Hello everyone! Thanks for your reviews and the favs for my story. I hope you will enjoy this chapter.


Random visions flared up and were almost immediately swallowed up by darkness. And sometimes there was a voice in the silence. It was impossible to make out the words, only intonations. The sound of the voice was drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He desperately wanted to return. And this desire captured his soul. Rodolphus struggled to break free from the snares of darkness, because he was needed in a completely different place. He believed he was needed. That was an unusual feeling for him. Rodolphus held out his hands, trying to grasp reality. Weakness overcame him. He was sinking, or rather, he was floundering in the void. And then something pushed him to the surface. The air seemed sweet in spring. Softness enveloped his tired body.

He must have been gone too long. His body seemed unbearable. It turned out that Rodolphus was lying in a bed. Realizing this, he tried to move his hand. At first, his fingers did not obey. Nevertheless, he did not give up trying and soon he succeeded, with some effort his hand moved. Sensitivity returned to his skin. His hand ran over the soft blanket. Rodolphus sighed, gathering his strength. Then he tried to open his heavy eyelids. Everything was blurry at first. It took a few more slow blinks before his vision cleared.

The ceiling he was looking at was unfamiliar. Rodolphus's gaze moved in the foreseeable space. Light curtains covered the large windows, two velvet gray-green armchairs stood side by side, a small closet on the other side of the room, and the walls were covered with old-fashioned silk wallpaper. The situation was alarming, everything looked familiar and at the same time unusual.

It took about a hundred heartbeats, a couple of dozen measured breaths and exhalations, to remember where he could see all of this. At his own home. In a guest bedroom. The bedroom that... The bedroom that Hermione lived in. In turn, she... she is his ally in the fight against Voldemort. Whom Rodolphus fights because...

He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He wasn't used to thinking so slowly, his mind seemed to be locking his thoughts. Something was desperately beating through impenetrable barriers and it was impossible to let it out. If he could just reach out to this burden, Rodolphus would be freed, but no, everything was not so easy. Helplessness and rage smoldered within.

The imaginary safety of his own home did not help to calm this. Damn guest bedroom! The annoying sweet smell of which teased more, kindling a fire in his chest. It seemed that Rodolfus was about to be torn to pieces. He had almost nothing to breathe. He was exhausted. The air felt heavy, and the softness of the bed became a trap in which he was almost completely lost. His head was spinning. We had to get out of here quickly. Rodolphus rose slightly on his hands to fall back onto the pillows with a groan.

So what did he have? He tried to recover the memories of what happened. Somehow he was in Hermione's room. Looks like someone tried to kill him before he got here. Yes exactly! And he barely escaped because he apparated, and it's good that he didn't split in the process. Apparently he passed out after. Then it was Hermione who brought him to her bedroom - he could not have been here otherwise. But if he was here, then where is she?

He looked around again more vividly and finally noticed the curled up figure on the other end of the double bed. She was almost on the edge. It was enough to see her, and the burning feeling in his chest disappeared immediately. He just marveled at how the emptiness just crept into his heart and it didn't matter what would happen next. The rage faded, replaced by inner silence.

Hermione slept in a small patch of space, hugging her knees. Brown hair framed her face, which was scowling even in her sleep. Her body was buried in a shapeless burgundy sweater, the sleeves of which she had to roll up to the elbow. Quidditch pants with numerous Gryffindor patches pulled up a little, making it possible to make out multi-colored socks with Snitches - for the first time in a while, the witch was in something other than Muggle clothes. Maybe she was a fan or even played herself. If so, in what position? One could suspect her of anything, but not of her passion for Quidditch.

Rodolphus made another attempt to get up, although he sat down with difficulty. A bright light flashed in his eyes, flooding everything. It took a second or two for his eyes to adjust. And with that, his strength returned to him. As if that was exactly what he needed. It was then that the potions on a bedside table caught his attention, half of which were already empty. Normally, that many potions were not needed at all.

He noticed a bandage on his arm and carefully lifted the edges, then the one on his chest, and on his shoulder, and ... Almost his entire body was covered with injuries, and fresh bandages were applied on top. It was very strange.

"What the hell was the spell on me?"

It only now dawned on him that he was still experiencing symptoms of severe blood loss.

Rodolphus ventured and took the vial of the potion. Considering the weakness in his body, the vial might have seemed very heavy, but no. This fact was a huge relief. Now it was necessary to pull out the cork. He had to do it with his teeth, not caring about anything other than drinking a potion. The brackish thick liquid made him feel a little better.

