❝I would like to have no shame. I would like to be ignorant. Then I wouldn't know how ignotant I was.❞
Margaret Atwood "Handmaid's Tale"
Rabastan Lestrange became a frequent guest in their house after that party. Easton didn't like it. And then there was the fact that Evan found the best of friends in him, and she certainly didn't like that.
The second time she met Rabastan Lestrange was two days past Yuletide. She had spent a nice and refreshing morning walking in the hills with her sketchbook away from the stuffing walls of the Manor, and returned home giddy with inspiration. Cheeks kissed by the freezing cold, eyes glistening with joy and contentment and with a big knitted scarf one could see on a Hufflepuff around her neck, Easton entered the grounds of the Greengrass Manor adamant on not letting it ruin her mood.
And yet again, fait had other plans in store.
His laugh was the first thing she heard. It resonated through the walls in a deep echo and caught Easton completely unawares in the middle of the entrance hall. At first she thought she was hallucinating from the oxygen overdose but there it was again: the low, thunder-like voice that prickled on Easton's skin, covering it in tiny goosebumps. She couldn't explain such reaction and most definitely couldn't say if it mortified or excited her.
His dark eyes were the first thing Easton saw upon entering the parlor. An abyss of hypnotizing darkness, pulling you deeper the longer you looked into them. Cold yet burning at the same time.
Was it a good kind of burn, Easton wondered? Somehow she didn't mind turning into ashes.
Her family was there, too, then. They were all very happy to see her, of course, her cousin Evan probably less so than her mother, who for some inexplicable reason said nothing about Easton's horrendous look. That alone should've worried her, come to think of it. But she was too fixed on Rabastan to take notice of that.
He was drinking whiskey. So was her father and Marius, who all seemed almost theatrically busy discussing something undoubtedly very important. The rest were enjoying hot camomile tea, Easton remembered that. Because she hates camomile tea but everyone insists she drinks it for some reason.
Her mother was subtly but surely interrogating Rabastan later, and he answered each of her probing questions with the grace of a born aristocrat, whilst Easton was devouring all the new information.
Rabastan talked about his early years in Paris with his mother, his fancy home-schooling and life at Beauxbatons. Finally, when asked why he decided to come to England after all those years, Rabastan replied 'To seek', and Easton could swear his eyes flickered to her for a single moment before he smiled mysteriously and took a sip of the whiskey.
She had trouble sleeping that night. She dreamed of steep cloudy hills, wind in her hair and a dark hand reaching out to her from the starless veil that was hovering in the air.
Rabastan came to almost every dinner, conversed with her father, chatted with her mother and was always seen in Evan's company.
Easton, however, had never exchanged a single word with him. She only watched Rabaston quietly and collected information about him from the bits of the conversations she got to overhear.
It was during the New Year's soiree that they shared an awkward bump-in. Well, awkward on Easton's part and patronizing on Rabastan's, who looked smug and expectant while listening to her apologies.
Was that a conversation? Hardly. In fact, Easton didn't want to have any sort of conversation with him whatsoever. Rabastan was cold, intimidating and condescending. As well as a Death Eater, now she couldn't forget about that.
Every time he looked at her, she felt tainted by the other side. As if by merely being in the same room with him, with those people, with her family was akin to betraying everything she stood for.
Easton prided herself on her high morals. But was she really that different from her family?
Her democratic views on the Wizarding World and the rebellious teenage phase could hardly be counted as a contribution to the fight against discrimination, while she lived under the roof of a bigoted tyrant and attended parties where every gust could easily be His follower.
She was a hypocrite. Easton Greengrass was a pretender, who got too caught up in her own act.
She was looking in the mirror now, her eyes bleary and tired, hair a mess, skin thin and pale—the winter break was meant for students to rest, Easton, however, felt nothing short of exhaustion after the dreadful week. The school was starting the following day and for the first time in six years she couldn't wait to board the train.
"Easton?" Her mother called from behind the closed door.
