These violent delights have violent ends
Like Fire and Power, as they kiss, consume.

outfit

The wizard had blood on his hands---in both the literal and figurative sense tonight.  A spell could cleanse the crimson away, but he was slow to cast it. He enjoyed the slickness---the heavy metallic scent. It was as intoxicating to him as the little yellow vials he kept upturning. Euphoria fueled by massacre, mayhem and delicious elixir flowed through Rabastan. 

He was in fine spirits...and after he'd murmured the necessary incantations to make himself presentable.  The Lestrange had gone to Fleur de Lis. The man had every intent to see what wares were available this evening for his delights. He had asked straight for the Madame. While the little attendant at the desk scurried away to find the woman, or perhaps prepare a room for the brother-in-law of the Minister of Magic, Rabastan took a seat at the bar. A scotch old enough to order its own scotch was placed in front of him and he sipped with luxurious oaky liquid.  Life was good these days. Very good indeed. Tonight would continue to be one of debauchery and decadence--the type of night a Lestrange deserved...

Hah, work 'uniform'

The Fleur was a safer place to work in than Knocturn Alley, she'd admit. She'd worked in that damp, dark place for years, and more than once bad things had happened. She knew she ought to care more about it, but she couldn't find it in herself to, really. Things happened, and maybe she took it as some sort of punishment for failing her brother. Who knew? She didn't question it. All she knew was that eventually Natalie and Ad had found her and things had gotten marginally better, and then Lady Mel had opened up this place and brought a bunch of them over and things were even more painless than before. Safe, she should be glad, but really she thought it was just as well. There were some customers that she had now who had been her customers before, back there, and there were some new ones. Pureblood lords, mostly, because there were some things they couldn't put their lady wives through without the women's families kicking up a fuss about it. So they did that here, to women who were paid to stand it. Not that they got away with doing much, there was tight security around the place. Lady Mel didn't stand for any mistreatment, but sometimes it got a bit... well, let's say rough.

Anya was on duty five nights a week, all prettied up in her skimpy underwear and painted. Some men liked elegant women, some liked them foxy, some liked them playful and some liked them young and innocent. They all liked them pretty and soft. Usually she stayed in her room and she received any caller there, but she'd been told that Lord Lestrange was at the bar and would need company for the night. That she was to go and see if she was to his liking. So she draped a small thing around her shoulders, any level of shame over nudity long gone, and went. Of course she hadn't expected it to be the Minister's husband. It was her brother in law. The other Lord Lestrange. Hadn't Jules said that... that... his cousin was married to... his illegitimate son? Or something like that. Pureblood families were always a mess and she couldn't very well be expected to remember any of it. That wasn't her job. So instead she slipped into the stool beside Lord Lestrange and offered a smile. "Good evening, my lord. The front desk said that you desired some company. Will I suffice?"

Rabastan sat frozen, drink half raised to his lips, staring blindly ahead of him. He had lost perception of the world around him--of the bar--of the hotel. The Lestrange mad man was held captive inside his own head. Though his bouts of catatonia were occurring less and less, it was the moments when he was alone that he was most prone to relapse.

Whisper. Whisper. Whisper. Hushed sultry words spoken in the most familiar voice of the late Lady Bellatrix. She was tormenting him tonight---accusing him of trying to forget her. Was he? He tried to claim no! To argue that he still spent many hours seeking magic like that of the resurrection stone to bring her back to the land of the living--To pluck her from the far side of the mysterious veil. But she pointed to his playthings, to his pretty little vials of euphoria elixir, to his fascination with Athena. Rabastan could not deny the woman's points. His absolute devotion to her was waning. She thrashed about in his head, screaming and ranting. Her fury captivated him. Even still, he was in awe of her--or at the very least, his mind's creation of her. It was still quite debatable whether or not the woman that spoke to him was actually the infamous witch or just a figment of imagination created by his broken sanity.

His eyes were glazed and far away as the girl took a seat beside him. Her words were perceived by his ears, but not truly heard by the man. He made no move. He made no response. He remained frozen there, drink halfway raised to his lips. His body was present, but perhaps that was all of the man that was there in that moment.

