Rabastan couldn't remember the last time he had been in Knockturn Alley by himself. He left the manor and the immediate surrounding moors rarely enough and went into the city even more rarely. Rodolphus had always bought his school things for him because Maria and Joseph considered Rabastan's frailty to make it impossible for him to be out of the house and wandering around Diagon Alley without his brother on his arm. A handful of times, Andromeda had coddled his parents into letting him accompany her on a trip into the city, but–
Don't think about Andromeda.
The image of Andromeda and that boy was burned into Rabastan's mind, and the echo of their words pounded in his head.
He sounds awful…
He is a bit…
You can see why I don't fancy him…
"Stop it," he whispered to himself, pressing his hands over his ears in the hope that that would block out the sounds of their voices, though he knew full well from more experience than he liked to think he had that covering one's ears did nothing to make the voices go away.
Rabastan breathed deeply, then dropped his hands, straightened his back, and strode down the narrow, winding alley with all the confidence that he could muster. He feared it wasn't much – confidence, even false confidence, was not something that he was often able to convey – but he did manage to turn up his nose at the men and women who sneered at him from their corners of the street. He kept his eyes forward and ignored the soft catcalls, no doubt attracted by his slightness – they probably thought him very young.
It came as a blessed relief when he made it to Borgin and Burke's at last, shoved open the door, and was at last able to slip into the quiet of the store.
"May I help you?"
The Dark Lord's voice was as smooth and cool as Rabastan had remembered it from their one brief meeting. He looked around quickly, then inclined his head as he stepped out from behind a shelf, looking enquiringly at Rabastan.
"Young Master Lestrange, isn't it?" he asked, and Rabastan flushed with pride that his name was remembered.
"Yes, sir – Rabastan Lestrange…"
"And what brings you here?" he asked, all cordial curiosity. It was unclear to Rabastan whether he was just being polite or if he genuinely cared about him – given the stature of the Dark Lord, he was inclined to think the former – but he cleared his throat softly, trying to sound casual and not so much like he was seconds from tears.
"I- I desired to see you, my Lord…"
"I would have made that assumption, as you have come to my place of employ…" His lip curled a tiny bit as though in disgust, and he swiftly added, "My temporary place of employ."
"Yes, my Lord," Rabastan stammered, a flush rising in his cheeks. "I- I simply wished…"
"Wished what?" he asked, and if Rabastan was not mistaken, he thought he detected impatience and perhaps even anger beneath the cool, polite but rather emotionless façade. "You surely had some fine reason for coming to me, but now you sound as if you'd rather leave… of course, if that is the case…?" He lifted one hand almost gracefully and indicated the door.
"No!" Rabastan cried out, and then, realizing how terribly desperate he must have sounded, he lowered his voice. "No, please… I don't want to leave, I just…"
"I prefer my Death Eaters to be articulate," the Dark Lord told him. "So if you cannot even say what you want from me…"
"It's about me becoming a Death Eater," Rabastan said quickly, before the Dark Lord could finish.
"Having second thoughts?" He looked Rabastan up and down with disdain. "I should have expected it…"
"I'm not having second thoughts – I want to be a Death Eater…"
"And the matter displeases your brother?" the Dark Lord asked, looking at Rabastan shrewdly.
"What- it- no, no it doesn't… it doesn't displease my brother…" Rabastan swallowed, and the flush that so often painted his cheeks – that had already been visible – must have darkened several shades. He looked down at his hands, slowly digging his nails into his palms and releasing them so that he could watch the pale crescents darken and turn red where the pressure had been.
"You lie."
He looked up sharply. "I do not."
"Do not lie to me, Rabastan." He sounded almost bored with the whole matter – not upset that Rabastan was lying, simply tired and a touch matter-of-fact. "I know when lies are being told."
"It- well…" Rabastan hesitated, then said, very slowly, "I suppose it does rather displease my brother that you requested me instead of him… but that is- that is not the reason I'm here…"
"Then, pray tell, what is?"
If Rabastan had been more daring, he might have challenged the Dark Lord to guess, for he was obviously a skilled enough legilimens to know when Rabastan was telling a lie. Surely if he could do that, he would be able to tell what Rabastan's purpose had been when he came down Knockturn Alley and entered Borgin and Burke's with the intention of speaking to the Dark Lord. But Rabastan did not have the nerve to speak so, so he simply said, "A friend…"
"Ah." The Dark Lord shook his head, looking mildly displeased. "Friends… a friend disapproved of your invitation to join our most noble cause, I presume?"
"Yes, sir."
"A friend you felt… a great deal for, I daresay?" he breathed, leaning forward with his eyebrows drawing together slightly. He examined Rabastan as though Rabastan was a specimen under a microscope and he shifted uncomfortably, wondering how many of the thoughts buried deep in his mind, in secret places where even he could not always find them, were being revealed to this man.
"Yes, sir," Rabastan repeated quietly. "I had intended to marry her."
"A friend you loved, then?"
The very way he said loved was thicker with scorn than any word that Rabastan had ever heard anyone say in his life. It sent chills up his spine, just the way that the Dark Lord was able to take a word that generally signified such comfort and happiness and twist it with his tongue into something that sounded more like a curse than a description of an emotion.
"I… I…" Rabastan stammered, unsure of how to answer. He had never cared much for attempting to put his feelings into words – if he did that, he would have had to examine them closely, and that was not something that he enjoyed doing. He liked to leave his emotions in a churning mess out of his own mind and try to ignore them. Putting a word like love onto them would have made them concrete, unpleasant…
But if he had tried to describe – in one word – how he felt for Andromeda, he supposed that love came closer than anything else that he could have said.
But the way the Dark Lord was looking at him now, and the way he had said love with such derision, made Rabastan unwilling to call it that. The Dark Lord and the promise of being a Death Eater were near enough to being all that he had, and he dared not ruin that by saying something that might cause the Dark Lord to think even less of him than he already did.
"I might have once," he said, as airily as he could manage. He tried to match the Dark Lord's cordial but careless tone, though he feared he sounded foolish. "She's proven to have made an… unfortunate decision."
"She decided that she fancied someone else more than you."
Rabastan startled. "How did you know that?"
"I know a great many things, Rabastan Lestrange…" he breathed, and Rabastan's stomach turned.
Does he know what I've been thinking of him?
"Now," he continued, his voice low and intent and his eyes boring into Rabastan's, "are you going to let some foolish infatuation with a girl who does not understand the importance of the Death Eaters upset you?"
It already has upset me.
"No, sir," Rabastan said quietly, barely able to speak above a frightened squeak. He must have sounded like a schoolboy being reprimanded by a teacher, but that was how he felt – frightened and nervous and ever so slightly humiliated.
"I thought not," the Dark Lord breathed, sitting back slowly. "Then you are still quite certain you would like to be a part of our cause?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," he said. "Then you may go."
Rabastan stood up, slightly numb. "Thank you for taking the time to speak to me, my Lord…"
"Not at all," he said. "I shall contact you shortly about receiving the Dark Mark."
"Thank you, sir," Rabastan whispered, and he hurried outside, flushed, panting and all but ecstatic that the Dark Lord had spoken to him.
And he was correct – Rabastan ought not to sacrifice the opportunity to be a Death Eater, to fight for a cause that he believed in and prove at last that he was something merely on account of Andromeda, who did not care for him in any case, if her behaviour when she was with that boy was any indication.
But she's your closest friend. You do love her, no matter what you told the Dark Lord.
Rabastan shook the thought from his mind.
That didn't matter.
He could forget Andromeda so easily.
It wouldn't be so terribly difficult, surely, to put her from his mind.