they would have to catch the Snitch while only sixty points behind.
And so, when the score was set at 100-40 in Hufflepuff’s favor with Slytherin’s Seeker riding hard on the trail of the Snitch, the crowd was on the edge of their seats.
“Tonks seems to have found the Snitch and is catching up close with it, and ouch! Lestrange sends a Bludger right into him!” the commentator called.
The yellow-clad Seeker was thrown into the far stands, and a shriek cried out from those around.
“Looks like the match is still closing in for an end, though, because Atkinson has picked up the trail and is following the Snitch. And Hufflepuff has regained control of the Quaffle! And they move into a double pass weave and a goal!”
A loud ping echoed across the pitch, and the Quaffle was thrown back into play. “It’s 110-40, now. And the Quaffle’s with Malfoy, and to Zabini, and back to Malfoy, and Atkinson’s pulling in for the Snitch--”
If you had turned away for a second to look at the incoming raincloud, as Theodore Lestrange did, you could miss the entire climax of the match: the CRACK of Rodolphus’s Bat sending one Bludger zooming away from Zabini -- Atkinson reaching out for the Snitch -- Malfoy fumbling the Quaffle in response to the incoming Bludger -- and Rodolphus turning from the Bludgers to fly under Malfoy and kick the Quaffle through the Hoop -- Atkinson catching the Snitch -- and two Bludgers hitting Rodolphus hard, sending him careening to the ground.
The commentator could not speak fast enough. “That’s a win for Slytherin, 200-110, with a surprise goal right as the Snitch is caught. Looks like a stay in the hospital wing for Lestrange, as well as...”
Everything else seemed to drown in the noise of the crowd and the shock of seeing Dolph’s tumble. Angelique Lestrange watched with a shaking hand over her shocked mouth, and Theodore snapped his attention back to the pitch. “This blasted game,” he swore, standing. “Come on, then.”
Rabastan’s mother dragged him along behind her husband, who took swift steps across the grassy field to where Rodolphus lay, being checked and prepared for the infirmary.
“Mr. Lestrange,” greeted a very lithe severe-looking woman dressed in referee’s robes. “They say he’ll be fine. Just a week of rest. You should be proud -- I haven’t seen a finer Captain in some years, and one of our best Beaters.”
Theodore pursed his lips, seeming to not hear the effusive praise.
A young woman in white robes stood up from tending over Rodolphus and nodded to the Lestranges. “Nothing we haven’t seen,” she assured. “A few broken ribs, concussion, nothing I can’t heal.”
Rabastan knelt down at his brother’s side. “Lo, Dolphin,” he said.
Rodolphus’ eyes flickered open, and he glanced over. “You came. You all came,” he said, smiling. “How’d you manage that?”
“I talked them into it,” Rabastan boasted.
“Did we get the goal?”
“You did, and you won and I think you won the Cup, too! It was brilliant. Does it hurt?”
“Oh, you know.” Rodolphus tried to turn and grimaced. “Only a little.”
“There’s a lot of blood.” Rabastan tried not to look at the deep red soaking into his brother’s robes.
“It’s not called a-” he took a sharp breath, “-a Bludger without reason.”
“Sure, but… it’s a lot of blood.” Rabastan looked back up at his father, who seemed to be studying Rodolphus, deep in thought. “Father, do-”
His question was cut off by the shouting of a crowd of boys. “Roddy Lestrange, gents!” one called out, and the others cheered. Rabastan recognized Atkinson, who strolled up and held out the Golden Snitch. “Without you, I would’ve caught this and lost the Cup. It’s yours, I reckon,” the boy said.
Zabini leaned out of the crowd and grinned. “And I’ve already been given four messages from girls who want to give you their personal get-well-soons. I expect you’ll be having loads of hospital guests.”
“More than that Muggle, you think?” Rodolphus joked, before grimacing again.
The stern witch in white stepped back over to her patient and waved away the boys like a swarm of flies. “Off with you. He needs rest.” She knelt down and placed a bony hand on Rabastan’s shoulder. “You too, son. He’ll be all right. Why don’t you go on home and send him an Owl later?”
