Misery Business // Friday, 18th August 1978

[Euphadora Parkinson]

The sound of the busy street below her balcony was muffled not only by a clever charm of her own application, but also by the thump-thump-thumping of her pounding heart beating loudly in her ears. She had made no decisions beyond inviting Rabastan to her flat this evening, leaving a cryptic note scrawled on a scratch of parchment at the bottom of a stack of official memos she had been tasked with delivering to the Portkey Office. It hadn’t occurred to her when she had written it that her invitation might be misinterpreted as a request for more carnal activities, as was the general nature of their friendship. Having left work early, unable to focus on anything other than the impossible options that awaited her, Dora had spent a considerable amount of time shuffling around her flat and accomplishing absolutely nothing. After trying and failing to distract herself with a book and a cup of tea, Dora found herself purchasing a pack of cigarettes from the shop below her flat and returning to her balcony to find her tea had gone cold and the wind had caused her book to fall and shut without a marker in place. It was for the best, as she had had to read the same page three times without taking in a single word before ultimately giving up and succumbing to a vice that she normally only participated in when she was drunk.

Stepping around the fallen book and not bothering to pick it up from the floor, Dora positioned herself on the wicker loveseat wedged into a tiny corner of her balcony. She pulled her feet up underneath her as she lit a cigarette and allowed sense memory to help soothe her nerves as the smoke filled her lungs. She normally hated the taste of cigarettes if it weren’t masked by fruity cocktails or stinging liquors but her thoughts were so clouded that she barely registered the flavor at all. In fact, she had been so lost in worry that she hadn’t even noticed that she’d not properly closed the door to her flat upon her return. Her mind scrolled through the advice her friends had given her; returning frequently to Narcissa’s insistence that this pregnancy could force Rabastan’s hand, and they could be married before anyone could even suspect that she was with child. It seemed a logical plan that Cissa had laid out for her but the knowledge that Rebekah Parkinson would likely make a similar suggestion made Dora uneasy. She could only hope that talking with Rabastan would give her some clarity on the matter.

[Rabastan Lestrange]

Her door was ajar.

He rocked back on his feet on the outside of the threshold, out of sight as the door swayed with the same summer wind that gripped at his shirt, and listened, silently taking his wand in hand. This wasn't right, Euphadora knew better than to leave herself vulnerable. Yes, she had protective wards, but in this neighborhood she was more likely to encounter a mad muggle with a knife than a wizard who wished her harm. Still, Rab listened, far more on edge than he had anticipated to be on answering her call. But his training was as ingrained as his paranoia, and he knew better than to think nothing was amiss. It could mean nothing, she could have left it open by mistake, and probably had. They'd soon be laughing about his "overreaction" and the tales he had to share about the Goldstein girl and whatever stories he could coax out of her about her night with Violet and Cissy. There hadn't been time yet today, she'd been so quick to deliver the memos to their office and was gone from her post by the time he clocked out.

He slipped inside, scanning the flat for anything - or anyone - out of the ordinary, and let out a huff of an exhale when all he found was the silhouette of Euphadora on the balcony. Wand pocketed, door soundly closed and locks done up, he stepped through the open window as he spoke. "Your door was open, pet," Rabastan lightly admonished, brows furrowing for a moment as he noted the cigarette between her lips. The teacup could hold anything, he supposed, although he'd never seen her smoke without being fully into her cups, and it looked just as forgotten as the book on the floor. Just how early had she left the Ministry? He bent to retrieve the book, idly flipping through it before setting it on the little square table and helping himself to a cigarette from the pack. He lit it and inhaled, leaning back against the balcony as he considered her. Euphadora could wield her perfect mask with the best of them when she chose, and while he felt he knew her better than many, while he knew he'd witnessed her scared and overjoyed and vulnerable - she didn't seem herself. Rab didn't know if he'd seen her like this, at least not since the melancholy that had taken her after that stay in the Hospital Wing.

A bad day, or something more? And she'd wanted to see him?

"You left early today," he mused, prodded, "too much of a good time last night?"

