A/N and now for something a little bit different. There were two scenes I wanted to include while outlining this story, that I couldn't do from either Antonin or Hermione's point of view. I had planned these as one shots for the end but was motivated to include them now, as this is when they occur in the timeline.

Rabastan Lestrange POV

Everything had been tough since Azkaban. After the initial breakout and transportation to Malfoy Manor, 'the escapees', as they had become known, were expected to carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Only a few days of 'training' and they were packed off onto missions as if they had just been out of the loop for a while, not festering in a cell, clinging desperately to the fraying edges of their sanity.

For the first few days even washing and dressing had been difficult, fuck even breathing had been difficult. Adjusting to space, colour, noise, to people, to smells even. Then before Rabastan had even settled into the idea of being released, or begun to make peace with the revelation of just how much time he had lost, he was back there again. Back in hell, with only himself for company. Rabastan didn't know about any of the others, but he had already spent decidedly too much time inside his own head.

Rabastan had only been twenty-four when he had first been imprisoned, full of youth and determination. It had taken months, maybe even years before he had begun to succumb to the sweet numbness, the painlessness that madness promised. On his return to incarceration, it had been mere days before the voices again, the whispers steadily building in his mind, purring gilded assurances of the peaceful tranquillity of oblivion. Then he had been thrown back, into the world again, and this time there wasn't even a gentle incline but a straight drop into fully blown war. In some ways it was easier, there was less time to focus on how fucked they all were if they had to keep themselves alive.

Returning to their Manor had felt like an out of body experience, Rabastan had never made it back there the first time. He had been hauled up with the rest of the 'lost souls', forced to exist under the hospitality of the Malfoys and he had been just as unhappy as everyone else with the situation. 'But they're your family' Rowle had muttered, and Rabastan had scoffed, his brother might have married Bella, that didn't make the Malfoy's blood.

Rabastan had twitched impatiently when they apparated, landing outside the achingly familiar gates, his mind rushed with long suppressed hope. He had craved nothing else for years, save the idea of a return to his home, imagining this day was the thing that had kept him from giving up. Rabastan didn't realise how sad and pathetic that was until he opened up the doors, shouldn't there have been more to wish for than that?

While in prison he had practised building walls in his mind, attempting to protect the core of who he was. He reassured himself daily that there would be a better life waiting for him, when he finally left the grey windowless box; you will get out of here Rabastan, you will go home, it will be fine, it will all be fine.

Except it wasn't.

Rabastan may have left Azkaban with just enough sanity to function, but walking through his home for the first time in decades, to discover it was just as cold, hollow and neglected as he was, nearly broke him. The shock of finding that the purest desire of his heart was not enough to fix him made the first proper meal Rabastan had eaten in over a year turn to ash in his mouth.

He and his brother moved around Lestrange Manor like ghosts, the estate was farcically big for two inhabitants, and they took to containing their existence to one or two main rooms. His once beloved home was mocking him with every walk past the abundance of space in the family wing, making Rabastan face the reality of the life he did not have, that he may never have. The life he had missed out on.

Rodolphus' rabid wife never stayed there anymore, years ago Rabastan would have said it made him glad, but that was when it had still had an effect on his brother's mood, it made no change now. Rodolphus had closed in on himself, his shock remembering of a past life had turned him cold to his current reality, prison or not, Rodolphus' heart had died a long time ago. Marrying Bella had been the beginning of the decay forming within him, Rodolphus had joined with her to keep their father happy, and only for that reason. He had held it off as long as possible, but the Black family had been persistent, and he capitulated, at the age of twenty. His brother had been granted three years post-Hogwarts, to learn from their father the responsibilities that would come be his when he was the head of the family.

Ever the doting older brother, Rodolphus had protected Rabastan from the same fate. Dolph had argued with their father for six long years before his death. Once his brother had taken over as Head of House, Dolph blocked the marriage contracts his father had been considering, and left Rabastan to decide his fate.

Rabastan had not deserved his protection, only months earlier he had forced Dolph to relinquish the only happiness he had in his life. Rabastan had been too young at the time to understand what his counsel would do, but he understood now. Understood what he had snatched away from him, the most important person in his life.