He dropped the vial on the bedside table with a clatter. In fact, he almost dropped it, which made enough noise.

Hermione jumped to her feet, wand raised. Now, Rodolphus saw that the sweater reached the witch almost to the middle of her thighs, and a large letter R was embroidered on her chest. Her hair was disheveled. She would have been funny if her face hadn't been frozen in fear.

"Hey," was all that came to his mind at that moment. The witch blinked a couple of times and came to her senses.

"Rodolphus!" How much relief sounded in this exclamation. Her face lit up and her lips curved into a smile. it was nice to see her joy. Hermione moved closer and sat next to him on the edge, "How do you feel?"

"Like pissing off a herd of hippogriffs."

"What happened to you? Where have you been?"

On the one hand, he had no desire to upset her, but on the other hand, it was better to tell it like it was.

"Yaxley received a report from spies. They spotted the Weasleys and passed on the address. We were there."

She was upset "And they? Weasleys were there?"

"Yes, but not the ones we were expecting," Rodolphus replied.

Hermione covered her mouth with her hands and let out a small sob, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Everything is fine. They are all alive, no one was hurt," Rodolphus hastened to reassure her. "It was a trap. A very well rigged trap for the Death Eaters. To be honest, they defeated us, after which they fled."

"It's just wonderful!" - she suddenly coughed - "I mean… except for your injuries, of course. Who cursed you?"

He tried to remember the image of the attacker, but saw only darkness before his eyes. "I don't know. I never saw him. This happened after it was all over."

"Did you see the attacker? Did he say anything?"

"No."

"That curse that wounded you. It is very strange. I've never seen anything like it."

Rodolphus could figure it out. He picked up the wand that Hermione had left on the sheet next to him, causing the witch to react violently.

"Stop, don't use magic!" She wanted to take his wand.

"No," he answered hoarsely but firmly. It felt like something similar had happened before. He decided not to let her take over this time.

Hermione pulled away from him. This was enough to get back to what we started: "Revelio." A sharp pain cut through his shoulder and something hot gushed over his skin. Sweat? Rodolphus lowered his eyes and was surprised at how the light bandage rapidly turned red. The heartbeat accelerated the rhythm, obeying an incomprehensible sensation, throwing out more and more blood.

Hermione touched his arm, "That's what comes from magic. You're losing blood. It's because of the curse."

He unclenched his fingers, handing over the wand. A lump rose to his throat, preventing Rodolphus from breathing freely. He felt himself suspended on an invisible hook. Realization crushed him like an unbearable weight: "I can't use magic."

"Yes. No. I don't know. It's just not possible right now. We need to let your wounds heal, maybe then?" She said nothing more, but looked at him as if he were terminally ill. It pricked him. There was no worse situation in the world than the one he found himself in. Magic has always been his exclusive privilege. It was impossible to imagine that one day he would have to give it up. But what could he do about it. It was necessary to come up with something. There must be some solution.

It was necessary to gather his thoughts, find the cause and eliminate it.

"We need to stop the bleeding, wait, I'll be right back," Hermione hurriedly disappeared into the bathroom. Within seconds, she returned with a bowl of water, which she placed on the nightstand. "I will wipe off the blood."

She soaked a towel in that water and applied it to the wound. The water turned out to be almost icy, Rodolphus hissed in surprise, inhaling air. The skin was covered with goosebumps.

"I'm sorry. This will make the blood clot faster," said Hermione.

"It's all right," he nodded, allowing her to continue. "How long did it last?" He decided to close his eyes and saw a pulse of light under his eyelids. Thoughts pounded in my head, one worse than the other.

"You didn't wake up for five days."

No wonder he felt lousy when he finally woke up.

"I thought you were going to die. No matter what I did, it only got worse," as Hermione spoke, she managed to set aside the blood-soaked towel and began to carefully apply the essence of dittany. A bitter-sweet smell penetrated with the breath inside. "Your house elf figured out that magic hurts you more than it heals you."

His house elf? The one who never answered his call and was almost a shadow in the house? It must have been completely hopeless, since even the house elf intervened.

"He helped me take care of you and heal you," whispered Hermione.

But as a simple Muggle, not as a wizard. This is what Rodolphus thought.