[Euphadora Parkinson]

She looked up as a figure entered her periphery. Her typical reaction to his appearance would have been to greet him cheerfully, touching him and flirting shamelessly, at least when in the privacy of either of their homes. In public she would have been more subtle, but her eyes would have held that same sparkle for him. If there was any any excitement at seeing him today, the knowledge of what she had to tell him had completely drained it from her face. She did not bother to fix a false smile for him. She knew he could tell her real smirk from the plastic façade she often wore while greeting guests at work or when socializing with a twit she'd rather just ignore. Rabastan chided her for leaving her door ajar and Dora's brow furrowed. "Bugger." She pulled the cigarette that had been balancing between her lips and looked passed him through the window he had just climbed through. Her front door now appeared properly shut. "Sorry. I must've forgotten..." Her voice was soft and distance, her thoughts clearly not in the present with them as she trailed off without finishing her sentence. She needed to pull herself together if she wanted to have a serious talk about her situation with him, but the idea of that was daunting and she instead fell silent and stared unfocused in the direction of the cigarette in her left hand.

Rabastan settled himself on the tiny balcony as Dora sat silently, curled in her seat like a cat. She could feel his eyes on her. Normally a welcomed feeling, today his gaze felt heavy. She was beginning to regret her decision to ask him over, not ready to face the truth of her situation, nor burden her friend with the knowledge the healer had dumped onto her. Rabastan spoke once more and Dora turned her eyes up at him, puzzled. "Last night?" She racked her fuzzy brain to comprehend what he was on about, far too slowly realizing that he was speaking of her evening with Narcissa and Violet. Had it really only been a day? Merlin, it felt as though at least a fortnight had passed that she'd been sitting on this news, arguing with herself about how to proceed, all the while still rushing to the toilet every few hours to be sick. Dora shook her head to clear it. "Umm, yeah. Err, I mean no. No, not really a good time." Her eyes passed over his face as she looked off over the street that was growing busier as the evening approached. "Loads of crying, mostly. Some threats of violence. You know how Vi gets," she remarked off handedly as she took another drag off her cigarette.

Despite not having figured out exactly what she wanted to say to him, or how to even start, she had a feeling there was no going back now that he was here. It wasn't as though she could just turn him away after explicitly asking him to see her. He'd have been expecting something out of the invitation. Surely he wasn't hoping for news that he was to become a father, but some reason for asking him over was required. Did she feel up for a shag? It wouldn't have been the first time she'd slept with a bloke to avoid confrontation, but it wasn't as though she could just put off telling him forever. Not with this thing growing inside of her. He had the right to know, to give his say on the matter, and perhaps even take the pressure of making a decision off her hands completely. It took her hours just to decide what shoes went best with her dress before going out to a disco, it was unfair for anyone to ask her to choose anything more complex than how to style her wardrobe. Without thinking, she reached for her teacup, remembering only as she brought it to her lips that it had gone cold. A warming charm would solve this problem, one thing today with a simple solution at least. She shifted her assortment of physical distractions she had collected; cigarette  between her lips once more nd the teacup in her right hand, as she reached for the wand on her thigh. Except it wasn't in the garter she wore as it usually was. She gave a small, exasperated exhale, realizing she must have left it inside her flat somewhere but having no memory of setting it down. She felt on the verge of crying again, overwhelmed by the littlest things that seemed to be piling up around her but she inhaled deeply, swallowed her feelings, and looked at her friend. "Be a lamb, won't you?" she asked, extending her teacup toward him.

[Rabastan Lestrange]

Fear. Anxiety. Paranoia. As constant companions as his brother was, and just as familiar. The wind ruffled his shirt and Euphadora's hair, took the smoke from their burning ends, and the quiet between them deafened. Rabastan waited for her to finish her thought, frown deepening as he realized she wasn't. She couldn't. She'd asked him here, she couldn't look at him, and what could have happened in the day or so since they'd spoken was beyond him. His heart thudded and he watched her, unnerved all the more at her disconnected words about last night at his pale attempt to start conversation. Violet had a legendary temper - but what had set her off? And the crying, well, he'd have guessed that was Narcissa, up in arms about something she should have sorted out with her husband. If Euphadora didn't look close to tears herself, that is.

You're supposed to ask what's wrong. Ask.

    What are you scared of, Bunny?

Rab knew the feeling well, as much as he'd deny it if pressed. It was an ingrained thing, easily recognized even years after they'd disposed of their father and taken control of their lives. It was something he lived with, though - and helped him survive, helped him stay aware of the dangers that waited around every corner, and would be there until the Dark Lord had his final victory. It helped him be prepared when things went wrong on a mission, on the job. But it was not something he much allowed space for otherwise, and it was a rare realization indeed to feel it outside of himself, and not land on family. Was he scared for her, the girl not being herself? Of being needed by her? Of failing her?