Dolph had thrown himself into life with their Lord after that. He told Rabastan once, after a particularly gruesome mission that led to a rather large consumption of firewhisky, that he had hoped that all of the hate filled rhetoric, and rage infused violence would spur him to feel something, anything other than constant numbness, but it hadn't. At the time Rabastan hadn't accepted his brother's retreat from life, Dolph had always been a good deal more introspective than himself. He believed it to be a phase, something that he would work through and get to the other side of.

He understood now.

Then there was the girl, sparkly, bright and pure, so much purer than him, than any of them. Rabastan didn't want to drag her into this, but he needed to. His brother needed to know, they both needed to know. She couldn't save them, they were passed that, but she could help... she could make them remember, help them rebuild. He'd do just about anything to have Rodolphus back as he had been. Even if that meant going against his express wishes to do it.

Then word reached him; Rabastan read the note in his hand three or four times before he absorbed it. 'Captured, brought in'. He forced himself to consider before acting, play the long game. He tried to think like Dolph, what would he say? Assess first, strategise, then act. He didn't want to tell Rodolphus yet, an incredibly selfish part of him wanted to keep it all to himself. Keep her all to himself, at least for now.

He made his way to Malfoy Manor; Rabastan didn't pause upon walking through the ostentatious doors, he purposely didn't announce his arrival, or find anyone to pay his respects to. This wasn't a home anymore, and even if it was, he certainly didn't owe the Malfoys anything. He had known Lucius and Narcissa his whole life, on the surface they had been raised the same, all of them children of the incredibly well-bred stock of the remaining sacred twenty-eight families. That's where the similarities had ended. Lucius had been the butt of many jokes when they had attended the same parties in their youth, mainly thanks to his ridiculous coiffured appearance. When they were free of Azkaban the first time, to find Lucius had taken on his late father's affectation of carrying around that ridiculous cane, it had given Rabastan something very similar to a feeling of mirth he would have had in his late teens. The laugh was a pale imitation of past remembrances but it was something close to emotion, so he would take it.

Rabastan made his way down to the dungeons, his legs taking him the familiar route without much thought required. The dank corridor was unguarded, but he had been expecting that. It wasn't like the Order were going to burst through the doors to protect and rescue her, or any of them here, it wasn't their style. Most of the Death Eaters, both those that had been around in the first war and new recruits had been educated at Hogwarts, where they had learnt, among other things, the difference between vital and expendable.

Rabastan had a lot of experience with expendable.

As the second son born to a family with both money and a rich ancestry, he was the spare, expected to marry well, and follow orders. When he got to school, he had met a headmaster that had already written him off along with most of his peers, placing them all under the header of 'without possible reform', and therefore, superfluous to his cause. From all he had seen, Rabastan's definition of vital meant malleable, and while he would have bowed and scraped for his father or his Lord, he wouldn't have done that for Albus bloody Dumbledore. The headmaster did not seem to comprehend that generations of pureblood, mainly Slytherin, students had been raised with a clear understanding of machinations, they saw through his twinkling eyes, grandiose words and proffered confectionary and pledged their allegiance to a man who would see them, really see them.

So Rabastan recognised the signs when he saw someone that would not be moulded through affectations, broken promises or lemon drops, and he saw it in her.

They weren't coming.

Rabastan reached the foot of the stairs and moved down the row of filthy cells, examining their contents; he had got right to the end before he found her. She was in a cell, by herself, away from everyone else. While the other prisoners were bundled together, seeking comfort, she was all alone. The cell was vast, at least in comparison to the box that Rabastan had spent half his life in, but he couldn't say she was making use of the space. She was curled up in the smallest little pile of limbs imaginable in a far corner. He could see her face, her features completely devoid of expression, as she fixed the far wall with an impassive stare. She looked thinner than usual. He might not have even recognised her if it wasn't for her distinctive hair.

Rabastan had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire, lonely existence.