Rabastan nodded and stood up slowly. Of course Rodolphus would be fine. Apparently he had taken worse falls before, and he had no shortage of fans. “I’ll write,” he said lamely as he backed away into the arms of their mother.
They stepped away toward the edge of the pitch, where the faculty box was streaming out. A huge man in green robes and a walrus-y face stepped out of the crowd and took Theodore’s arm. “Teddy, m’old boy. How are you doing?”
“Quite well, Horace. And yourself?”
“Splendid, splendid. Just won the Quidditch Cup, didn’t we? Thanks to your son. He has quite a talent.”
“So I’m told,” he said, as if he had not just watched the match himself.
“Ah, no need to worry, he’s a fine student as well. Strong in Defence, I hear, and quick at the duel. Llewellyn’s had great things to say this year. Pity she’ll be moving to Africa. But your boy, I expect he’ll go far, whatever he does.”
Theodore seemed mollified by this news, even pleased. Rabastan felt a hole sinking in his stomach. Every new person seemed to make the statue of the great Rodolphus ever grander with an ever-widening shadow. And now the attention was turning to him.
“Oho, and this must be your other son!”
“Yes,” said Theodore, “this is Rabastan. He’ll be starting this fall. Rabastan, Professor Horace Slughorn, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House.”
Rabastan nodded politely and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sir.”
The walrus-y professor shook the hand and chuckled. “And you. If you take after your father and brother, it’d be quite something to have you in my House.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rabastan was unsure if that had been a compliment, a fact, or a conditional, but it seemed to be best responded with thanks. He looked back at his brother, who was now being levitated off the field, and tuned out his father’s farewells to the old professor.
Everyone loved Rodolphus. Of course, Rabastan knew that some people were flattering his father, but it was true. Rodolphus was one of the best Quidditch players: they had just seen that, and Rabastan knew the sport well enough to see that himself. He was a great Captain, beloved by his team, able to take the literal fall and give them victory. He always knew the right thing to say and could act like two Bludgers and various broken bones were little more than a scrape and smile through it all. He had friends and admirers and apparently was ace at Defence. In short, he was far, far more than anything Rabastan could ever hope to be.
That was enough of a burden at home, but there, Rabastan had Maman. Maman had always been fonder of her younger son, and Rabastan was happy with that. Here, there was no special niche that Rabastan could carve to be the best. It was obvious: anything he did, it would be in Rodolphus’ footsteps; anyone who met him would compare him to his perfect older brother. It was too much.
“I can’t go here,” Rabastan announced as they walked down the pathway leaving the school grounds. Thunder rumbled in warning of the incoming storm.
Theodore Lestrange narrowed his eyes and looked at his younger son.
“This fall,” he elaborated. “I can’t go to Hogwarts. I don’t want to go here. This is Dolph’s school. I need to make my own name, for myself. I can go to Beauxbatons, like Maman, or Durmstrang. Uncle Liam said he taught there once. And Rodolphus says they actually teach the Dar--”
“Enough!” snapped Father, stopping in the path.
Rabastan fell silent, and swallowed. He knew he had spoken too forthright, which was pushing his luck after his insistence on coming to the match today. Well, he thought, he would not apologize. He was eleven and had real things to say, and he would not apologize for making himself heard. To his surprise, no stinging rebuke came, verbal or physical. His father simply turned and continued walking.
“We shall continue this discussion at home,” he explained.
“Yes, sir,” Rabastan said.
He resisted the urge to drag his feet, and walked on, toward the dark clouds. As they reached the impressive gateway, he took one last look, and bid goodbye to the school he had dreamed of for so long.
A carriage-ride and Floo-journey later, and the family found themselves transported from stormy Scotland to calm, drizzling, Cornwall.
Rabastan hoped the continuation of the discussion would happen now that they had the privacy of Tor Delorage, but he was sent to his room instead. Today should have been a success all around, between getting his parents to the Quidditch match and Rodolphus’ victory. But instead, he sat impatiently, waiting to be called to speak with his father.
That happened two hours and twenty-five minutes later.
The door to Theodore’s study was slightly ajar when Rabastan arrived, but he knocked anyway. The door swung open, and a spindly chair pulled itself out.