Distracted from her pondering, Easton blinked away the drowsiness, "You can come in," she replied, her voice too weak to sound vexed by the sudden intrusion.
Ophelia Greengrass slid into the dimly lit bedroom with the fenile grace, wearing exquisite black and silver robes, ash-blond hair pinned back in soft curls, red lipstick on her thin, pursed lips. Come to think of it, Easton had never seen her mother not wearing the arduous color, which, she supposed, was her way of rebelling against the Victorian fashion pure-blooded witches seemed to be so keen on.
Easton loved her mother. Despite being the embodiment of a higher society darling, Ophelia wasn't half as horrendous as the women she was unfortunate enough to encounter at the Ministry parties. She was nagging and imposing, yes, bus she was also understanding, loving and selfless, acting as a mediator between Easton and her father, always trying to straighten things out.
Easton often wondered why her mother was so in love with her father, to the point where it nearly blinded her.
Orpheus Greengrass was a cruel, power-hungry, merciless tyrant who only ever took. Never gave.
Easton felt sorry for her mother and despised her at the same time. Despised her weakness, her inability to stand up for herself and be her own person–not just her husband's bland, obedient shadow.
These thoughts made Easton hate herself.
Do good people have such thoughts?
Ophelia Greengrass conjured a small chair and sat silently behind her daughter. She then Accio'd a silver comb that was laying on the wooden vanity table and gently collected Easton's short hair into her hand, "You always demanded that I brush your hair before bed when you were little," she recalled distantly. Easton saw her mother smile in the reflection, "Whenever I asked a house elf to do it, you would burst into tears and call for me. Your father was furious, Ophelia laughed and began brushing Easton's rather short red locks. Her hair had grown quite a bit since September but it was nowhere near as long as it had been before.
A serene silence set between the two of them before Easton spoke up, "Mum," she said unsurely. Ophelia looked up with an affectionate smile, urging her to continue, "Why do you love him?"
The question didn't startle her, as Easton had expected. She didn't even blink or think twice before replying, "I don't have a choice."
At that Easton jerked her head away from her mother's gentle ministrations and turned to look at her, "What do you mean you don't have a choice? Everyone does, it is our right—"
Ophelia, unfazed by her daughter's rage, forced Easton to return to her initial position and went on brushing her hair as if nothing had happened.
"Have I ever told you how your father and I came to be together?"
Easton huffed, "You were sold to him or something?"
"We met at Hogwarts, in fact. Your father was much older, a seventh year. I was but thirteen," Ophelia narrated as if she was telling a fairy tale,"However calling it a "meeting" would be quite an exaggeration, for he paid me no mind and I was more interested in my owl. No, we "met" long after he had graduated, in my seventh year, to be exact, and at a Yule party, believe it or not."
"He had a respectable job at the Ministry, came from a noble family and our fathers were good friends. Well, as good as two self-important pure-blooded snobs could be," Easton almost choked on her spit at these words, "See, they disagreed on a variety of things, but were able to find common ground in the purity of their lineages, which would certainly benefit both of our families."
"We held the bonding ceremony the day of my graduation that I, unfortunately, had to miss. Three years after, we had you, and a year later—your sister," for the first time during that story her mother's eyes lightened up with something resembling happiness, "I think your father still blames me for not giving him any heirs but, truthfully, I wouldn't have it any other way. Greengrass men are quite something, darling, It wouldn't do to hate my own son, now would it?" Ophelia laughed.
"I do love him. I didn't at first," she amended, "but I learned to, with time. There is some goodness within him still, your father, Easton. So I was presented a choice: I could lead a miserable life with a man I didn't love or make an effort and find it in me to close my eyes at his errors."
"And you chose the second," Easton concluded solemnly, giving in to the slumber caused by her mother's caring touch.
"And I chose the second."
And just like that, something clicked in her mind. No more was she sleepy or tired. Akin to a dog who'd got a whiff, Easton looked at her mother in the reflection, her eyes glistening with avid suspicion.