There was a certain irony in what conditions Rodolphus found himself. He was saved by this witch, with whom he would not even have spoken a year ago, and the house elf, whom he had already almost written off. But Rodolphus could apparate to his brother or wife, they would have helped him as best they could. Rabastan would have helped him out of brotherly loyalty, and Bella would have done it out of an imposed sense of duty. And of course, they would drive him straight to death with their help. It's good that at that moment he didn't think at all and chose to return home. Hermione handled it much better than anyone else could.

Rodolphus looked at her from under half-closed eyelids. The girl looked extremely guilty, although her fault could not be here. Wanting to dull the unpleasant sensation, she tried to be careful. The touch of her hands was gentle and light, like the finest silk.

"I'm sure," - finally putting on a bandage, she looked up at him - "that you just have to wait, and then everything will be as before."

"As before," he repeated dubiously.

"Of course. Look, of all your wounds, only one was bleeding. It wasn't like that before," Hermione's optimistic exclamation became the straw of a drowning man. He really wanted to believe Hermione.

And then she muttered with an apologetic smile on her lips, "I hope you don't get mad, but I had to read your letters. I must have taken on too much... Also, your brother seems suspicious."

Lita Lestrange, or rather her portrait, had a great influence on Rabastan. She gained power over the mind of the youngest of the brothers when he was only four years old. Corvus Lestrange, their grandfather's second cousin, died that year. His daughter Lita died at the age of twenty-eight, and his only son died in infancy. So Corvus did not have direct heirs and he never acquired new ones. The old wizard judged that Rabastan was quite worthy to inherit his property.

Parents took the youngest son to the house of Corvus. It was there that he found Lyta, whose tales of monsters and brave magozoologists captured the boy's mind. Rabastan took her portrait with him.

Sometimes Lita missed her home. Then Rabastan came up with a solution. He decided to paint her another portrait and began to study hard to draw. At first it didn't work out very well and the first attempts were unsuccessful. Time passed and once, being already a schoolboy, Rabastan nevertheless painted a portrait of Lita and endowed it with magical properties. Since then, the witch has lived in two houses at once.

This detail allowed her to spy on Rodolphus. Therefore, the same day, barely waking up, he went to visit. He came out of the fireplace with a large canvas bundle in his hands.

By a fortunate coincidence, Rabastan was in the living room.

"How nice of you to stop by for tea." Rabastan remained in his chair and defiantly blew on the surface of the hot drink. The steam swirled up in clubs, and the liquid went in circles.

There were portraits of parents on easels next to the tea table. It is simply amazing how these portraits were painted: their proud father with the calmness of a boa constrictor, sitting in an easy chair, and such a graceful mother, smiling gently, but looking sharply and intently.

"Son, join us!" his father said in a commanding tone.

Rodolphus grimaced and put the bundle in front of his brother: "It seems I made the right decision with the gift. This is yours. I decided that it would be better to give it now."

"What is this?" - Rabastan looked at the bundle suspiciously and was in no hurry to unfold, it seemed he was wondering how unpleasant the surprise could be. After all, it was clear as day that Rodolphus was not in a good mood.

"Aunt Lita, of course," said Rodolphus with mock enthusiasm, watching his brother.

Rabastan took off the cloth and saw how Lita was trying to both stay in place and smooth her stray hair. "I was sleeping when he threw this rag on me! He didn't listen to me, he just took me off the wall," complaints were heard, "He also turned me upside down."

"Sorry, auntie, now I'll fix everything," Rodolphus unceremoniously turned the picture over. Lita squealed as she swayed, but found herself in the right position. Calling her aunt was a bit absurd, the witch in the portrait was very young, but in fact she was even older than their father. "Well, now we're all together and we can talk," said Rodolphus.

"About what? About your guest? Who didn't even let me in the door." Rabastan asked grimly.

Everything looked very bad, from an outside point of view. One could understand Rabastan's anxiety, if not for one "but". His attempt to break into the house frightened Hermione. When she told, Rodolphus understood everything from her wandering eyes and intense facial expressions, the witch's usually clear speech was confused and extremely stingy. So Rodolphus had to ask in more detail what exactly caused the concern. Besides, he couldn't get her panicked awakening out of his mind either.

"She saved my life. I don't care what she had to do in the process," although Rodolphus wasn't about to make excuses, he still couldn't keep silent.

"Sit down, don't stand still, and tell us about this witch," the mother asked from her portrait. She had a laughing, sonorous voice that could enchant the stars. She pretended to drink tea too. Although her drink was only a skillful imitation, courtesy of her youngest son. She had always been quite peaceful in public, but that didn't change the fact that she would never like the truth about Hermione.

