Rabastan stepped closer, lingering on the edge of light and shadow. He felt his cloak shift… just a little — whether from a passing draft or something restless inside him, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t look away from her. Bellatrix wasn’t just beautiful. She was freaking wild, untamed. Something that couldn’t be bent to will, but dared you to try.
He straightened his posture, as if reminded of who he was. Not just the younger Lestrange. Not just another pureblood heir with the right surname. He was one of the sworn. One of the chosen.
He remembered that night. The damp earth, the cold air, the stars barely breaking through the clouds. The Dark Lord hadn’t needed to raise his voice, he never did actually. Every word had cast a shadow across Rabastan’s soul, left a mark like a burn, but deeper. Not flesh. Deeper.
Rabastan had dropped to one knee and pledged himself. In blood. In magic. In will.
“There is no path back,” the Dark Lord had said, eyes gleaming, but not with anger, there was something else. Recognition. He knew Rabastan would not betray him.
And he hadn’t.
But sometimes… sometimes Rabastan wondered what exactly he had signed up for.
Nearly two years had passed since. He worked in the Ministry now — Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A perfect mask. No one asked questions when you spoke the right way, nodded at the right moments. Rodolphus laughed at it, he had other assignments. He had always been closer to the Dark Lord. His future wife was Bellatrix Black. Everyone knew that. Even if she herself maybe didn’t fully accept it.
Rabastan took a sip from his glass and looked at her again.
He had been promised power, recognition, a place in the new world. But why then, when he looked at her, did he feel… second?
Their eyes almost met. He looked away quickly. His chest tightened — a sharp, searing jab of something he didn’t want to name. Didn’t want to. But knew.
Rodolphus had everything. Even her.
Rabastan ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his cloak. He knew what he was here as tonight: a guest. An observer. But something in him was stirring, something more than that. Closer. Riskier. More honest.
It wasn’t power he hungered for.
It was her.
He lingered one more moment in the shadows, allowing himself that final hesitation. He could’ve stayed. Safe, silent, unseen. But the darkness no longer shielded him, it suffocated.
Rabastan exhaled slowly, brushing his fingers along the lapel of his robe as if wiping off the last of his doubt and stepped forward.
His movements were measured, unhurried. As if he weren’t walking toward her. As if he was merely passing through. But every step was deliberate. Controlled. Not too fast. Don’t reveal too much.
She stood by the tall window, turned partially toward the room, partially to the light. Laughing at something Lucius Malfoy had said. The tilt of her head, the shimmer of her black curls, the sharp curve of her mouth, she owned the hall the way she’d own an arena, if there were blood and ash beneath her heels.
He stopped a few steps short. Waited. Needed her to see him. Not as the younger Lestrange. Not as someone’s shadow. As a man. As a choice — not a given.
And she saw him. One slender brow arched ever so slightly. A flicker in her eyes — curiosity, maybe. Or challenge. He couldn’t tell. But it was enough. He took the final step.
“Bellatrix,” he said, voice calm, pitched just low enough to feel intimate. Almost a whisper. “You shine tonight. Even this room seems dull beside you.”
He didn’t know why he said it. Normally he would’ve kept quiet. Faded to the edge. But not now.
Gods, you do shine. Like a fire someone dares to jump into, knowing it’ll burn everything — flesh, vows, pride.
She didn’t answer right away. And suddenly the air thickened between them, not with fear, no. With something taut, electric, sharp. The need to prove something. To himself. To her. To the world.
“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he continued, glancing up at the enchanted ceiling, painted with a sky that wasn’t real. “But you know… it’s funny. Sometimes you have to return to realize you’re no longer the boy they remember.”
No smile. No games. He stood close. Close enough to hear her breath. But not touching.
Because he knew, if he touched her, it would be over.
You’ve already been chosen. Already belong to someone else. But maybe, just for a moment, you’ll look at me differently. And maybe… that will be enough.
He didn’t look away.
Especially not when Rodolphus appeared, just off to the side.
Especially then.