"Why are you telling me this? I mean, it's always nice to hear how your mother was married off to a stranger against her will, but why now?"
Ophelia squirmed uncomfortably. She put the comb away and raised from the conjured chair, taking a sit on Easton's bed instead, all under her daughter's baffled stare.
"I suppose it is confusing,"
Easton scoffed, "You could certainly say that."
Her mother locked her fingers and placed the crafted lock on her thighs, not particularly eager to start the conversation.
"Is there anything you maybe...want to tell me?" Easton prompted impatiently.
"Easton..." Ophelia sighed, "your father and I have been talking..."
Oh bugger
"...and we couldn't but but discuss your future"."
"Okay," Easton laughed, though somewhat nervously, as if talking herself out of what she knew was coming, "And how bleak is it? My future."
Ophelia ignored her antics and simply went on, "With Josefine getting engaged, we have...been thinking that maybe we could arrange something for you as well."
Easton just sat there, blinking as an empty-headed porcelain doll. And apparently, her mother took it as a good sign, for she decided to go on, "You must have noticed that our house has been quite...full recently."
"Indeed I did," Easton seethed, gracing Ophelia with a leveled stare that perfectly hid the raging storm brewing behind her cerulean eyes.
"The Lestranges are a respectable family amongst our people."
It was an eye contest now—who would be the first to break. Ophelia didn't enjoy being the bearer of the news and avoided the very essence of it, skirting the main point anyway she could and wouldn't give it up. Easton, however, wasn't an idiot and easily put two and two together just by looking at her mother.
Easton was shaking now from all the pent up anger and grief. Grief for herself, for the future she might have had.
Tears welled up in her eyes but she didn't dare shed one of them.
Rabastan Lestrange. Rabastan Lestrange.
Oh, the mysterious man whose presence wasn't half as mysterious now.
Not a twist of fate but greed, snobbery and her filthy pure blood had served to bringing the snake into their midst.
Should she even be surprised?
No, what she was supposed to be is furious–at her own naivety and stupidity, for how had she not seen it coming?
"Is he in his study?" Easton asked, her voice flat and cold.
It was plain who "he" was.
"Easton, now listen to me," Ophelia instantly stood up, eyes filled with worry, "do not do anything rash. You are blinded by your fury—"
"Out of my way, Mother."
"If you would just hear me out, Easton—"
"No!" Easton suddenly yelled, red-faced, "Why should I hear you out when all you've been doing for the past seventeen years is ignore me? I'm done," she stated firmly, "I'm leaving—"
"Easton, do not do anything you will later regret."
She only laughed at this.
"If there is one thing I won't regret it's leaving this wretched house, Mother. But first I need to tell him," Easton took hold of her wand and headed to the door, her body on fire from the sudden surge of adrenaline, "I want to see his face."
"Easton, see reason!"
But all she saw was red. All she felt was the smooth wood of her wand in her palm. All she heard was the rapid pounding of her heart in her temples.
"Father!" she screamed walking down the stairs to his study room.
No more. No bloody more.
"Alohomora!"
The door flew open at the spell, and Easton walked in, breathless. Her blazing eyes instantly landed on Orpheus Greengrass—sitting in his leather throne, giving his daughter a cool level stare over the rim of the whiskey glass. What Easton saw next rendered her completely and utterly speechless: in her father's study were sitting Lucius Malfoy, Orion Black and...Rabastan Lestrange, accompanied by his older brother.
He sent her a knowing half-smirk, but before Easton could react to this, her father's voice thundered through the room, "Easton?" Orpheus demanded in his usual passive aggressive manner, "Did you need something, child?"
Did she? Oh damn right she did.
Almost demonstratively dismissing Rabastan, Easton's eyes returned to the original recipient of her rage, "We need to talk," she stated coldly, feeling the four guests watching their interaction.
"I am sure whatever it is, it can wait—"
"It can not."
She stood her ground admirably, and after some time Orpheus put the glass of Firewhisky away, "Very well then," he said as he rose from the armchair, "Gentlemen, I will be back shortly," Orpheus nodded to his guests curtly and followed Easton out of the study and into the parlor.