See, the thing about Anya's job was that there were some things she shouldn't do. Every client had a preference and his own rules, but a general rule seemed to be that one was not to touch unless allowed to. The man in front of her, however, didn't really seem to be completely aware of her presence, despite having spoken at a normal tone of voice. Curious, but you never knew with the type of men that had spent a lot of time in Azkaban. There was always something not quite there, they had their own twists and turns. Maybe she ought to wake him from whatever stupor this was, or maybe if she touched him he would snap and harm her. Who knew, not Anya, but there was something to be said about how little she cared that he might harm her. Her job was to please and relax him, and while there were limits to what he was allowed to demand in here, she didn't think that going into a room alone with him and laying herself bare was in any way the 'safe option'. This was her job and she was running a risk anyway, so she might as well.

"My lord? Are you all right?" Gently and slowly, Anya reached out to place a hand on the man's sleeve. Lightly, enough to make him aware of her presence, if he could be, but not enough to seem invasive. Her body was still at a respectful distance from him, she'd only reached out a hand. Without taking her eyes off of the man, she swiftly pulled her hand back, trying to check for any sort of response. Rabastan Lestrange, wasn't it? Well, she had a degree in magical history, she kept reading every historical text she got her hands on. She knew who this man was and what he had done and what he could do. It could be rather stupid of her to not fear him, but anybody who knew her knew that she cared very little about danger anymore.

Time ticked by. The ice Rabastan's glass shifted, melting and diluting the fine Scotch. More moments lost to his imprisonment even as he now knew freedom. His body was unnaturally stiff and unmoving. He was lost to the world--and it to him. Memory compounded fantasy in his mind. Bellatrix had such hold of him then. He did not want to her to let go. The man was happy to stay with her inside his head. Here he had her. Here she saw him in ways she had never seen or appreciated him in life.

How long had it been? The Lestrange had no clue. Time was different in the maze of memory. Seconds in reality could be hours upon days here. Bellatrix used that against him, used the distortion to manipulate and dissociate him. It had been easier to hold him when he had been confined to his vulgar flat under the Dementors' chilling influence. Life now was better. He had more reminders that he was again a free man. He wanted to live now in ways he hadn't in decades. Death no longer held such an appeal as a beautiful reprieve.

The touch on his arm was not felt by him consciously. But something about the way the girl jerked back jerked him back into the moment, into this lavish place. The wizard brought his drink the rest of the way to his mouth, not sure if his tongue would respond to his brain's command without a bit of lubrication. There was nothing graceful about his motions just then. By his nature, he moved like a snake--like a cat--like water---fluid and effortlessly. But coming out of his frozen catatonic state, his motion was spasmodic. Swallowing the woody liquid was difficult for him. His throat seemed unwilling to cooperate. A cough sputtered from his lips as he roughly sat the glass back on the bar. The ice inside skittered about, one piece skipping out of the glass and across the marble.

The wizard's fine spirits from his evening of macabre mayhem had been drained. A heaviness weighed his shoulders down. With great effort and tremendous slowness, Rabastan turned his head to look at the witch beside him. His eyes lazily moved over her scarcely clothed form. She looked nothing like Bellatrix. Thank Merlin. He did not need any more of reminders of his late obsession.

"You'll do fine," Rabastan commented offhandedly. He sounded weary now--his eyes did not sparkle with their usual madness, but were dulled by the draining experience he had just undergone. Experience had taught him that attempting to stand now would be met with embarrassing results. So, he did not attempt to move. He just needed a bit more time to recover himself.

Some men were dangerous, Anya knew this. Some men were monsters. They liked to brake and burn and rip and tear. They liked to own and control, and when it didn't work they got angry. Anya had worked for many of those men before, when she was in Knockturn Alley. She'd looked them in the eye and guided them to an isolated dark room and allowed them to take. To dig deep in her very being and rake out all her insides, to make her hollow and brittle and to snap her in half if they wished. They often did just that and she was left to nurse bruises and cuts and rope burns on her skin. The physical marks, really, because mentally- somehow she knew that it only served to dig the whole in which she buried herself deeper. So she could drown in her own misery, in her own pain. It was a punishment, one that she deserved. Most would say she didn't, but her life felt so empty after everything that had happened, everything felt so pointless. She might as well fill it with something that served to atone with.

Anya didn't answer Lord Lestrange as he recovered from whatever had happened. The ice on the counter top started to melt and the glass was now empty. The only drop left was shiny on the man's lower lip. He was off balance, not completely there, catching his breath after whatever that had been. She didn't know if he would be completely safe, really, but she didn't really care either. He was here for her service and that was what he would get, he had said she would be sufficient, after all. So, in silence, she reached out a hand to the bar and received the bottle of liquor from the bartender and gently took the glass from the man's hands as well. Pouring two fingers into it, she set the bottle away and took some ice from a small silver bucket, replacing that which had been spilled. This would be on the house, of course, as Anya no doubt would be too. On the house. It should bother her more than it did.