Her clothes were tattered and torn, Rabastan assumed they had been the ones she had arrived in, he doubted they were warm enough for the current weather. She must have had a robe when they took her, where did it go? At the thought of any of her clothes being removed against her will he felt hot bile in the back of his throat, Rabastan held a hand to the cold flagstone wall to steady himself.

When he felt slightly more centred Rabastan returned his eyes to her, she was covered in dirt, smudges covering the pale skin of her exposed forearms. He noticed she was shivering, it hadn't been obvious at first, but her slight trembling became visible as he continued to stare at her. After five minutes of unbroken focus, she still hadn't made any reaction to indicate she even knew he was there.

Already that morning Rabastan had been to the kitchens at home to collect some food, it gave the elves something to do, a task they practically jumped at. So pleased to be needed they had even listened when he had instructed that only simple food would do, Rabastan knew himself that after weeks of consuming little, rich food was likely to make her sick. He didn't want her to assume he had tampered with it to make her so.

Rabastan moved closer to the bars as slowly as possible, if she really hadn't noticed him up to now, he didn't want to startle her. "I brought you some food," he spoke in his softest tone.

She looked up then and tilted her head to the side to see him clearer before dropping her head back down into her body. Rabastan quickly averted his eyes from her gaze. He wasn't one for eye contact especially with one like her. He could feel her vacuous eyes penetrating his mind in a way that reminded him of his Occlumency lessons as a boy, though he knew no spell had been employed. He Transfigured a plain piece of parchment from his pocket into a simple tray and retrieved the bread that the elves had surrendered after attempting to load him down with a picnic basket. Rabastan put the tray on the ground and slid it up to the bars, wincing as he watched clouds of disturbed dust billow around it, she shouldn't be somewhere like this.

"Will you eat something?" he pressed, though she still didn't move. "Please… I haven't done anything to it," he implored gently.

"I know you haven't," she answered faintly, her voice sounded hoarse like she hadn't spoken for days, in fact, she probably hadn't.

"Will you eat then?" Rabastan urged, his ability to help was limited at the moment, if he could just get her to eat something he had a hope of convincing himself that he had supported her, at least in some small way. He already knew her blotchy face was going to be visiting his nightmares that evening; he would need an act to remind himself he was doing something in hopes of alleviating the haunting dread he would feel when he woke in the dead of night, cold, yet sweating.

Very slowly she stood, her small legs wobbling slightly as she walked ungainly towards the bars like a new-born foal when was the last time you stood? When was the last time you moved at all? She sat back down with a bit of a thud and falteringly moved her hands through the metal rods to grasp a piece of bread.

They sat in total silence while she gradually and methodically pulled the hunk apart, eating tiny piece after tiny piece. Chewing on mouthfuls no bigger than seeds until, once she had consumed about half, she placed it back down on the tray. "Thank you," she whispered.

He coughed to clear his throat, uncomfortable with having her thanks. "I'm Rabastan Lestrange," he introduced awkwardly, the need for her to know him at the forefront of his mind.

"I know," she said, utterly devoid of any feeling, judgement, condemnation or well, anything.

Rabastan felt an unexpected surge of happiness that she knew who he was, that he wasn't just some nameless, faceless Death Eater to her, until his mind chimed in with how she probably knew; articles in the Daily Prophet, lectures from the Order. He wanted, no needed, his name to mean something different to her.

After she had resumed eating and all the bread was gone Rabastan left, promising that he would be back, she made no response, she said not another word since affirming she knew who he was, and he had been content to bask in her nearness, even in silence. Rabastan watched as she rose up again to move back to the position he had found her in, curled in a small ball, her back to the bars.

He kept his promise, and his visits followed along the same lines for the first week. Rabastan brought simple food, and they would sit in silence while she ate it haltingly. He became transfixed by the movements of her delicate fingers as they worked through the bread, and the rhythmic chewing motion of her tiny rosebud mouth.

