A/N: Thanks to AlexandraO for lending her beta services! Drop me a line and let me know your thoughts. Find me on Tumblr at crochetawayhpff!


Rabastan had never liked living alone. He glanced around the empty dining room, seeing Granger's empty spot for the fifteenth time since they had returned from St Mungo's a few weeks ago. Granger never ate with him. Granger was barely around at all, in fact, and it was beginning to drive Rabastan a little crazy.

She still slept here, of course, called Lestrange Park her primary residence, but she didn't seem to spend any time here, beyond sleeping. He'd know if she moved out, or wasn't sleeping here. It would put him back in that weird lethargic state that made him want to stop breathing. He was thankful that she had saved him yet again but didn't know how to go about showing that thanks when she was never around. He finished his meal quickly and decided to wait for her outside of her room. She had to come home and go to bed eventually.

Later that night, he sat in an armchair in the hallway outside her room. He was reading a book when he heard a tell-tale creak on the stairs. She must have apparated and come in through the front door, otherwise, Rabastan was sure he would have heard the buzz of the Floo.

"Lestrange?" Granger asked as she climbed the last few stairs to the first floor. She had taken the first room on the left side of the hallway.

"Hello," Rabastan nodded to her politely, closing his book.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him.

"Waiting for you," Rabastan replied as if it were obvious.

"Right, but why?"

Rabastan sighed, "Look, I know you are stuck with me, but I—" he cut himself off. How was he to admit that he was dependent on her? She was a virtual stranger, and clearly wanted nothing to do with him. He should just leave her alone, but he knew if he did that, he'd end up at St Mungo's again. Without the will to live.

Granger frowned at him and Rabastan stood, "Nevermind," he muttered and walked down the hallway toward his own room. Why force himself on her? It was so obvious she was uncomfortable with this whole situation. For the thousandth time, Rabastan wished she would have just let him die. It would have been easier for both of them.


Rabastan decided that instead of trying to get Granger to talk to him, he would concentrate instead on figuring out a way to repay the life debt without having to either marry her or provide her with heirs. He was sure that those were the bits she was baulking at the most, and if he could find a way around them, then she would be easier to be around.

Actually, if he could find a way around them, then he could move out of Lestrange Park. They wouldn't have any excuse to be near each other. He was sure that was what she would want. But he felt strangely sad at the notion. Rabastan shook his head; it was just the weight of the debts talking. It's not like he was attached to Granger at all. Even if he rather liked the way her shoes clicked on the floors of the house as she moved through it. Or the way he knew she'd just been in a room because her perfume lingered in the air. Oh, dear Merlin above, he had it bad.

He knew he was in trouble when he entered his paint studio for the first time in over two decades with an itch in his hands he hadn't since his first stint in Azkaban. The studio was in the south attic, and Rabastan had retrofitted the house to have skylights over this portion to give him the best light he could. It used to be his haven, during school breaks, he'd hide up here from his father and brother and paint to his heart's content. He didn't think he was particularly good at painting, but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed creating something with his hands and doing something that felt right and good and even joyous at times. He painted everyone in his family, mostly in what he considered artless poses. And it was all from memory.

He shut off his higher intelligence when he was in the studio and just allowed himself to feel. That's how his best work came about when he locked the inner critic up and just did what felt right. He was shocked to see that his paints had been restored at some point. And there were even some blank canvases stacked against one wall.

"Tilly?" Rabastan called.

"Yes, Master?" Tilly answered the call with a very pleased smile on her face.

"Did you do this?" Rabastan gestured to his studio. It was clean and fresh and didn't look as though it had been neglected for twenty-two years.

"I did, Master! Is that alright? It looked so well-loved, I felt for sure that you would want to be coming back here." Tilly looked nervous.

"No, it's great. Thank you, Tilly," Rabastan said sincerely. He had fully expected to come up here and work for hours on getting his studio back into shape and was pleased he could just come and paint.

"You're welcome, Master Rabastan!" Tilly beamed at him before Apparating away.

Rabastan smiled at the little elf, he hadn't spoken much to the house-elves when he was a child growing up in the house, but he was pleased with Granger's finding of Tilly. She was a good elf and worked hard. Anticipating needs he hadn't even realised he had.

