Rabbit: March 1968

Jun 20, 2009 22:02

Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: March 1968: Who? (13/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G
Word Count: 1185
Workshop?: Suggestions always welcome.


March 9, 1968
Who?

Sometimes when Father was away or busy, Rabastan liked to sneak into the library at the great house at Tor Delorage. It wasn't that he needed to sneak, really, or that he could only go when Father was away, but the master of the house spent so much time in the library that the boy always feared causing a disruption. Even with the house free, it felt like an intrusion, and all of Rabastan's time with Sirius had trained him to revel somewhat in the thrill of sneaking-- no matter if there was always an elf five feet away, making sure that the eight-year-old didn't get into the wrong sort of books.

And so they went this foggy afternoon. It was too dangerous to fly in such weather, and so Rabastan went searching for some book to look at. His head was tired from composition and Latin and though he could of course read, sometimes he just wanted to look at pictures.

As the boy and elf entered the huge room, a glance was passed between them, and the understanding was clear: Rabastan would stick to the lower shelves of the north-west corner, where the volumes deemed appropriate for children were kept. Dutifully, he did just that.

He started with the large edition of Beedle the Bard and turned the pages to examine each of the intricate colorful illustrations that moved about, weaving together almost every detail of the story. He moved on to other standards: guides to dragon species, atlases, illuminated genealogies. Finding himself quite bored, he peered up at the leathery books and their varying levels of dustiness.

Desperate, Rabastan pulled down a particularly dusty tome on Brazilian cauldrons and began to open it when a book that had been shelved behind it caught his eye. The New Guide to Hogsmeade: 1940, the title read, under the thin layer of dust. The dust scattered as the boy blew along the spine. A new edition of New Guide came out every decade, and he doubted whether anyone had even looked at this since Father in the forties.

Upon closer inspection, Rabastan guessed that Father had hardly looked at it in its time. The cover page had a messy note from Mr. and Mrs. Flint, wishing Teddy Lestrange a wonderful school year. The spine crackled with the discomfort of a book that has been opened no more than five times in twenty-five years. Even if it were useless now, it should have photographs of Hogsmeade, the boy thought, and that would be fun to see. He thumbed through the first few pages and felt the disappointment wash over him. How could a book about a town have no photographs?

To double check, he held the bulk of the pages in one hand and began to fan them along-until they caught, held up by something stiff. There was no photo of Hogsmeade, but there was a photo. It slipped out of the book and into Rabastan's hand, which held it before him in curiosity.

Three teenagers proudly looked out from the image. Without trying, Rabastan recognized Father from other photographs and from the tell-tale features. The flip in his hair was just like Rabasatan's, the serious-yet-jovial expression looked like it belonged on Rodolphus, and his eyes flicked around the room just as Father's still did. It was definitely from school: he looked only a bit older than Rodolphus, and his Slytherin tie had fallen askew. On the left, though not as obvious, was Mr. Avery, who was well known to all the Lestranges, with lighter hair and a self-assured grin.

Who was in the middle? Rabastan did not recognize him as any of Father's other friends-definitely not Evan's father, or Sirius' father, or Narcissa's, and he wasn't any of the ones that Rabastan had just seen passing through or at parties. More unsettling, he couldn't match the features to any family. He couldn't be a Lestrange, because Rabastan knew them all by heart. He definitely didn't have the Black features-his hair, nose, and chin, were all off. He was too dark for a Rosier, too thin for a Goyle or Crabbe but not thin enough for a Nott, too soft for a Prewett, too angular for a MacMillan...

He was a Prefect-the pin sparkled in the candlelight from the dungeons-and clearly the leader of the other two, though he was a bit shorter. Rabastan had always thought of his own father as a leader, and found it baffling that Father-only he was just Teddy then-would be so overshadowed by another. Rabastan looked into the eyes of the unknown Slytherin, unsure whether they were comforting and trustworthy or unsettling. Whatever they were, they were riveting, and the boy wanted to stay, looking at the photograph. Maybe he had died, Rabastan mused, tragically young. It would have been terribly sad, to lose someone so promising! Maybe that was why Father had not talked about him.

He turned the photograph over in his hands and squinted to read the script of the caption his father had written so many years ago: April '42, with L. Avery and T. Riddle Ld. Vt. Rabastan blinked once, glanced about the room, and slid the photograph back into the book in order to push it back onto its back place on the shelf, stealing one last look at Uncle Liam and Father-and this friend, whoever he was.

**

"Salut, Maman." Rabastan stepped cautiously into the ballroom, where Angelique Lestrange was arranging a seating chart with a model of the larger room.

"Yes, come in." She circled around her model, scanning for spots that would cause trouble. "Rabastan," she quizzed, "why must we not seat Rosalina Flint next to Tristan Podmore?"

His eyes flashed up in thought. Flint... father, grandfather... Podmore... "Because their families fought against each other? In 14..."

Maman laughed. "Oh, Rabbit, no no, no one cares about that. Tristan Podmore was engaged to young Miss Rosalina, who left him for a better match-a Flint. You've had too many books, too much past, and not enough talk, not enough of the present. We'll fix that."

"Oh. Um. Maman?"

"Yes?" The marker for Tristan Podmore flew around, looking for a new seat.

"Who was T. Riddle?"

Tristan Podmore no longer had a seat. Nor did anyone, for the whole model crashed to the ground as Mrs. Lestange lost focus. She tried, in vain, to act unfazed. Rabastan pressed on.

"I-there's just... something, with Father and Uncle Avery and this T. Riddle so I-"

"He was a friend of your father's," she said, simply, and glared at the elf for not reassembling the model more quickly.

Rabastan wasn't satisfied. He knew that much, didn't he? "What happened to him, though? He was a Prefect and-"

Maman looked down at her son, who showed no sign of ending his quest. "He went missing. Long ago. Sometimes it is best to leave the past in the past."

"But Fath-"

"Your father would not be happy at all if you brought this up with him. I suggest you let it go."

"Yes, Maman," he ceded in a whisper.

author: novangla, book: rabbit

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