At first, he made sure he had excuses to be at the Manor each time, but after the third visit, he no longer cared. The only full-time inhabitants were the Malfoys and Bella; the first were too engrossed in their fall from favour to care about his presence, his sister in law, too far lost to her own demons to notice his repeat attentions. Rabastan continued to try to act sensibly, to do what he could for her without losing his temper, he recognised that he needed to keep control to be able to help her. He spread the word around his comrades, anyone that touched her would die, slowly. He expected Dolph to react to that, but he merely nodded from across the room. It didn't concern Rabastan that they thought he was claiming her as a spoil of war, as long as his claim was recognised. So he ignored the guffaws, the pats on the back and the rude words, he made no outward reaction to any of it, but he also made a list. His name still carried some weight with the older crowd; he was something of a legend with the new, they simpered all over him and his brother, clawing for their patronage, it made him sick.

Rabastan barely saw anyone else in the dungeons while he was there, apart from those that came down to give food or to taunt. Yaxley 'visited' once while Rabastan was there, Yaxley was neither carrying food nor did he say anything to the prisoners but still he didn't think much of it, Reuben wouldn't be interested in the girl. Yaxley wasn't a rapist, and torturing one as young as her would have been difficult for him, not that he would have advertised that fact, Rabastan had been on enough missions with him to know things the older man wouldn't have wanted him to. Everyone knew that he had lost a brother before Hogwarts, Rabastan didn't know the details but was aware that the stoic Northerner had been the one to find the body. Whatever had happened Rabastan didn't feel concern over his presence, and after he had been down once he never saw him there again.

Once she was more used to his company, Rabastan took the risk of casting some healing and warming charms over her. She did not react to him raising his wand, she met his eyes defiantly, and they did not reflect fear. He wanted to believe that he had won her trust, but was concerned that her spirit had been broken. Rabastan wondered how much it would hurt his soul if her eyes went permanently blank. When seconds passed, and the spells settled over her body, he watched enraptured as her little mouth tugged in the ghost of a smile. Rabastan revelled in the tender emotion on her face. When she serenely thanked him he started at the pounding of his heart; it felt ready to beat right out of his chest.

Over time they exchange some conversation, he had to coax it from her slowly, like teaching a wild animal to feed from the palm of your hand, though he feared no bite from her, just that she might turn away one day.

Weeks passed, and he kept all of his muttered promises. She moved to the bars as soon as she saw him now, she no longer assessed the food he brought for ages before partaking, Rabastan called it progress.

Months passed, and their conversation wasn't always tranquil now. She argued with him about his opinions in her own roundabout way; Rabastan told her off for not eating enough, he had the elves from his home deliver food while he was not there. They had taken to caring for her in a way that he and his brother hadn't let them for years. They had her in some newer, warmer clothes. Rabastan had the money to get her anything, but the possessive man he was raised to be, insisted he gave her some of his items. The first time he came down the stairs to see her clad in a pale blue jumper of his he was speechless, the light colour made her pale, now clean skin almost glow, she looked even stranger in her surroundings now. It made Rabastan think of Persephone, a creature of the light forced to live in a dark world she didn't belong to, he pushed the thought away, he could not dwell on what he was condemning her to.

Rabastan knew she must have been close to trusting him when she hesitantly asked about her friends one afternoon. He stuttered through his response, he had no information to give her. It was the first time she had ever asked for anything; he had begged before now for her to make a request of him. The first time she did, he could not fulfil her desire, and he felt like he had broken a promise.

She cried softly, the water building at the corners of her eyes first before ploughing in vast tracks down her cheeks. She didn't wipe her face as the tears pooled at her jaw before falling in heavy drops onto the dirty floor. She made no noise; she didn't sob or whine she just gave herself over to sadness. He hated her tears, hated them more than his empty house and his empty heart. Rabastan hated them more than his broken brother and his broken soul. Her display of emotion made him crack slightly; he had moments like this, episodes Dolph called them. When he was little, he used to try to explain that they happened when he had too many feelings to contain inside his body, so they needed to be expelled. That definition seemed a little juvenile now, but it didn't make it any less accurate.