She'd needed him before. Being in such a position wasn't his forte, but he'd managed decently, or so he thought. The feeling would pass - the worst was not being able to identify its why, and that would pass. Whatever she needed from him, he could manage it, as he had before. The laughing promises over what they required of each other, exchanged just a few short weeks ago, felt far from whatever this reality was becoming. Why won't you look at me?

He watched as she fidgeted, and as shaky and small as she looked curled onto the seat, Rabastan waited for her eyes, her entreaty, to move.

He stepped towards her and took the cup; a quick warming charm later, Rabastan cupped her hands around it, and moved to sit facing her on the little wicker couch. With what little room there was, he was half off it and moved her legs over his to fit, and ignored the thundering heart in his chest as he searched her face. She wasn't fit to be on her own tonight, that much was clear. Disoriented, door left open, wand not in reach. Unfocused, sluggish - had she not slept? Or had she taken something? Scared. "Talk to me, Euphadora. What happened last night? What do you need?"

[Euphadora Parkinson]

Their more serious moments together seemed to pale in comparison to the weight of their current situation. Terrified of what might happen between them if she were to make the wrong decision, push for one option when he wanted the other. She knew this could be the end of their friendship. The singular steady relationship in her world that meant more to her than it was appropriate to admit. Altering their arrangement could have dire consequences, particularly so soon after reaffirming the intentions of their relationship. Sex. Drink. Conversation. Emotional Baggage? Rabastan had not signed up to manage that.

For years now it had been Ender’s role to take on the internal burdens she refused to admit to, and he had stepped up to the task at times in spite of his own well-being and personal interests. Had she asked him, Ender would have been here in an instant. She could have cried to him, and he would have held her, stroked her hair, and reaffirmed whatever decisions she made as being the correct ones. But whatever softness Ender might have showed her, there would be a silent rage building that would have directed itself outwardly at Rabastan. There would be only one victor from such a duel and Dora knew with certainty even before he had confessed the sins he committed for the Dark Lord that it would result in her losing a brother. She would have to suffer this trauma alone, confess to Rabastan what she had done and pray that he showed some level of kindness toward her.

Fantasies had been fed to her by Narcissa and Violet, and Dora had to admit they were not upsetting. The idea of having a life with Rabastan legitimately; a marriage, being seen together in public instead of relegated to private spaces and shadows in which he could easily obscure her, was enticing. Dora had never fancied herself a wife and mother. Never meeting up to the expectations her own parents had unwittingly set for her. Never feeling worthy of the sort of affection her father held for her mother. She knew it would be obligation, not love, that would bend Rabastan’s knee and take up her hand. She could manage a life like that for herself, but would she allow that for him? A promising young wizard who had already dodged marital responsibilities once.

Time seemed to slow as Rabastan crossed the small space to her, taking her cup and warming it without hesitation. There was time enough to take it all in. Three small steps. His arms outstretched. His hand grazing hers. Steam rising as the tip of his wand graced the edge of her cup.

The large, strong hands that had admitted to taking human life, forever stained with blood and rough from work Dora had accepted without question, gently now embraced her own around the now pipping teacup. His touch soothed her and she met his eyes in earnest, his questions falling on deaf ears.

“I’m pregnant.”

It came out softly and without preamble, her cigarette dangling between her lips as she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from his touch. What could she tell him that would have made the news any kinder, more palatable? There was nothing she could have prefaced the news with, nothing her mind could come up with in that moment. In the end, it seemed her ceaseless worrying over how to tell him had been an exercise in futility, the words rolling from her mouth as tears pooled in her eyes and threatened to fall at any moment. She braced for impact, apologies at the ready for his inevitable turn.

[Rabastan Lestrange]

Euphadora spoke.

His hands clenched involuntarily around hers.

Pregnant.

    You did this to her. Look at her - she doesn't want this. And why would she?

The witch was fighting off tears, scared and pregnant. Scared of the news, and all it could mean for her, for them. Scared of him, of his response.

He'd braced for her to be scared of him before, but had never imagined it would be because of this. He had been careless, overconfident, never entertaining this as an actual possibility that could come from their time together, just as a joke among the family. He'd pulled her in, put protections around her - and had still done this to her.

Had it been a mistake to let their closeness grow this summer? She knew he was limited in what he could offer her, and had seemed to accept, even to enjoy, what they could still have. The Dark Lord's work had to come first for him, and with that went a hearty investment of his time, energy, and thought. But even if that was not the case...Rabastan could not quite put his deeper limitations into words, the parts of life that he was not equipped or built for - but Euphadora knew. She knew him - she had to know.