Rodolphus complied with the beginning of her request and sat opposite his brother.

"How is it that you brought another woman into your house when Bellatrix is expecting a baby?" the mother asked.

When his father died, she stopped eating and sleeping. And in general, she did everything she could to go after her husband. They both left Rodolphus with his little brother in his arms. For once, he decided to follow their last will. He quit his job at Mungo, married Bellatrix and did his best to help his brother not feel like an orphan. And now they believed Bellatrix's lies.

He didn't know if he wanted to say what he thought. Only portraits remained of his parents. Soulless imprints of the consciousness of those who have not been around for a long time.

Still, the portraits were somewhat similar to Horcruxes, although this had nothing to do with dark magic. They had a similar consciousness to their originals and could sow confusion among the living by talking about what they were convinced in life. To endow the portrait with such power, a drop of blood was added to the paint, instead of a part of the soul. This practice now raised unpleasant questions.

He accepted a cup of tea from the house elf and pretended to drink in order to delay the answer. He looked down at the cup in his hands. One straightened tea leaf floated on the bottom. Everyone patiently waited for an explanation.

"Now that I have brought my aunt to her proper place, will you be at home more often?" Rodolphus finally asked his parents, still unable to figure out how to keep his tone neutral.

"We visit quite often, you just don't notice much," said the father.

"So what about that witch? Should we expect trouble from you, son?" the mother continued to ask.

Rodolphus chuckled bitterly and shook his head, "You'll never have a problem with her, dear mother. Because you don't exist any more."

Rabastan covered his eyes with his left hand, her mother did not change a bit in her face, but her father visibly took in more air into his chest, as if he was about to say something sharp.

"It's cruel to say such things to parents," Lita reproached.

Rodolphus put down the cup of unfinished tea decisively and quite noisily, without spilling a drop of the drink. "Well then, we can end this now, I'm not going to listen to the instructions of the subjects."

Rabastan, in turn, also put down his cup, but was less careful. The little house elf immediately began to scrub the spilled puddle.

"I'll do it myself, and you better go get dinner," Rabastan waved his wand impatiently. The house elf vanished into thin air with a deep bow. Rabastan sighed, "Okay, Rodolphus, let's just talk about something else." What happened to you? When I left, you were fine. And then Aunty told me you needed blood potions. I was already thinking of the worst. I was worried about you, in case you don't understand.

Rodolphus leaned back in his chair, gradually calming down. In the end, he did not have anyone dearer than his brother. He wouldn't want to ruin their relationship.

"I was attacked after you left, outside. Everything happened very quickly. The attacker took me by surprise."

"Who was that?"

"I didn't see him," Rodolphus himself wondered many questions about the attacker's identity.

"Was it some kind of invisible man?" Rabastan suggested. Rodolphus shook his head. "Maybe you remember his voice, his appearance, anything! Why do I have to interrogate you?"

"Don't interrogate me. I didn't notice anything," Rodolphus got angry, although he understood that it was the logical nature of the questions and the inability to answer them that annoyed him. And really, what could he tell about the enemy? Nothing that would satisfy a younger brother.

Rabastan looked at him with the same pity as Aunt Lita, "You know, if you can't tell anything, then show me!" Let's go." Rabastan got up from his chair.

"Where are you going?" Rodolphus tensed up.

Rabastan sternly crossed his arms over his chest, looking at his brother expectantly, "To the Pensieve. I'll figure it out myself."

"Great idea!" mother admired.

Rodolphus objected to this: "Nothing like that. I can see it myself. At home."

"Without me? How stubborn you are! I want to help!" Rabastan quickly lost patience. "Since when did you become secretive? We have met all difficulties together before. We could find out who attacked you. For this, we must cooperate. I am on your side. And I will strangle with my own hands whoever dares to curse you."

"Rabastan is right, we need to reveal the mask of our enemy and teach the bastard a lesson," said the father. "Such a brazen attack cannot go unpunished."

Rodolphus nodded in surrender. He himself would like to understand everything. Something in this situation did not give him rest. Maybe Rabastan was right.

"Fine. Let's go. But if you want to look at my memoirs, stop listening to the opinion of the portraits already."

Rabastan said nothing.

Mother sighed: "What a pity we can't go with you."

Memories could not clear up that riddle. Even if the courtyard of the buried house was illuminated by bright sunlight instead of twilight. The opponent of Rodolphus was a translucent shadow blurred by sorcery. Rodolphus saw this for the first time. The shadow moved at an exaggerated speed in jerks, without resorting to apparation. It is not surprising that he did not manage to respond properly to the blow. What could be opposed to the agility that the enemy possessed?