"Care to explain yourself, Easton?"
"It is exactly what I was going to ask you, funnily enough," she countered with a snarky laugh, "now you've stolen my opening line, and I'm kind of bumped."
Orpheus was looking at Easton expectedly with evident exasperation that was bound to turn into anger in a matter of minutes.
"Whatever childish game you are playing now, Easton, I suggest you stop it this instant."
"Games, father?" Easton rose her brow, "I think you are rather keen on playing those, wouldn't you say?" She stepped closer to him, arms crossed on her chest, "Malfoy, Lestranges, Black—is this some kind of elaborate "finer things" club where you discuss the newest Ministry gossip and eat biscuits?"
"State your business or leave, Easton. Salazar knows I have more important things to do," Orpheus hissed.
"Why surely, father. You are, after all, a busy man. Conspiracies to plot, people to torture," Easton listed, and with every word her heart beat faster, "psychotic dark wizards to follow."
Once the words left her mouth, Easton knew there was no taking them back. There was no lying or pretending it was a terrible mistake—they were out there, hanging in the air between them, and all she could do was watch her father's eyes get even colder, posture stiffer and lips thinner, curled in a ghost of a smirk.
"There is a thin line laying between bravery and sheer stupidity, Easton," he said calmly. Too calmly, "I am afraid you are but steps away from crossing it. I would advice you against it."
"As you would advice me to marry Rabastan?"
At this Orpheus's face broke into a smile, and he shook his head, laughing.
"I should have anticipated this reaction."
"I'm not doing it," Easton sounded small, unsure. Just as she felt.
"But you are, darling," Orpheus placated in a sweet, condescending tone, "Everything has already been settled. With His blessing, the bonding ceremony will be held this Spring break."
"His blessing?"
"You know perfectly well who I am talking about."
"Oh, I do know. What I don't know, father, is how this concerns Him?"
"The Dark Lord cares much about the purity of magical blood—any such alliance is of great importance to him. In fact, it was He who suggested that Rabastan pick you as his future bride."
She felt sick. It was like someone hit her right in the stomach—hard, mercilessly, repeatedly—when she felt it lurch and fall, and all she could do was try not to vomit. Not only was she going to be the bride of a Death Eater but it was His call. He brought the sentence. He decided her fait. He ruined her life.
"No," was all she could muster.
"It is not a suggestion, Easton."
"No...I'm—"
Do not cry. Don't you dare...
"I'm not going to do it," Easton mumbled more to herself than out loud and looked up at her father's indifferent face, "I'm not marrying Rabastan. I will not follow His orders—he may be your master but sure as hell not mine."
Orpheus was looking at Easton closely. No, not at her, but through her as if turning her words over in his mind, calculating, plotting, deciding what do to, what to say. He then refocused his eyes, and his attention was back at Easton—bored and chilling.
"You are a part of this family, Easton, whether you like it or not. And with that come certain obligations," Orpheus explained as if talking to a little child, "You will do as you are told or I will have to resort to more persuasive tactics."
Easton's eyes instantly darted to the wand Orpheus was holding in his right hand ready to prove his intentions. She glared back at him with disgust and anguish, with an anger of the little girl whose dreams have just been crashed into nothingness, turning into dust in the air thick with tension and anticipation.
"Wouldn't be the first time," she responded casually, clenching her own wand in her sweaty palm, "Hurt me all you want, father, but one day you'll wake up and I will be gone—far away from you, this wretched house, the Wizarding world, your Lord," she almost spit out the last word, "Gone."
"And what about Josefine?"
She didn't expect that. And Orpheus didn't miss the shock in her eyes.