He could provide a home for a wife and children, a place that was safe from outside threats, where they would not go hungry or want for comfortable things. But that life was a fantasy outside of his grasp, even when his mind drifted to it from time to time - what it would be like to have her always at his home, for her to call it hers too, for little raven-haired sprites to run through it with abandon - the images scattered, unable to even properly be imagined. However much he felt for her, this - it was not for him, it was not possible.

He was no more fit to be a father than his own was.

He took a drag and let out a shaky exhale, bloodless and chilled to the marrow in a cold panic. Last night's threats of violence made much more sense now, likely leveled against him. For good reason.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers for a breath. A moment, before he ruined - everything. Sitting back, Rab drew his eyes back to hers, hating himself for what he had to do. Would Lucius help him? Grant him a no questions asked favor, sworn to secrecy? The appropriate potion had to be hidden away at the apothecary. They would fix this quietly, quickly. And then? 

"This is my fault," he rasped, finally. "I did this to you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Euphadora, I - I'll take care of this."

[Euphadora Parkinson]

His tightening grip around her hands was reminiscent of her own reflexive grasp on the edge of her chair in the healer’s office the day she had received the news. The shock just before the second wave of more volatile emotion. It was to be expected, but whereas she had struggled not to cry at the news, she was certain Rabastan’s next response would be different. Would he become violent? He was more than capable, she knew, but to have it directed at her would have been new, though she thought she was ready for it. Or would he do as Narcissa seemed so assured he would; rescue her not only from her current situation but also from the sad little life she pretended to enjoy?

Breath stilled in her lungs as she awaited his response, the skin on her arms prickling with anxiety. Her hands released; Dora watched as he took another drag from his cigarette. The end glowing bright for the slightest moment before smoke wafted between them. Dora pulled her own cigarette from her lips, ashing it over the edge of the balcony all the while her eyes never left his face. She studied him silently as the smoke curled around his head and dissipated into the cool summer air.

She felt her breath shake as she finally released it, his head pressing lightly against hers. Her eyes closed momentarily and she felt a tear roll down her cheek as he pulled away. She looked up into his pale eyes as he spoke. A cold ran over her as she realized he had done in a matter of seconds what she had needed of him. He had made the decision for her and all this silly fussing over what-ifs and confusing feelings that didn’t match her expectations would be done. Lips pressed together, chin quivering, Dora nodded in acceptance of his offer.

Dora had never wanted to be a parent, and in all their conversations over the years Dora had gleaned that Rabastan had felt similarly. She knew he had not wanted marriage, at least not to the witch his father had chosen for him, and even if he had, he would certainly look for someone from a more prestigious family than hers. As a good friend, Rab had often tried to buoy her spirits in the past, trying to make her believe that her parents’ ambitions for her and Ender to somehow pull the family up the social ladder was completely plausible. But none of that mattered nor invalidated the tenants of their relationship, which for years had been nothing more than friends with benefits. And truthfully, though she was still scared, Dora was acutely aware that Rabastan was not lashing out at her for this mistake, and she was relieved.

[Rabastan Lestrange]

He was never going to live this down.

Even if Euphadora forgave him, Narcissa and Violet had, almost certainly, already been made aware of the situation. It was only a matter of time before his brother and Bellatrix found out. And the rest in their circle. Even if they took care of the problem tonight, the word was already away on the wind, and just as easily contained. Violet had been angry. Cissy...likely foresaw a conclusion that would paint him in a far better light than the one he had to choose. F*ck.

Rabastan should have known, really, that his luck would run out. Things had been going too well lately, eh? His family had calmed down about his move, and the elf had his patterns and preferences down, the house running smoothly; even his preparation for the Quidditch Cup, with both his Ministry- and Dark Lord-sanctioned duties, was moving along swimmingly; he and Euphadora had been getting on like a house on fire, so much so that he'd let himself relax. To be lulled into the appeal of them as a pair, even if their definition never formally changed. Perhaps this was a delayed karmic event, the universe having a laugh at him. Get rid of your father, only to become one?

No. Not possible.

He could feel her eyes on him, watching every minute tick as he resolved, coiled, steeling himself for what had to be done. They were, neither of them, fit for any of this. And he wasn't about to force her into parenthood, to ruin all her plans, the joys of her life, saddled to him and a child for eternity.