When Rabastan could not soothe her, he tried to prevent himself from giving into the urge to destroy, the desire for the carnage that pulsed through his blood and twisted his mind till he could barely think straight. He collapsed to the ground and brought his head down to rest on his knees. He put his hands in his hair and pulled on the rough strands, gripping handfuls at a time, Rabastan felt a few follicles come loose, the pain grounding him, not enough to stop the spiralling but enough to stop him from killing something... for now. Rabastan struggled to imagine holding on to the fraying edges of his self-control. It was a visualisation his brother helped him with after their mother had died, and Rabastan had been found amongst the wreckage of her once pristine rose garden, panting and despondent. Dolph had held him while Rabastan had tried to articulate that it hurt too much to see them anymore, the blood red of the roses she favoured, their petals growing up towards the heat of the sun while she laid flat and cold in the ground. Dolph had carried him to bed, and the next day the mess was gone, and the elves were busy planting tulips in their place, his mother had been indifferent to tulips. The tulips didn't hurt his chest when he saw them.

Rabastan didn't want to look up, didn't want her to see this side of him. She must have already known he was not a good man, but to see him like this, so ravaged mentally, he couldn't face the imagined expression on her pretty face as she recoiled, either from fear or disgust, or both. He was too lost, too raw to be able to trust himself if he saw those things etched into her face.

Lost to his self-pity, Rabastan jumped when he felt a small weight rest on his thigh, and opening his eyes he saw a pale hand there, applying gentle pressure. She was touching him, willingly. Rabastan breathed in and out raggedly and looked up to meet her face. Her large eyes regarded him vacantly, like usual, no fear, no hate, and no pity.

She was so beautiful.

"Why are you not afraid of me?" He hated asking the question, betraying weakness in a way that years of training, lessons learnt at his father's knee, had kicked out of him, but he was compelled to know.

She shrugged, and he felt a stab of annoyance, suspecting her of being evasive but his temper cooled as he concentrated on the rhythmic pressure on his thigh, he was conscious of a certainty wash over him. He didn't believe her to be capable of lying.

Rabastan felt obligated to push her away; he shouldn't have let her get this close, he shouldn't have got this close. She was too good, too immaculate. So pure his mind whispered he would leave a dirty mark on her skin if he so much as touched her.

That's why he'd never asked for the key.

He'd thought about it... A lot, more than was healthy, though Rabastan was aware that the ship for normal mental health parameters applying to him had sailed long ago. He knew he would get it if he asked for it, the key, that's what they thought he was saving her for, after all, to 'claim' her. He supposed that was correct in a way; he didn't have completely selfless intentions after all. He wanted her, to claim her, to have her, but he didn't intend to force her, he needed her to be amenable. More than that if it were truly possible. Without shared desire, without her freely given compassion, his possession of her would be as hollow as the rest of his existence. It was not the time, yet. Though Rabastan still thought about the key a great deal; he had stolen it a few times, just to look at, to feel the weight in his hands. For something that could change everything, it looked so ridiculously innocuous. Whether he took it to face his temptation, or reassure himself he still had some semblance of control, Rabastan wasn't sure. But he knew he couldn't use it, not yet. If he touched her, he wouldn't be able to let her go.

When Rabastan first saw her, he tried to tell himself he would leave her alone, that he wouldn't pursue her, wouldn't attempt to pull her into his orbit, wouldn't touch her, and wouldn't taste her. But he knew better now; he was aware that at some point he would. He had resolved himself to that. The only thing worse than the idea of touching her was the thought of not touching her.

Though he knew he would have her he couldn't help but warn her; it was the least he could do. "You should be aware this is a relatively regular occurrence," he said bitterly as he gestured to his head, jogging some of the loosened strands and watching as they fluttered to the ground. "Even my brother has started to think I've gone totally mad."

She stared up into his eyes unblinking, and Rabastan felt a calmness that hadn't existed in his head for over fifteen years, a warmth in his heart that had never been there before. This was why he could not stay away; this was why he must have her affection, she felt like home, like the years on the prison rock never happened, like he had a reason to keep on existing.

She replied eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper. "You're just as sane as I am."

A/N Fan casts: Rabastan Lestrange - Colin O'Donoghue (another from the beautiful mind of Thrifty Crimson).