“Sit.”
Rabastan sat.
“You do not wish to attend Hogwarts?”
“No,” the boy said. It sounded petulant without being able to give reasons, but he had not been asked to elaborate.
“If I hear your case, will you promise to accept my decision without any further discussion, whatever it is?”
There was not much of choice, there. “Yes, sir.”
“Well? Fifty words or less.”
Rabastan bit his lip and tried to think of his strongest arguments. “Rodolphus has made it his place,” he started, tallying words on his fingers. “He’s good at school,” ten, “he’s popular, he’s brilliant at Quidditch. Everyone knows him, so...” twenty “So everyone will know me as his little brother. I want,” thirty, “to be my own person, without people assuming things or,” forty, “comparing me or...” He looked at his fingers and counted out his last thought. “...thinking I’m getting special treatment. Sir.”
The grown wizard’s face remained impassive, though Rabastan thought he detected the slightest hint of approval. “I see,” he said. “And you’d rather attend Beauxbatons or Durmstrang?”
Rabastan nodded. “I know French,” he noted. “And Maman knows Beauxbatons, so… maybe it’s more sensible, but if you think Durmstrang is better, I’ll learn whatever I need to know to go there.”
“Your friends will be at Hogwarts. Evan… Darren… Sirius… They’ll grow up together, and you won’t be a part of that.”
That was the hardest fact to face. Had he been too hasty in his request? If he backed down now, his father would think him flighty. “I know,” he said, the words dry and brittle in his mouth.
“Very well. I’ll consider your request.”
Rabastan’s face lit up.
“The answer may still be ‘no’,” the father warned. “But I’ll consider it. You’re excused.”
“Thank you, Father. For considering it.” He stood from the chair and nodded to his father before walking off to his room, bubbling over with an unwieldy brew of hope and anxiety and frustration.
Chapter Number/Title: April 1971: Too Much (50/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2000
Workshop?: Suggestions welcome.
April 3, 1971
Too Much
“You don’t get it, do you? This is important to him,” Rabastan had insisted. And for once, his parents listened. For here they were, in the high stands of the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch, watching Rodolphus captain the Slytherin side to victory and the Quidditch Cup. Or at least, hopefully to victory: Rodolphus had explained to Rabastan how Slytherin needed to beat Hufflepuff by ninety points in order to win the Cup. That meant Slytherin either needed an enormous lead or they would have to catch the Snitch while only sixty points behind.
And so, when the score was set at 100-40 in Hufflepuff’s favor with Slytherin’s Seeker riding hard on the trail of the Snitch, the crowd was on the edge of their seats.
“Tonks seems to have found the Snitch and is catching up close with it, and ouch! Lestrange sends a Bludger right into him!” the commentator called.
The yellow-clad Seeker was thrown into the far stands, and a shriek cried out from those around.
“Looks like the match is still closing in for an end, though, because Atkinson has picked up the trail and is following the Snitch. And Hufflepuff has regained control of the Quaffle! And they move into a double pass weave and a goal!”
A loud ping echoed across the pitch, and the Quaffle was thrown back into play. “It’s 110-40, now. And the Quaffle’s with Malfoy, and to Zabini, and back to Malfoy, and Atkinson’s pulling in for the Snitch--”
If you had turned away for a second to look at the incoming raincloud, as Theodore Lestrange did, you could miss the entire climax of the match: the CRACK of Rodolphus’s Bat sending one Bludger zooming away from Zabini -- Atkinson reaching out for the Snitch -- Malfoy fumbling the Quaffle in response to the incoming Bludger -- and Rodolphus turning from the Bludgers to fly under Malfoy and kick the Quaffle through the Hoop -- Atkinson catching the Snitch -- and two Bludgers hitting Rodolphus hard, sending him careening to the ground.
The commentator could not speak fast enough. “That’s a win for Slytherin, 200-110, with a surprise goal right as the Snitch is caught. Looks like a stay in the hospital wing for Lestrange, as well as...”
Everything else seemed to drown in the noise of the crowd and the shock of seeing Dolph’s tumble. Angelique Lestrange watched with a shaking hand over her shocked mouth, and Theodore snapped his attention back to the pitch. “This blasted game,” he swore, standing. “Come on, then.”