Sliding the glass carefully back to Lord Lestrange's grip, she got to her feet and placed a hand on his arm. It was not a sign to hurry, it was just there. Waiting for him to be ready, to decide she ought to lead him to the no longer dark room. She wondered what he wanted in particular, what he liked. Was he celebrating or drowning his sorrows? Taking out angers and frustrations or seeking some warmth that could only be found in flesh? Was it need or loneliness? It wasn't her place to wonder, was what it was. All she had to do was provide was what demanded. So, silently, she waited.

Content Warning: prison/solitary confinement -- bugs -- addiction

Being free was supposed to be easy. Leaving Azkaban behind came so natural to some. Rabastan was not among their number. His time in the prison had been much worse than many, though. His mind and body had been tucked away into the cold depths of that prison--muggles would call the punishment he endured inhumane. It certainly pushed him to become something more than human..or perhaps something less.

Those days and nights and days locked inside the darkness...That sarcophagus had been his solitary cell. The space was magically constricted until he could not extend his arms fully in one direction if he stood in the center of the space. The low ceiling forced his head down, and his shoulders forward if he tried to stand. Even hunched, he would brush against the damp stone above him. The longest of the walls was not as long as he was tall either. Laying down, required the bending of knees or curling of his back. He could never truly extend the entirety of his body. Weeks--it had been weeks and weeks that he was left alone there. No light. No voices. Nothing but himself in the darkness. They'd fed him once a week at best when he was down there. Rotting meat and crumbs of stale bread--the maggots in the rancid flesh had been what truly sustained him.

How could anyone be whole after that? How could anyone be sane? He tried to be more himself now---be more the man he was. He wanted to be. So very desperately, Rabastan wanted to be the wizard he had been before that horrible place. Vials and draughts helped. His precious sunshine yellow Elixirs to Induce Euphoria--they helped push away the darkest thoughts. He could really use one now. But he did not trust his hands...not with the delicate glass and little cork stopper.

"Girl," he jerked his head from facing forward to looking at his companion for the evening. "Reach into my pocket. Fetch a vial from inside." He waited for her to do as she was commanded. He did not expect any resistance. The girl was being paid to do as he wished---and right now, he wished for her to administer to him a dose of that which could make him more himself again. 

"Come on then, have a little sip and then bring it to my lips," Rabastan did not care if the girl actually took some of the elixir, or just pretended to do so. But he was the type of addict that was willing to share the pleasure of his vices with those he surrounded himself with. It was some odd type of politeness that many with affinities for drugs seemed to possess. Perhaps it was just more fun to get fucked up with a companion than to do it all alone. 

It wasn't the wisest decision, working the streets in Knockturn Alley. Neither was it a wise decision to keep working in such an establishment when she had a perfectly acceptable historian degree, really, but she was here nonetheless. She had always had a very good sense for what was dangerous and what she had to avoid, it wasn't that she didn't know these were situations she should try to avoid. The problem was that she didn't care enough to. She was fine how she was, she told herself, and if she wasn't then it was a punishment she deserved. Her role towards her brother had always been very easily defined, it was her willingness to turn a blind eye that got her where she was today. Nothing more and nothing less. Bad choices and bad endings were nothing, really, because she felt nothing. So what was it to her, to stand closer to this dangerous man and reach into his pocket? To follow orders as she kept her face pleasantly sweet, taking out the vial and looking at it for a second. It was probably a bad decision to unstopper it and take a sip herself, but she figured that -at the very least- it wouldn't kill her. So she did, it was yellow and bright and tasted-

Anya blinked, gasping. It tasted like sunlight and warmth, like a light tingling in her fingertips and a giddiness in her stomach. A short, airy laugh left her lips as she blinked. This wasn't her, these weren't her feelings. She'd never felt like this before but it felt so good. Her entire body was singing. She could only smile as she lifted the little vial and tipped some of its contents into the man's mouth. Then she stoppered it again and put it back in his inner pocket. Her hand stayed on his chest, body still too light and mind slightly absent with joy. Joy that wasn't hers, joy that she had no right to be feeling, yet here she was and she couldn't help it. How long had it been since she'd laughed in true happiness, not in mirth at others' expense or irony or sarcasm? Years, probably. Years and years.

