This was… foolish.
Rabastan had never cared for slaves; he found them detestable creatures, filthy and hardly fit for wiping the dust off the Lestrange banisters. Yet Father insisted it was a necessity. If Mother had been alive, Rabastan was sure Master Lestrange would've re-thought his decision to stock the house full of repulsive blood. She had always been adamant about staffing the manor with elves. However, Master Lestrange had repeated himself over and over again that it was imperative to meet the exact quota of the Malfoy Manor. Rigel could not stand to fall below Abraxas in anything. It was his pathetic pride, a sickness that plagued every power-hungry pureblood on the continent. Otherwise they would not be out at this gaudily decorated shit hole that revealed the underside of pureblood society, the utter lows they would stoop to in order to prove their worth.
He had been dragged. Rabastan had not wanted to go, but Master Lestrange had responded that he had no choice in the matter whatsoever, that every single one of them had to be present in order to make the correct entrance. It was not as though Rabastan's opinion especially mattered, it was simply the presentation. The Auction House itself modeled early Roman designs, pillars holding the overhanging above their heads, golden engraved lettering above the grand mahogany doorway. They had scrubbed and perfected, spent thousands of galleons on making the Auction House something to crow about, a respectable place where the wealthy and important could flock to.
Master Lestrange walked before his two sons, deep green cloak lay properly across his broad shoulders, white oxford pressed and without wrinkles, cuffs buttoned, and dark hair slicked back. Rodolphus walked a pace behind him, spine straight, chin slightly tilted, his appearance mirroring his father's in nearly every way possible. Rodolphus' arrogant manner, however, had always been a bit more pronounced than his father's. He had an extra swagger to his step, a slightly higher raised brow, and a wilier smirk, the side of his mouth lifting further than his father's.
He loved attending just as much as Master Lestrange loved flashing their galleons, showing their wealth. It was a disease that had not failed to infect his father and his brother, as well as every other pureblooded family with the intent to buy slaves. Rabastan was not disgusted and repulsed because of his sympathy for those enslaved. Oh no, that was certainly not it. His answer to the mudblood problem? Kill them all. There was no use for them, even as slaves. That is why, after all, house elves were domesticated. Mudblood slaves were simply more mouths to feed, more bodies to fill a perfectly empty household. It was like he was back at school, sharing his living quarters with utter filth. Master Lestrange despised his slaves as well; he found them just as disgusting. However, there seemed to be no way to skirt around the inevitable; the buying of slaves was unavoidable. The amount one possessed spoke of one's position in society.
They must be bought.
Rabastan stood silently beside Rodolphus, finally raising his gray eyes from the floor, resisting the urge to squint into the bright lights of the stage. The extravagant set-up was loud and noisy to the eye, busy as hell, what with draperies of fine crimson velvet, paintings lining every inch of the wall, expensive marble statues situated at either side of the podium. The designers had made a point of showing all of those who visited the House that an extreme amount of galleons had been placed into the construction of such a lavish place. They had spared no cost, they wanted to attract the wealthy and the important, and they had been successful in such a respect. There was quite the crowd surrounding the slightly elevated stage, every individual dressed in costly attire, every single individual trying their best to show-up the individual beside them.
It was almost moronic.
Rabastan sighed heavily as the obese man waddled on to the stage, his thick washed-out brown hair styled into perfect waves, moustache trimmed and gold-rimmed glasses set arrogantly upon his roman nose. He was dressed in a violent purple suit, a golden tie tucked into the waistcoat. He had a large smile painted onto his ruddy face, and seemed ready for his roll as the entertainer. His voice boomed over the soft murmur of society's finest.
"Good evening my fine ladies and gentlemen! I would like to welcome you to Borgin's Auction House on such a fine autumn evening. It is an honor to have those of such importance beneath our roof."
He bowed deeply, signifying his respect, although Rabastan knew he was full of shit, simply massaging the crowd's ego before he ripped as many galleons out of their jingling pockets as possible.
"Now without further ado, I shall grant you what you have all come to see, our newest shipment!"
On cue the lights dimmed, and the slow shuffling of the enslaved moved out onto the large stage in a single-filed line, heads bowed, their defeat visible on every face. Dressed in the same washed-out gray uniform, they fit tight so members of the audience could see exactly what it was they were paying their money for. Those who stood before him were ashamed, spirits so beaten that they lay bloody at the pit of their gut, pride disintegrated completely.
Rabastan shook his head, eyes already traveling to those surrounding him, when something gut-wrenchingly familiar caught his eye. He quickly reverted his gaze, gray eyes widening with utter astonishment as they located the source of his suddenly upset stomach. What the bloody hell was Emmy doing here?