Shades In Between

Feeling his mouth fill with his own blood from clenching his jaw with so much brute force, Rabastan wondered if he would be screaming for his Master tonight. Over the years, he had learned to withdraw his mind from the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. He had learned to fear the dementors far more.

“My Lord, please.” His brother always spoke out, always took Rabastan’s punishments as his own. It was a bittersweet thing; sometimes he wished he could hate Rodolphus. Hearing Bella’s mad laughter as she ran her hands over his Master’s shoulders hurt far more than the curse had, the aftershocks still making his body shake. Rabastan had been in charge of a raid on the Ministry, and with Lucius in Azkaban access was not nearly as simple. The Order had somehow known, and been there. Many of their number had been incapacitated and taken, and Rabastan accepted the punishment as his due.

“You will not fail me again, or I will not show you this mercy.” Turning from the shaking man on the floor, Voldemort withdrew into the recesses of Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix hanging on his arm and whispering in his ear.

“Bastien...” The large hands that lifted him like so many times before, and the large man that supported his weight all through the darkened halls of the monstrous Malfoy residence gave Rabastan a sense of peace he found nowhere else. His brother. His savior in so many ways. In youth, Rabastan and Bella had dragged a mild Rodolphus into the Dark Lord’s army, but Rodolphus had proven so much stronger than they. He never lost himself, never enjoyed the kill. Rabastan knew he had lost who he was to Voldemort, the lust he felt, the arousal that burned through him as the green lights of the Killing Curse made their way out of his wand.

“Bastien, please, brother are you alright?” Nodding to Rodolphus, he silently begged to be left alone, to feel the weakness without audience. Knowing that his brother would not appreciate further help, Rodolphus left to join the others, abandoning Rabastan in one of the many bedrooms, on silk sheets with blood seeping out his nose and mouth and onto the finery.


Far from there, Hermione sat reading a book she had convinced the guilty house-elf to procure from the Lestrange library. She had attempted to speak to the creature, learning small pieces of information she had been trying to puzzle out. A way out of the bowels of this calm and quiet hell she’d trapped herself in. It had been four days since “the incident,” as she had started calling Rabastan’s attempt to force himself on her. She had read enough books to know that looking forward to his presence was a normal response to her captivity, but it still made her angry.

Angry at him, angry at the situation, and most of all angry at herself. With a frustrated growl she threw the book at the wall and screamed, putting all of her fear, her rage, and helplessness into the sound. When she had screamed herself hoarse, and tears were streaming down her face, Hermione came to the conclusion that if she did not leave his hospitality soon she would be as mad as Professor Trelawny before very long.

“Stupid, pureblood prat. Worse than Malfoy!” Mumbling to herself the whole way, Hermione picked up the book and walked to the narrow bed, willing herself to stop counting the minutes before the house-elf, or even Rabastan, made an appearance.