"Looks like a man," suggested Rabastan. Rodolphus thought so too. The shadow was a little shorter and thin, if the outline did not deceive the observer.

"I noticed him late."

Now he seemed to himself a reckless fool who forgot about caution.

Here it is. A spell that dealt him massive damage. It disintegrated into a dozen luminous arcs that pierced his body. Rodolphus did not remember these details. His flashback doppelgänger was too overwhelmed by Crucio's power to realize that he had taken a lot of damage.

"Were you so hurt that you couldn't heal?" Rabastan asked looking at how Rodolphus from the past rolled away with difficulty. There were traces of his blood on the hard, bare ground.

Rodolphus thoughtfully explained, "Magic only exacerbated the injuries, I would have failed anyway."

Both stared at how manneredly the enemy shrugged his shoulders, how he bowed his head and gave a playful bow.

Rabastan drawled, "I don't remember anyone moving like that."

The gesticulation of the shadow was theatrical. If Rodolphus could appreciate at that moment, he would have long understood that the shadow is trying to express contempt, despite the fact that he says nothing.

"He seems to be mocking. There is something atypical of a casual skirmish in this. Something very personal," he added.

Rabastan raised his eyebrows in surprise, "You mean he was waiting for you?"

"Maybe. It doesn't seem like a coincidence. He knew how I would act if I didn't die quickly and even prepared a special curse. I would have killed myself trying to heal." Everything was beginning to fall into place for Rodolphus. The whole show made sense.

Rabastan moved close to the shadow, as if he could see through the veil of darkness: "Maybe that's what he wanted. Played everything as if he was ready to kill you here and now, but at the same time let you slip."

"Why does he need such tricks?" Rodolphus considered.

The shadow created a green flare at the tip of the wand, and the light flickered off the wand. He-from-the-past apparated and the scene disappeared. He-from-the present left Pensieve, returning to the memory room. It was a medium sized room. From the furniture there were only glazed shelves along the perimeter of the walls and a Pensieve bowl on a pedestal in the very center. The shelves were lined with a thousand vials of memories, giving everything an otherworldly blue glow. Rabastan emerged after his brother.

"Maybe he's bound by magic." Or wanted you to be responsible for your own death. Sometimes it matters. Rabastan suggested.

Rodolphus just shook his head, imperceptibly pressing his palm to his ribs, he had a feeling of pain under one of the bandages. Some of his wounds must have reacted to the trip to Pensiev after all. "I don't remember anyone swearing not to kill me or anything like that."

Sending his brother's memory into the phial to take one of the shelves, Rabastan nodded in agreement. Such magical contracts were too rare to be true. "And if he is scrupulous in terms of soiling his hands?"

Rodolphus did not agree with this, "He did not disdain Crucio."

When his brother turned around, Rodolphus did not expect a sudden change of subject. Rabastan went back to his old ways, "She realized that magic would kill you... She really saved you. What made her trust you? How desperate you had to be to turn to the enemy for help."

"I hope you've seen enough to give you food for thought?" Rodolphus again did not allow to talk about the witch. He ignored Rabastan's reasoning, not wanting to broach the subject. Especially when his assumptions were dangerously close to the truth. "Well, I'll go," Rodolphus shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door. The wounds began to bother him even more than a few minutes ago and he wanted to return home.

"Stop! I have a suspicion," - Rabastan made him linger. And then he folded his arms and furrowed his brows. "I could be wrong, but this isn't in the style of the Order of the Phoenix or what they call themselves, Dumbledore's horde?"

Rodolphus corrected him, "Dumbledore's army. So what made you think that?"

"They would want you to know what sins you are raking for. They are not used to hiding their faces the way we do," Rabastan said in a hollow voice. "Because they have nothing to be ashamed of."

Rodolphus did not know what to say. In the cold glow of memory, Rabastan's face seemed stiff with tension and lost all humanity. His gaze was like the eyes of a wounded, cornered predator. Rodolphus was a bad brother, therefore he did not save him as Rabastan deserved and allowed all this.

"You'll be at Amycus's funeral, right?" Rabastan asked, completely oblivious to the regret that gripped his elder brother.

"Of course, I will," Rodolphus confirmed, breaking out of a surging sense of guilt.

Thinking of his own, Rabastan nodded approvingly: "Then take a closer look, someone will probably be surprised that you came."