Rabastan’s mother dragged him along behind her husband, who took swift steps across the grassy field to where Rodolphus lay, being checked and prepared for the infirmary.
“Mr. Lestrange,” greeted a very lithe severe-looking woman dressed in referee’s robes. “They say he’ll be fine. Just a week of rest. You should be proud -- I haven’t seen a finer Captain in some years, and one of our best Beaters.”
Theodore pursed his lips, seeming to not hear the effusive praise.
A young woman in white robes stood up from tending over Rodolphus and nodded to the Lestranges. “Nothing we haven’t seen,” she assured. “A few broken ribs, concussion, nothing I can’t heal.”
Rabastan knelt down at his brother’s side. “Lo, Dolphin,” he said.
Rodolphus’ eyes flickered open, and he glanced over. “You came. You all came,” he said, smiling. “How’d you manage that?”
“I talked them into it,” Rabastan boasted.
“Did we get the goal?”
“You did, and you won and I think you won the Cup, too! It was brilliant. Does it hurt?”
“Oh, you know.” Rodolphus tried to turn and grimaced. “Only a little.”
“There’s a lot of blood.” Rabastan tried not to look at the deep red soaking into his brother’s robes.
“It’s not called a-” he took a sharp breath, “-a Bludger without reason.”
“Sure, but… it’s a lot of blood.” Rabastan looked back up at his father, who seemed to be studying Rodolphus, deep in thought. “Father, do-”
His question was cut off by the shouting of a crowd of boys. “Roddy Lestrange, gents!” one called out, and the others cheered. Rabastan recognized Atkinson, who strolled up and held out the Golden Snitch. “Without you, I would’ve caught this and lost the Cup. It’s yours, I reckon,” the boy said.
Zabini leaned out of the crowd and grinned. “And I’ve already been given four messages from girls who want to give you their personal get-well-soons. I expect you’ll be having loads of hospital guests.”
“More than that Muggle, you think?” Rodolphus joked, before grimacing again.
The stern witch in white stepped back over to her patient and waved away the boys like a swarm of flies. “Off with you. He needs rest.” She knelt down and placed a bony hand on Rabastan’s shoulder. “You too, son. He’ll be all right. Why don’t you go on home and send him an Owl later?”
Rabastan nodded and stood up slowly. Of course Rodolphus would be fine. Apparently he had taken worse falls before, and he had no shortage of fans. “I’ll write,” he said lamely as he backed away into the arms of their mother.
They stepped away toward the edge of the pitch, where the faculty box was streaming out. A huge man in green robes and a walrus-y face stepped out of the crowd and took Theodore’s arm. “Teddy, m’old boy. How are you doing?”
“Quite well, Horace. And yourself?”
“Splendid, splendid. Just won the Quidditch Cup, didn’t we? Thanks to your son. He has quite a talent.”
“So I’m told,” he said, as if he had not just watched the match himself.
“Ah, no need to worry, he’s a fine student as well. Strong in Defence, I hear, and quick at the duel. Llewellyn’s had great things to say this year. Pity she’ll be moving to Africa. But your boy, I expect he’ll go far, whatever he does.”
Theodore seemed mollified by this news, even pleased. Rabastan felt a hole sinking in his stomach. Every new person seemed to make the statue of the great Rodolphus ever grander with an ever-widening shadow. And now the attention was turning to him.
“Oho, and this must be your other son!”
“Yes,” said Theodore, “this is Rabastan. He’ll be starting this fall. Rabastan, Professor Horace Slughorn, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House.”
Rabastan nodded politely and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sir.”
The walrus-y professor shook the hand and chuckled. “And you. If you take after your father and brother, it’d be quite something to have you in my House.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rabastan was unsure if that had been a compliment, a fact, or a conditional, but it seemed to be best responded with thanks. He looked back at his brother, who was now being levitated off the field, and tuned out his father’s farewells to the old professor.