A pure child that would inherit the world.

When he could manage it, he spoke, eyes boring into hers.

Euphadora nodded.

She agreed, and it should have been a relief.

Yet there was still fear in those eyes, and that was his doing, and the sky pressed down on him - couldn't she feel it? Her fear, exhaustion - the turmoil she must've been through since finding out, that she was still in - she can't trust you anymore, not after this - "I'm getting a drink."

He got to his feet, after gingerly moving her legs off of his, and ducked into the flat, landing on wobbling legs. The kitchen was just a few steps in, and Rab scanned the half-drunk bottles from the last gathering - a mix of get-it-done staples and named-by-the-pun ones likely brought by one of the younger girls - for the strongest proof. He could hear his breathing, why could he hear himself breathe, the rapid, furious rasps hardly moved his chest - Rab took the bottle by the neck, uncapped and drank from it without ceremony. This was the right move. This was the right move, and she understood, and she agreed. Then why can't you breathe? 

[Euphadora Parkinson]

It felt as though she had been sitting there with him for centuries. Had time always moved so sluggishly? The air felt thick around her, and every second seemed to hold her down with exponentially growing weight as she waited for Rabastan’s reaction. She would have thought that Rab taking the lead in this decision would have lightened her burden, but the pressure was unrelenting. Even as he resolved himself, shoved her legs aside, and abandoned her for the safety of her flat – away from her – she felt the whole of it pulling her down. “Rabby,” she strained, her hand reaching out for him, but she moved slower than time itself. Her fingertips barely brushed his sleeve as he departed from her balcony, yet she was rooted to the spot. Stuck.

With her friend now out of reach, Dora felt the weight of her arm sink. Her chest was heavy. Anchored to her little cushion, time still stuck despite her racing thoughts, the wetness in her eyes finally spilled out uncontrollably. She sat there crying silently until her tears obscured her view of his figure through the window. Tears streaked down her face, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand fruitlessly. With every swipe of her hands, new tears took their place, streaking her face and tugging at her mascara. Oh, if her mother saw her now… all red faced and puffy, sobbing that the boy she fancied didn’t fall for her trap. That was what it must have looked like to Rabastan. She had tried to trap him, but he had outsmarted her.

The brunette slid her undrunk tea back onto the tiny table where it had first gone cold and snuffed the butt of her cigarette into the soil of a little potted plant at her feet that she had forgotten to water. With her hands finally free, she pressed the heel of her palms to her eyes, forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths until her sobs quieted. Her skin prickled and her stomach churned, though she was unsure whether it was the sickness she’d been feeling the last few weeks or the fear that she had ruined her friendship with Rabastan. “Stupid,” she chastised herself through clenched teeth. So stupid. How could she have let this happen? Had she no self control? She had gotten caught up in playing house and let her good sense falter. Enjoying meals served by his elf in his large dining room. Sunbathing in his garden as she watched him take his daily run around the property. Peppering him with questions during his falconry demonstrations and eventually finding the courage to let the massive birds use her arm as a perch. Even staying over in the evenings - when his work schedule permitted - and waking in his arms the next morning. She had fooled herself into becoming comfortable in a life that was not hers and the consequences were swift and striking.

And now Rabastan would hate her.

It’s no less than you deserve. You’ve made him a laughingstock.

Dora wiped her face once more and looked in through the window to her flat, Rabastan standing in the kitchen with a bottle in hand, surely contemplating her sinister duplicity. But Dora had not meant for any of this to occur, and she had not intended for anyone to look at Rabastan unfavorably. He had to know that. Dora felt sick as she watched him. And so tired. She was exhausted, whether from the stress and fear, the pregnancy, or the truly pitiful amount of sleep she had managed the last few nights. She wanted to rest but knew what dreams might plague her if she tried at this moment. Oh! So selfish she was being, wishing for sleep when she had just turned Rabastan’s life completely topsy turvy. Selfish and stupid and every other nasty thing she had ever been called in her life; she was all of it and more.

“Rabby –” she called, her voice weary from tears and inaudible inside the flat. Managing to pull herself to her feet and climb through the window after him, she tried again.

“I didn’t tell them it was yours. Narcissa and Violet. They presumed but I insisted they had it wrong. I didn’t mean for-” Her stomach lurched again, and she braced herself on one of the mismatched chairs at her little dining table, taking a steadying breath to keep the sickness down. When she could manage, she closed the gap between them and finished, “I’m sorry.”

