Wish Fulfiller
God, she hasn't changed. She's so like her sister—but she's not, is she, because Andromeda and Bellatrix having identical haughty cheekbones sure as hell doesn't make them the same. Bellatrix—she remains… faithful. But Andromeda—is…
For one thing, her dress robes are black silk and askew, slipping off her left shoulder to hang inches down her arm, and the skin exposed is peach butter and vulnerable, like she is, like he can still taste the ashes of that neck somewhere deep down his throat if she would just pin him down—
Eyes up top, soldier. But (this last regret Rabastan allows himself) maybe he's too much of a masochist to be cut out for all that Mudblood pillaging when Andromeda's not around to wring out all the blood.
"Surprised I made it out here?" she asks him, her voice all doors and cracking.
"I mean, Walburga did burn you off the tapestry, didn't she? I would've thought Bella would be even quicker to count you out for—"
"Marrying for love? What, opposed to this travesty?" Andromeda gives a little spasm, her head jerking in Bellatrix and Rodolphus's direction. Shoulders hunched, Rodolphus is swirling the olive in his glass round and round with a toothpick he's grasping a little too firmly and casting glances at Bellatrix, who's deep in whispers with Lucius Malfoy and glinting with rage. "It's just a rug, Bas. Just because I'm off the rug doesn't mean my sister's suddenly not allowed to invite me to her wedding."
"And did Bella invite you?"
"Would it make you feel better about yourself if I said I was gate-crashing?" She smirks—it's why Rabastan knows better—when she adds, "I'm sorry. That was rude."
But Rabastan knows she isn't sorry. Andromeda's never sorry, not for breaking the code or breaking him or any of it. There's a grin playing at her lips now, her lipstick burnt red and glossy and drawing a little too much attention to the overbite she never bothered to charm away—unapologetic down to the teeth, that woman, and it's been so long now he can't recall the feeling, but he used to like the way she'd bite his earlobe and mutter his name. Bas. Nobody else calls him that, and he likes it that way.
"She did," Andromeda interrupts (without realizing it). "Invite me. Bella did. I think she's just pretending she didn't for Mother's sake."
He wonders if Ted was worth it to her. Sure, she wasn't giving up much—red WANTED stamps on their foreheads from Dumbledore and the Cruciatus from her mum every time she didn't eat her vegetables—Rabastan isn't much, but at least he can say for himself that he stayed. He would have done that as long as she'd have let him, for her.
"We still could," he tells her, because maybe they can.
"Give it a few more drinks and maybe then," Andromeda fires back, and he knows from the way her smile stays bright that she means it, and that he's screwed.