The hedgemaze and most of the shrubbery are far too well behaved to have become unruly in the absence of regular care, but there are still signs that the Lestrange garden has not seen a groundskeeper for quite a while. Ivy is slowly overtaking the nearest wall of the house, and the climbing roses that were clearly meant to be an artistic accent on a luminous marble statue of a dancing nymph look like they're trying to drag her down into the earth. This is a state of affairs she occasionally takes issue with, but any complaints she makes are muffled and to a largely unsympathetic audience of birds.

Until today, that is. Rodolphus ignores her woeful little, "Sir? Siiiir?" in favor of finding the bench by the well, where he can activate the built-in silencing wards with a simple touch. This accomplished, he still doesn't speak to Regulus immediately, seeming to be in conflict over whatever he'd invited the other man here to discuss.

Transferring the thick liquid from cauldron to flask, his breath harsh and rasping when he hums, Rodolphus is oblivious to the room's darkness. The smell, if he were paying attention, is overpoweringly acrid, as if the fumes of this malevolent philter has penetrated the walls. And he hums from time to time, hearing the melody perfectly in his mind and so not hearing the broken quality of his own voice; gaunt, driven by sick internal engines gathering up every last tiny bit of fuel to burn feverishly through stringy muscles and hardened limbs, he's holding himself together. Barely.

Enough.

The paintings still face the wall, their barely audible anxious rustle occasionally breaking through. When it does he pauses and listens, expression freezing, but whatever he's expecting (dreading?) never happens, so he continues his task.

He's been unreachable for months now, all thoughts of Voldemort and the cause driven from his none too stable mind with Bella's death. Because, in the end, his loyalties were greater than ideals. Blood was thicker than poison water. In the end, one's mind returns to older times, and simpler ways.

In the end, one's mind returns to family.





When you're dead, the grass is greener
over your grave. The wind is keener.
Your eyes sink in, your flesh decays. You
grow accustomed to slowness. Expect delays.

He's turned every painting so they face the wall. The murmur of discontent from most of the paintings' inhabitants is just audible, not enough to be clearly understood.

Upon the table is a wilted lily, several beakers, and a variety of potion ingredients. He stares at them a long time before seeming to remember what he has planned to do. Then, slowly and carefully -- a glimmer of the old him -- he starts to work.


((Hello! If anybody has a hankering to kill Rodolphus, please pipe up here! At this point I could do several things with him, all equally possible and fun to me. :D

A. Someone kills him.
B. He disappears off somewhere to be brought back at some future time for teh angst.
C. He tries to kill someone, and is killed during that. (He does want to kill Rabastan, but he's scattered and doesn't always remember that.)
D. Stick him back in Azkaban.

More suggestions welcome.))

The instant he steps in the bedroom, he can feel that everything is wrong. For a moment he can barely see; it's as if everything has been turned upside down, inverted and sullied. The air is wrong, the walls are too thin. Somebody's eaten my porridge. Somebody's sat in my chair. Somebody's ... somebody's slept, in, in my ... my bed ...

One pale arm, the Dark Mark looking freshly inked against wan, tense skin: outstretched, tangled sheets, stillness. A stale, sweet scent beneath something harsher and burnt. No whimpers.

Bellatrix Lestrange won't have anymore nightmares.

VI.

Is he someone who dwells in this single world? No:
both realms are the source of his earthly power.
He alone who has known the roots of the willow
can bend the willow-branch into a lyre.

Overnight leave no bread on the table
and leave no milk: they draw back the dead--.
But he, the conjuror, may he settle
under the calm of the eye's lowered lid

to mix death into everything seen;
and may the magic of earthsmoke and rue
be as real to him as the clearest connection.

Nothing can trouble the dominance of
the true image. Whether from graves or from rooms,
let him praise finger-ring, bracelet, and jug.


((From Sonnets to Orpheus, by Rainer Maria Rilke))

Pouring a clear spirit into the wide, shallow iron bowl and over the cedar sticks, Rodolphus set it ablaze with a gesture. The wind was strong tonight, whipping the night wildly and sending ripples over the dark waters like the silk dress of a falling woman. The gusts set the flame flickering, but he didn't back away from the bowl.

With the slight, cold smile of a man who believes he's accomplishing something, he lifted his hand and slowly twirled a rose into the heart of the fire.

You know, I look at you and it's funny, you don't remind me of myself exactly but you remind me of a certain time I remember what I used to think love was then; that it was like fireworks, the explosions, the highlights, but it is not.

It's time: to go through the seasons together, through change, through the ups and downs, to be able to look at your beloved and say, "We did that together as one, we chose each other above all things." That's love. It's unexplainable. It's a secret that can only be known once you've done the time.

Ever since this afternoon, when Tamarantha gave him the Idea, Rodolphus has been holed up in his study, not an unusual pasttime. Books are spread out before him, cross referenced with notes, potions ingredients scattered over the pages.

And almost hidden beneath a stack of parchment is a Hogwarts prefect badge. The name is hidden, but it starts with a T.

I do not know them.

I shall be investigating the room.

Rodolphus appears in the courtyard of their Venice house with a crack, having returned from Transgression. He hasn't taken two steps when he freezes suddenly, spine going stiff as he stares at the main doors, which are open.

Narcissa is slumped against the doorframe, looking disheveled and pained as she tries to stand. Her nails are digging into the dark wood.

She's an amazing actress, but unfortunately, Rodolphus doesn't know that.