Breathing easily for the first time in a long time, Rabastan got to work, setting up a canvas and mixing paints.

When the day was over, and he allowed his brain to come out of the meditative place that was conducive to painting, he was dismayed. He'd painted Granger. The way her hair looked in the morning light. He'd painted Granger lounging in a bed, the sheet artfully arranged over a body he had yet to see, but didn't stop him from admiring. He had painted Granger lounging in his bed. Oh, he was thoroughly fucked. If he was painting Granger like this, then the barrier separating his feelings from the feelings caused by the weight of the life debts was already deteriorating.


Almost six weeks after Granger had moved in, Rabastan had had enough. She was never around, and he could feel the weight of the debts, they were increasing. He would need to have another one absolved and soon if he wanted to live. And while most of the time he did want to live, he knew that he would have to find Granger and say something to her about it. If he didn't, another episode would play out like it had a few weeks ago and Granger would have no choice again. That's what he hated himself for the most, that she wasn't given any choice in the matter. Oh, sure, she could let him die, but Rabastan had been doing some research on Hermione Granger. This was a woman who insisted on paying house elves. She had worked her whole career for the underdog, and Rabastan knew she wasn't the type to let someone die. Not only had she said it to him once before, but everything he learned about her, screamed it to him.

She had taken him on out of pity, and that was probably worst reason Rabastan could imagine for starting any sort of relationship with someone. And he'd tried to find another way around it, but life debts were old pure-blood magic. He hated himself for having recognised them to begin with. If he hadn't, neither of them would be in this situation. He'd be miserable in Azkaban, but was that any worse than being miserable in his own home? Probably not.

Sweet Salazar, what had he done to deserve this torture? The life debts would soften his feelings and push him to love her, and she would never reciprocate. How could she? Rabastan was sure he wouldn't in her shoes.

So here he was, sitting in an armchair in front of her room once more, waiting for her to return home. They needed to speak about what the plan was. Regardless, of what came of it, Rabastan had to know. The last week or so had felt like he'd been living on tenterhooks. Waiting to find out if he lived or died. Oh, he knew he would live, she wouldn't let him die. He didn't think, but at the same time, that sinking feeling of wearing too many clothes in an ocean full of waves was getting stronger and stronger.

"Lestrange?" Hermione asked. That was another thing; he was done being strangers with this woman. Either she was his killer, or she would be the mother of his children. Either way, he'd call her by her first name.

"Hermione," Rabastan greeted. He was pleased to hear her sharp inhalation. He hoped that meant that he was on the right track.

"What are you doing?" she asked warily as she came to stand in front of him.

Rabastan stayed seated, he didn't want to scare her off and thought his height might intimidate her. She tapped her foot lightly as she waited for him to respond. Or maybe not.

"Waiting for you," Rabastan replied.

Hermione frowned, folding her arms over her chest.

"We need to absolve another life debt soon," Rabastan said quietly.

Huffing out a breath, Hermione conjured her own armchair and sat down across from him. When she crossed her legs, Rabastan caught a glimpse of thigh and felt a tightening in his groin. He tamped down any such feeling, knowing that they were not only counter-productive to the conversation at hand, but also a side-effect of the life debts.

"Fine," Hermione nodded. "Tell me how we should absolve the next life debt you owe me, Lestrange."

"Rabastan, please," Rabastan muttered, strangely embarrassed as he felt his face redden.

Hermione nodded, "Fine, Rabastan. Tell me how we should absolve the next life debt?"

Rabastan shook his head and looked down at his clasped hands. He didn't know what to say. It all felt so slimy and coercive.

"Right, well, since the only way to absolve life debts is through marriage. Shall I hire an officiant?" Hermione snarked.

Rabastan sighed, "Technically, I could purchase additional properties to give to you."

"And what would happen if we didn't live in those properties together?"

Rabastan's lips thinned, she wasn't wrong. Life debts were old pure-blood magic that was generally only absolved by binding the debtor to the debtee. He could give her the world, and unless he truly felt like the life debt had been absolved, they would still linger. He didn't know what else to say as an overwhelming wave of guilt crashed over him. He'd ruined her life and wished he had kept his mouth shut and just died in Azkaban.