Prompts:
Jenny of old stones
(Relationship type) siblings
(Character/theme) death
(weather) rainy
Warnings: major character death, themes of depression
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The rain was beating down on the windows, the sound echoing through the castle.
If one didn't know better one would think that Lestrange Chateau was abandoned., The walls were covered in ivy, crawling their way up like grasping hands trying to reach the roof, the windows of the rooms fogged with years of dust.
The once beautiful gardens of Lestrange Chateau were long past their prime; the orchard that grew the world-famous golden apples was now long since dried up and dead and the rose bushes that once bloomed with the sweetest of aromas were now a withered husk.
Muggle-borns and most half-bloods knew not of this castle or the legacy of the family and purebloods shook their heads in shame when the Lestranges were brought up. They whispered and gossiped, "Oh, look at how they fell from grace. How could such a noble house come to this? How could they allow this to become of them? Why, had it been my family, I would've done everything within my power to make sure my noble name remained as such."
Yes, Lestrange Chateau was no longer a house fit for long-gone kings and queens, but it was not abandoned.
Not yet at least.
In one of the many hallways, in one of the many sitting rooms, sat the castle's sole resident.
Rasalas sat in an armchair, in almost complete darkness save for the occasional flash of lightning from the storm outside, and the dying embers rising from within the fireplace and dancing for a few seconds before burning out.
He had yet to notice that he was in darkness, or that the tea that the house elves had brought him had long since gone cold for he was deep in thought.
His eyes could not leave the corner of the Persian carpet that had been burned—his idiot boys had set it aflame long ago, and once caught bounced the blame between each other for so long Rasalas never did find out which one was responsible. They never took the blame, always on their feet ready to defend themselves before sending whichever parent came their way back to the other brother.
So many items were destroyed within the house that the boys got away with simply by confusing the adults.
They always had a knack for getting themselves out of trouble…. That was until their luck ran out.
Rasalas still felt the twinge in his heart that he had felt sixteen years ago, when he had just sat down at breakfast and been greeted by the morning's Prophet, to learn that his boys would be capable of such… Such monstrosities.
The boys who used to sit on the very couch before him and read to one another.
The very same boys who would chase the dog out in the gardens for hours, tracking mud in when they finally got called back inside only to be yelled at by their mother for somehow covering every inch of themselves in dirt.
His boys who would run to him for every little brotherly injustice.
"Rodulphus took my broom and he won't give it back!"
"Rabastan has locked himself in his room with Ares! I want to play with Ares!"
" Rodolphus took my book!"
"Rabastan ripped my potions essay!"
Their voices rang in Rasalas's head, distant yet clear as though a bell ringing through the fog.
That's how he wanted to remember his boys; not as the convicted Death Eaters who were to spend their lives in Azkaban. Not as starved miserable looking men that stumbled into the Chateaux the day after the breakout. Not as the same men who would wake up screaming of nightmares Rasalas could never imagine, and certainly not as the bodies laying on the Great Hall floor, eyes blank and unseeing, devoid of any sense of humanity or personality. No, he chose to remember them as they were, before they were corrupted by the world and war they grew up in.
He could almost hear their giggling and screaming as they ran through the halls, chasing one another, the ghostly echoes sent chills down Rasalas spine as the corner of his eyes prickled with unshed tears.
He shook his head and tried to drown out the noise. Instead, he opted to look up at the hundreds of portraits lining the walls, going about their day-to-day speaking with one another, playing various games of cards.
Some he recognised, many he did not… kings and queens of old that once ruled over these very lands now long forgotten by the people and history.
Rasalas had spent days simply watching them since returning from Hogwarts on that final day. He had barely moved from this chair, spending his days lost in memories and ghosts.
There was a point where the portraits spoke to him and tried to break him out of his melancholy, but as time passed they gave up one by one, until there was no one to speak to, other than the occasional house elves who came to beg him to eat or to go to bed. Their loyalty to their master was certainly admirable, not that Rasalas would ever admit so out loud. But it was pointless… taking care of him was pointless.
He was shaken out of his thoughts as the windows started to rattle by the force of the wind that had picked up. The entire castle howled as the wind swept through them, and Rasalas unconsciously shivered as a chill went through the room.
Perhaps he should go check on his boys, it could not be pleasant out there. They were with each other by their mother's side, yet still he wished to be with his family. He got up and made his way through the maze of hallways and doors until he reached the door that led to his family. Despite voices behind him telling him not to go out he opened the door. He was instantly hit with such force he was almost knocked over, but he regained his balance and walked.
The door shut behind him but he did not care as he moved forward. Not three steps out of the house and his clothes were already soaked, raindrops hitting his exposed skin like small knives. He slipped every other step as most of the pathways had turned into mud yet he never fell, his body as if working on autopilot, his mind too lost in grief. It was pure instinct, how he navigated the family graveyard and found the two headstones amongst so many, some facet of his paternal instinct always ready to lead him to his children.
And then he was there, staring at the place his children were laid to eternal rest and his strength left him as he fell to his knees.
He placed one hand each on the dirt mounts before him as unrepressed tears rolled down his cheeks. He allowed himself to finally collapse into the mud before him and wailed, wailed for his children, for his wife, for his father and mother… for family members he never got to meet. He screamed for the disappointment he brought to his ancestors. He screamed for he had failed, failed as the lord of his house, as a father, as a husband and as a son.
And so he cried and cried. Wailing into the storm and into the night. He cried until he had no tears left. Afterwards, he laid there, numb. In Between his children… wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.
The rain still poured mercilessly down upon him, showing no sign of stopping but he could no longer feel it. Not the cold nor his limbs. He wasn't sure if he was shivering anymore. He continued to stare at the sky and the pouring rain.
He never wanted to leave their side. Never again. And so he laid there. Letting the rain consume him until his skin turned blue and the very blood within his veins turned to ice, until eternal sleep finally claimed him.
And Chateau Lestrange fell into silence, not a living resident left. Stories and history were forgotten as time passed, and the castle slowly but surely was allowed to crumble as no magic was left to maintain it.