[Rabastan Lestrange]

Look at you. Weak. Pathetic.

    You're going to cry over a witch? Because she doesn't trust you?

What a waste.

    You put me in the ground so you could - what? Become your own man? And this is what you have become without me?

What's next - are you going to grovel for her forgiveness, for her love? Useless boy.

Euphadora's wrenching sobs from the balcony clashed with the rising cacophony of the gravelly, sardonic voice of his father's, and only one was real. Only one was real, and she was outside, and he'd abandoned her there. His shallow breaths forcibly lengthened with shuddering effort as he squeezed his eyes shut, listening for her and only her, until the voice of the dead left him again with a final knowing laugh. Rab waited, not trusting it, and opened his eyes only at the sound of her coming through the window. He took another swig and set the bottle aside, turning to see her. Makeup smudged and flying from her eyes in dark trails, she'd been wiping at them, her eyes were red and raw, more tears imminent.

She was braver than him, this wisp of a woman. Allowing him to see her overwhelmed, hear her cry, when he couldn't do the same.

She spoke, trying to explain, to elaborate on his guesswork about her friends, and he jerked towards her as she fumbled for balance. She found it in the back of a chair and he let his arms fall, watching her. He swallowed, throat tight, and nodded stiffly. Violet and Narcissa had leapt to the right conclusion, and latched on. Whatever she said, whatever he did - they wouldn't let go now. Protecting her in their way as he had tried and failed to, in his own.

Euphadora apologized.

"I know. I know, I know you didn't mean for - any of this," he said, reaching for her to help her the last of the way to him. Rabastan leaned against the counter, focusing on his breath as he looked to her. He was in control of himself. He was. "I know you wouldn't do that, Euphadora. But this - this is our business. You should have come to me first," he stressed in frustration. That was the thing, wasn't it? If she had told him, they would have handled it together, as they were now. Belatedly. But there were others involved now, risking not only his family finding out, but her own. She was not after him for his money, but her family? A different story entirely, and he had to wonder how much of the stress and turmoil she was under was due to the pregnancy itself - and what was from the information spreading. Inevitably. Both were tied together now, impossible to discern, and still...

It had been avoidable. And she hadn't chosen him. The why of it...do you really want to know? Can you handle knowing, for certain?

Voice dropping low - they could pretend, they could pretend he hadn't whispered a word - he asked, "What did you think I was going to do?"

[Euphadora Parkinson]

She should have gone to him first. It was true, she could see that in hindsight as he spoke her name and scolded her for confiding in her friends. Dora shrank in his arms, childlike, as if it were her father reprimanding her for some unintended offense. Trying to tag along to work with him instead of attending her studies with Gwendolyn. Begging him to go skating with her on the frozen pond at the end of the lane. Several scenes from her childhood sprang to mind all at once and mingled in an anachronistic flash of recognition, but these memories were not coated with the soft glowing tones and affection that often tinted the memories of her daddy. Instead, they were felt with the cold, harsh light of reality. Dora could practically hear hate in his voice as he said her name and her eyes filled with tears yet again.

Her first thoughts of support should have been Rabastan, she would concede that to him now. But in the moment, she had failed him. She felt ashamed that her initial reaction upon hearing the diagnosis was to want for her mother. Rebekah Parkinson who had never been a comfort to her children. No rose-colored glasses tainting her impression of the woman. She knew logically that her mum would have been of no use to her in that hospital room. Offered no comfort or helpful suggestions. But Dora had wanted to hold her hand all the same.

And then, after realizing her mother was not an option, she should have gone to Rabastan. But again, she looked elsewhere. She’d contemplated ringing Ender, but reasoned herself out of that, knowing he would ask too many questions she didn’t want him knowing the answers to. So she had gone home alone, and stayed there by herself without giving a single thought to the only other person actually involved in this tragedy. Her first conscious thoughts of even telling Rabastan were solicited by Narcissa's questioning, and Violet's declaration of vengeance. They had had frank conversations before, she and Rabby. Discussed matters that were not altogether pleasurable from time to time. Even after his father's death when Rabastan hinted that there was perhaps more to it than the Daily Prophet let on, that he was not as distraught as others were led to believe. But this felt different to her now that he pressed her on it, and the only answer she could give was that she had been selfish.