"What do you think will happen to her should you selfishly refuse and leave? Or haven't you thought about it?" He pressed further, enjoying the desired affect, "And your mother? Me? The Dark Lord will not be pleased with our family, and when he is not pleased, he tortures, he kills—is that what you want?" Orpheus nearly whispered, unbothered by the tears welling in his daughter's eyes, "There will be no use nor mercy for a family of blood traitors. Can you really bear it knowing that you have let down our entire family—"
"Stop!" Easton yelled and stepped away, "Stop! Just—just shut up!"
And Orpheus did. He said no more, his face an unmoving mask. Easton looked at him with round eyes, shaking from fear.
No, she thought, she wouldn't bear it.
Orpheus fixed his robes, making sure that they looked impeccable, and looked at Easton, "Very well," he nodded, "I am glad we had this talk. Now you should return to your room, Easton—it is rather late, and you have a train to catch tomorrow, " and he left to return to his study.
For a couple of minutes Easton just stood in the empty parlor, unable to move. She then finally found it in her to climb the stairs to her room—her mother was standing in the corridor there, pleading with Easton...to do what, Easton wondered? To reassure her? Tell her how happy she was? Tell her that she didn't blame her? Did she want her to lie?
So Easton said nothing. She walked past Ophelia and entered her room, shutting the door.
It was so quiet. So calm. It was also scary. Because she was alone. Truly, really alone. And this time she couldn't help but feel lonely, too.
She walked to the old record player and put on one of the few vinyls that were laying on the shelves—"Let it Be" by the Beatles.
How ironic
The silencing charm was already on, so once the music started playing, Easton leaned on her bed frame and just closed her eyes.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be
Easton felt wetness on her cheeks and only then realized she was crying.
She had no one to help her, no one to speak the words of wisdom and show her the right path.
For her there was none. And if there had been, it was now taken away.
There would be no answer.
And so Easton screamed. Out loud, at the top of her lungs, ripping her vocal chords into shreds, she screamed into the nothingness, and cried. How she wanted to have someone to yell at, to throw fists—just a living person, but all she had was her pillows that were now scattered across the room.
"Fuck you!" She screamed and ripped one of her posters. And then another one, and another. The one with the peace sign made her laugh almost hysterically at the irony. Easton destroyed everything she saw, crying and laughing, surrounded by chaos. The record played was the last to be thrown across the room into the wall, John Lennon's voice dying with its last breaths.
It was now quite once again. Deadly quiet.
"It that what you wanted, father?" Easton asked, voice hoarse and cracked. Her wondering eyes suddenly fell on the wand laying on the floor—she picked it up with vigor determination and walked to the tall mirror.
Easton took a deep breath and brought the tip of the wand to her hair, screaming "Calavaria", but nothing happened. She repeated the incantation over and over again until she felt sparks hit her face. When Easton opened her eyes, her hair was its usual brown color, save for a few red locks, and there was a small burn on her forehead.
Her eyes were puffy and red, cheeks wet with tears, lips cracked and bloody from all the biting—she was a mess. Disgusting.
Can you really bear letting down our entire family?
You're a disgrace to own family!
Do not disappoint me again, Easton.
Disgrace...freak...alone...helpless...
A loud crack resonated through the room, accompanied by a scream. Easton clutched her right fist in the other hand, doubling over from the searing pain.
"Fuck...fuck, fuck..." she whispered. Glass was scattered across the wooden floor now, specs of it stuck in her skin. Easton's reflection was now distorted by the crack her fist left in the mirror, where she could see a dozen pairs of the same eyes looking back.
Unable to stand still, Easton fell to the floor and started crying again. She hated it. Hated herself. Hated Hogwarts. Hated magic. Hated her family.
What if she died?
She'd like that.
But what would her father make Josefine do if she wasn't there to take the fall? She had to stand still. For her sister and her mother, who didn't know better. If they were blind, she'd see for the both of them.
A/N: Hey guys! I am so so so sorry for the long absence! The uni was terrible, as usual, and I had to take the finals, so there's that. But I'm back on track now with the weekly updates yay (hopefully!)
Did anyone spot The Office reference?)
Anyways, thank II for reading! Please vote and comment to support the story and poor Easton!
Xxx see you next week