"Feeling better, my Lord?" She tilts her head, watching him. It stood to reason that sometimes, men who were in Azkaban needed a little pickmeup. Some used alcohol, some used flesh, some used blood. This man seemed to use this potion, and maybe also girls like her. It was kind of him to share, though she thought that it would also make her more pliant throughout the night. Maybe he'd encountered girls with whom he'd needed it, but she wasn't one of them. Anya had stopped struggling a while ago. Still, it was a nice side effect. She felt warm, despite her scarce clothing. "A room's been readied for your needs, if you wish to retire."

In years long past, social standing and reputation had meant a great deal to Rabastan. He valued the respect and admiration of his fellow purists. He had wanted the esteem and validation from those around him. He had walked tall and proud, a pillar of the community. He had been drawn in to the most inner circle of the Dark Lord. He had stood beside Bellatrix and Rodolphus--they had been evoked pride in the masterful wizard. Then that had all been lost...

All luxury--all comfort--all stripped away. There are not words to properly express the suffering Rabastan was forced to endure in Azkaban. To say his incarceration would always be with him was a gross understatement. The months of solitary down in that wretched hole buried deep within that prison still haunted him, both in his waking moments and those of slumber. It was inhumane to have left him there for a day, much less the great stretches of time he endured in that tiny enclosure. Dark, dank stone walls and floor and ceiling all pressing down on him. There was no door in that place. To come or go, a wall was removed. Days went by with no light. No sound. Not even rats could descend into that catacomb of desperation. The cold of that place lingered in his bones. Rabastan would always carry that place with him still. Solitary confinement at Azkaban had been the stuff nightmares were made of.

That haunted him still. It wounded his mind in a way that had yet to be healed. Perhaps in a way that could never be healed. The elixirs helped. He savored the sweetness as it spread its warmth down his throat. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. Bellatrix was trying to pull him away from this girl that looked nothing like her and back into his head. She wanted his focus. She existed only by his devotion now. The whispers buzzed in his ears, but he could not make out the late witch's words. His mind heard the living youngling in front of him confirm a room was ready for him, but it took great force of will to comprehend the words spoken. Rabastan did not want to leave reality for the recesses of his mind. He wanted to remain free and in control of himself. He wanted to enjoy what pleasures freedom had brought him today.

He forced his eyes back open and reached for the glass of scotch. It was too fine a liquor to be drank as he intended to turn it up and finish it...but he downed the entirety in one undignified gulp. He had been a gentleman once... He was again, sometimes. Not right now. Right now, he was a damaged soul. "Yes..." He answered quietly, letting his arm slip around the whore's waist. "Lead the way." He instructed, trying his best to be steady on his feet, but still not entirely recovered despite the hefty dose of elixir flowing in his veins. He was resolved to leave Bellatrix there in the bar. He wasn't going to let her follow him upstairs.

In her time in Knockturn Alley, she'd found herself with a lot of unpleasant clients. Most were frustrated, angry, and they loved being the ones with power in the situation. They made good use of it, worked away all of their issues. She was disposable. They'd bought her for the night, after all. Anya hadn't really complained. Back then, just as now, she had been empty. Pain was just another way of escaping from that nothingness that had filled her after her grief had faded. Maybe she'd never truly felt grief, though. Horror, shock, regret. She didn't remember crying. It didn't matter now, anyway. It was so long ago, she was so far gone. Changed so much since then. She had. Everything had. Now things changed again. After all, this client- he could be dangerous, but she doubted he'd be too bad. Lady Mel's clients always minded themselves at least a bit. No, he wouldn't have been different even if he had been violent. Though he gave an unstable appearance right now, she didn't think he would lash out.

What was new was that little vial he'd taken out. Its contents filled her with a certain warmth and sudden joy that she hadn't felt in years. It made her smile, for real, and somehow her body felt lighter. His order was welcome, somehow. She wouldn't have complained anyway, but when she worked it was always somehow automatic. Now, though, it wasn't that she didn't care. It was just that everything just made her happy anyway. This was just another thing she would be glad to do. So she guided him, making sure to keep him steady, across the room filled with girls and clients and down the lavish hallway. To her own room. The lights were dim and the mattress was comfortable and the sheets were soft. There was a chest with whatever he might wish. After guiding him to sit on the bed, she closed the door and turned around. Her robe fell off her shoulders as she approached with an easy smile.

---

 
END OF THREAD