Her fingers twisted around the loose fabric of his shirt as she looked into his eyes. Was there any affection for her left in them? Her tears obscured the answer and she eagerly looked away, afraid to see a familiar apathy in his face such as the sound of her name on his tongue had elicited. Callously saving herself from knowing the truth while perpetuating her own lies that she cared for her friends. For him. All she could muster in response was a pathetic “I’m sorry” as her voice cracked, and she forced herself not to look at him.

It could have ended there. They could have chopped it up to a momentary error in judgement, an oversight, and moved on with things. She would have done whatever he said, taken whatever option he chose for her, and they could have pretended that none of it had ever happened. In a years’ time it would be an imperceivable blip on their long friendship, never to be thought of again. But his voice dropped, and he asked her directly and she was forced to either instantly develop a lie that would spare him or tell him how heartless she truly was.

            The tenets of our relationship included only three items, none of which are children. This is what you wanted.

                                 With so much blood already on your hands, I’d have been foolish to not worry for my safety.

                                                     You hardly mourned your own father; how could I expect you to give a damn about this?

She could come up with answers that might appease him, but none of them were kind. And none were the truth. Having not enough courage to look him in the eye as she spoke, she stared at her fingers, a teardrop falling from her cheek and splashing silently onto the floor between them. “Nothing.” Her volume matched his own and she shook her head, shaming herself for answering with such nasty candor. “I – I didn’t think to tell you until Cissa asked.” A lump began rising in her throat and she felt the nausea growing. “I only thought of myself.”

[Rabastan Lestrange]

She twisted, trying to tangle into him. Caving inward, holding herself up by clutching onto his shirt. Kaleidoscope eyes overflowing with tears whenever she could look up at him. Wavering apologies as he stood, tensed and waiting, for the other shoe to drop.

A pregnancy between them, and she had kept it from him until now. She'd known and confided in others. Had Euphadora thought that he'd erupt? Accuse her of entrapping him? Of being stupid, selfish, for landing them in such a state? Or that he would be cold, unfeeling, unhelpful? He would not do that to her. She was special to him, how could she not see that?

In all their years, such a serious matter involving them both hadn't yet been faced, it was true. But Rabastan couldn't understand why she would keep this from him, unless she thought he cared so little for her. And if that was the case, his affections were terribly misplaced. He'd been the fool. They'd made their pact, had their rules. But she knew - didn't she know?

Euphadora whispered her truth, and Rabastan wished she hadn't.

An afterthought. He was an afterthought.

"You're unbelievable - unbelievable!" Seething, Rab detached her, backing towards the door in disbelief. He was here because she'd asked him to come. Since arriving, he'd been concerned for her. She'd left her door open to the world, she'd obviously been unwell. Upon learning of the problem, he'd taken the blame, apologized and made the right call for them. Thought of how difficult, how frightening, this had to have been for her while she was facing it alone. Tried to be calm. Compassionate. Patient. Few thoughts had been spared for his own management of the social situation he was bound to face, but they were nothing compared to resolving this for her. His swallowed panic was for her. And Euphadora hadn't thought of him until Narcissa prompted her to? "I'm only here to fix things for you now, is that why you asked me to come?"

[Euphadora Parkinson]

Grasping at him frantically, Rabastan managed to pull himself from her grip as Dora pleaded through tears for him to stop. Her head spun and she could feel her throat tighten as he spat his disdain for her. “Stop,” she whimpered repeatedly, “please.” But he had already moved the short distance away from her and toward the door. Only a single lock and the turn of a knob was between him and freedom now. If she cared for him at all she would have let him go.

She ought to have let him leave before, instead of putting on this performance. She should have stayed on the balcony until he had gone. She should never have asked him here in the first place.

Regardless of what she willed herself to believe, it was clear that she had used him; initially for her pleasure, but now it was for his courage. In an instant he had been able to do what she could not, he had done what she had needed of him, and she didn’t even have the decency to admit to her trickery. Not even to herself.

You actually thought he would choose to be with you? Love you? Stupid girl.

Nausea overwhelmed her as it often had these last few weeks, but she no longer had the strength to pretend in front of him. Her head was pounding from the force with which she sobbed, and her entire body ached. She felt as though she had fallen off a broom, the wind knocked from her lungs and pain stretched over every inch of her. She wanted to sleep. Selfish. To die. Coward. She wanted to hold him and have him wrap his strong arms around her and lie to her that it would all be alright. She wanted her mum.