Everyone loved Rodolphus. Of course, Rabastan knew that some people were flattering his father, but it was true. Rodolphus was one of the best Quidditch players: they had just seen that, and Rabastan knew the sport well enough to see that himself. He was a great Captain, beloved by his team, able to take the literal fall and give them victory. He always knew the right thing to say and could act like two Bludgers and various broken bones were little more than a scrape and smile through it all. He had friends and admirers and apparently was ace at Defence. In short, he was far, far more than anything Rabastan could ever hope to be.
That was enough of a burden at home, but there, Rabastan had Maman. Maman had always been fonder of her younger son, and Rabastan was happy with that. Here, there was no special niche that Rabastan could carve to be the best. It was obvious: anything he did, it would be in Rodolphus’ footsteps; anyone who met him would compare him to his perfect older brother. It was too much.
“I can’t go here,” Rabastan announced as they walked down the pathway leaving the school grounds. Thunder rumbled in warning of the incoming storm.
Theodore Lestrange narrowed his eyes and looked at his younger son.
“This fall,” he elaborated. “I can’t go to Hogwarts. I don’t want to go here. This is Dolph’s school. I need to make my own name, for myself. I can go to Beauxbatons, like Maman, or Durmstrang. Uncle Liam said he taught there once. And Rodolphus says they actually teach the Dar--”
“Enough!” snapped Father, stopping in the path.
Rabastan fell silent, and swallowed. He knew he had spoken too forthright, which was pushing his luck after his insistence on coming to the match today. Well, he thought, he would not apologize. He was eleven and had real things to say, and he would not apologize for making himself heard. To his surprise, no stinging rebuke came, verbal or physical. His father simply turned and continued walking.
“We shall continue this discussion at home,” he explained.
“Yes, sir,” Rabastan said.
He resisted the urge to drag his feet, and walked on, toward the dark clouds. As they reached the impressive gateway, he took one last look, and bid goodbye to the school he had dreamed of for so long.
A carriage-ride and Floo-journey later, and the family found themselves transported from stormy Scotland to calm, drizzling, Cornwall.
Rabastan hoped the continuation of the discussion would happen now that they had the privacy of Tor Delorage, but he was sent to his room instead. Today should have been a success all around, between getting his parents to the Quidditch match and Rodolphus’ victory. But instead, he sat impatiently, waiting to be called to speak with his father.
That happened two hours and twenty-five minutes later.
The door to Theodore’s study was slightly ajar when Rabastan arrived, but he knocked anyway. The door swung open, and a spindly chair pulled itself out.
“Sit.”
Rabastan sat.
“You do not wish to attend Hogwarts?”
“No,” the boy said. It sounded petulant without being able to give reasons, but he had not been asked to elaborate.
“If I hear your case, will you promise to accept my decision without any further discussion, whatever it is?”
There was not much of choice, there. “Yes, sir.”
“Well? Fifty words or less.”
Rabastan bit his lip and tried to think of his strongest arguments. “Rodolphus has made it his place,” he started, tallying words on his fingers. “He’s good at school,” ten, “he’s popular, he’s brilliant at Quidditch. Everyone knows him, so...” twenty “So everyone will know me as his little brother. I want,” thirty, “to be my own person, without people assuming things or,” forty, “comparing me or...” He looked at his fingers and counted out his last thought. “...thinking I’m getting special treatment. Sir.”
The grown wizard’s face remained impassive, though Rabastan thought he detected the slightest hint of approval. “I see,” he said. “And you’d rather attend Beauxbatons or Durmstrang?”
Rabastan nodded. “I know French,” he noted. “And Maman knows Beauxbatons, so… maybe it’s more sensible, but if you think Durmstrang is better, I’ll learn whatever I need to know to go there.”
“Your friends will be at Hogwarts. Evan… Darren… Sirius… They’ll grow up together, and you won’t be a part of that.”
That was the hardest fact to face. Had he been too hasty in his request? If he backed down now, his father would think him flighty. “I know,” he said, the words dry and brittle in his mouth.
“Very well. I’ll consider your request.”
Rabastan’s face lit up.
“The answer may still be ‘no’,” the father warned. “But I’ll consider it. You’re excused.”
“Thank you, Father. For considering it.” He stood from the chair and nodded to his father before walking off to his room, bubbling over with an unwieldy brew of hope and anxiety and frustration.