Dora’s knees buckled under her own weight; vision obscured by tears as she collapsed dramatically onto the floor. “I didn’t mean for it…” she sobbed, pleading for him to believe her…to forgive her, even as she knew she did not deserve his forgiveness. She had been wicked to try and play her games with him, whether it was to trap him in marriage, use his strength in the absence of her own, or whatever else the wretched voices in her head claimed were the reasons for their predicament. The haze of shock and fear that had plagued her the last day and a half had all been a production, one so well performed she had evidently convinced herself of its truth. In reality, she was craven, manipulative, selfish, and hardly better than a whore. Rabastan was wise to see through her charade, and he would be wiser still to leave her here in this broken state to suffer in her own stupidity.

[Rabastan Lestrange]

Her hands clawed at him until he was out of reach, her ragged pleas pounding in his ears. Euphadora folded in on herself, collapsing in sobs on the kitchen floor, and Rab felt the chilled, leaden weight of his family's rage lap at his heels and slowly take him over, after his outburst. His heart wanted to break for the broken girl, for himself and the life that could never be theirs. But as he looked down at Euphadora to see her body wracked, shaking with soul-crushing cries, there was no denying that this was a chapter cut short, its final pages ripped out and gone to shreds. And the heat in his veins turned cold.

All of his fear of her losing trust in him - it had been for nothing. A spectacular waste of energy. He'd been duped into caring. She hadn't trusted him anyway. Hadn't thought of him, not one lick, as a factor in the possibly life-changing situation they brought about together.

What was the use in being anything other than what he was born to be, what they expected him to be? When one of the only people who had seen behind the curtain didn't even care for him enough to consider how he would take the news that she was pregnant? With a baby that would have been theirs?

Later, calmed down from irrationality spurred by his own short-sighted pains, he would regret his selfishness. He'd broken their cardinal rule and asked for the truth. They could have suffered through this night together if he hadn't kicked open that door. Her hurt and fears were different than his own, and she was more than entitled to them, and dealing with them however she could. He would hate that he hadn't dropped to the floor and pulled her crumpled figure to his chest when he had the chance. That he hadn't seen through his own pain enough to hear her, really hear her. She'd been lost. And what had he done?

"I said I'd take care of it, and I will." That was what he did for her, wasn't it? Whether she was scared of his sister-in-law or fell pregnant or something in-between? He would go to the apothecary. Get what was needed, and a few vials of Dreamless Sleep to split between them. And send his elf to her door with the delivery. Not certain if she even heard him through the sobs still flying from her, Rab cracked open the door and hesitated. He continued, straining to keep his voice measured, "It was an accident - I know that's all it was. Neither of us meant - just - stay here. Farkey will bring you something, and this will be over." 

[Euphadora Parkinson]

Only two days ago their friendship had been unwavering. This man she had known since he was a boy, since before she had discovered the ease of using her body to gain his much-desired attention and momentary affection. If only she could wave her wand to turn the days back and return to that happy ignorance when she simply assumed her lack of talent in the kitchen, or some common illness was catching up with her. To go back to those days when her biggest hardship was deciding whether she wanted to join her friends at the disco or stay in with Rabastan and play as though they were a real couple away from the prying eyes of her betters. But she knew of no such spell to send her back in time and the whereabouts of her wand wouldn’t be discovered until later when she pitifully recruited Farkey to summon it for her. Her tears would be gone by then, as dried up as they had been only an hour ago when she was blissfully unable to produce much more emotion beyond exhaustion and apathy.

The hard floor of her kitchen offered no comfort as she knelt there on her knees; a ball of skinny limbs wrapping around herself to keep from clawing at Rabastan’s trouser legs in desperation. Despite her efforts to wipe them away, tears continued to sprout anew and she soon gave in to the fruitless cycle, allowing them to gather under her chin undisturbed.

Puddled at his feet was the real Euphadora; the version she tried so hard to keep the world -and herself - from seeing. A pathetic, selfish, unattractive little girl who cried when she didn’t get her way. It was this ugliness her parents had seen in her from the start, the reason they knew better than to embarrass themselves with proposing an arrangement to wed her to a more lucrative family. What respectable wizard would ever want her?

Rabastan’s voice was emotionless as he spoke his parting words, reiterating his commitment to ending her deceptive ploy. Too ashamed of her failed attempt to evoke some measure of compassion from him, Dora squeezed her eyes tightly, refusing to open them until the she heard the door shut, the lock turn over, and a melancholic quiet filled the space. The only sounds that were left in her wee flat were her periodic gasps for breath between sobs and a pathetic “I’m sorry” whispered into the floorboards.