Chapter 37
Rabastan stood like a gargoyle perched on the window ledge of Malfoy Manor, a shadow draped over his usually sharp features. His gaze was fixed, not with predatory intent, but with a peculiar blend of fascination and simmering resentment, on the garden below. There, bathed in the late afternoon sun, was his wife. Petunia, the muggle woman he’d been irrevocably bound to in a lavish, politically motivated ceremony, was seated amongst a trio of pureblood society’s finest: Narcissa Malfoy, elegantly sipping from a porcelain cup; Yahra Parkinson, her laughter echoing like tinkling bells across the manicured lawn; and Claire Greengrass, her serene composure a stark contrast to Yahra’s vivacity.
They were having tea, a civilised ritual that felt as alien to Rabastan as Muggle mathematics. But Petunia wasn’t partaking in the Earl Grey or Darjeeling that Narcissa was undoubtedly offering. No, in her hand was a tall glass, steaming faintly, the aroma of vanilla and roasted coffee wafting even up to Rabastan’s perch. A vanilla latte. He was learning these small, infuriatingly endearing details about his forced bride. He was learning she preferred the bitter, stimulating Muggle concoction over the refined brews of wizarding society.
A strange pang twisted in his chest. Jealousy. Not the kind of jealousy he’d felt in his younger days, vying for position amongst Voldemort’s ranks. No, this was a simpler, more selfish kind. He wanted to be down there with her, basking in the same sunlight, the same easy laughter that floated up to him on the gentle breeze. He wanted to be the one she smiled at, the one she talked to in that low, surprisingly melodic voice. Damn Cornelius Fudge and his ridiculous, politically motivated arranged marriage. Damn the fact that they hadn’t even had a blasted honeymoon. He was stuck in Malfoy Manor, brooding like a lovesick teenager, while his wife enjoyed the company of other women.
A sudden clatter of footsteps and boisterous voices jolted him from his brooding. He turned to find the doorway filled by three figures who could only be described as a walking disaster. Evan Rosier, his face perpetually etched with a gloomy air, as if the world had personally offended him, was in the lead. Behind him bounced Antonin Dolohov, a picture of forced enthusiasm, his eyes already scanning the Manor as if searching for a hidden beach. And bringing up the rear, as ever, was Eamon Parkinson, his grin as wide and mischievous as a house-elf who’d just pilfered a galleon, his presence alone a guarantee of impending chaos.
His mates. His Hogwarts cohort in mischief, mayhem, and questionable decision-making. The bane of his existence and, inexplicably, the closest thing he had to friends.
Eamon, predictably, was the first to breach the silence, flinging an arm around Rabastan’s shoulders, the force nearly knocking him off balance. “Rabi, old boy!” Eamon Parkinson’s booming voice filled the room, followed by Evan Rosier’s quieter but equally intrusive presence and Antonin Dolohov, already muttering something about needing to reschedule his Hawaii trip. Hogwarts mates. The bane of his existence, but also, somehow, his constants in this chaotic world.
Eamon squeezed his shoulder, oblivious to Rabastan’s rigid posture. “You have no idea how I missed you, you know! Yahra and I have been soaking up the wonders of Italy ever since Voldemort’s… Little hiccup.” Eamon waved a hand vaguely, referring to the Dark Lord’s downfall as if it were a slightly inconvenient rain shower. “Italy, Rabi! Gondolas, pasta, and rumour mills that would make Rita Skeeter blush!” He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “Speaking of which, Yahra says Narcissa’s been positively brimming with gossip about your… domestic arrangements.”
Rabastan frowned, shrugging off Eamon’s arm. “Parkinson, can’t you see I’m busy?”
Evan’s perpetually widened eyes widened further. “Busy? Oh, my dear Rabastan, since when does spying on your wife and her company qualify as ‘busy’?” Evan’s tone dripped with theatrical incredulity, but Rabastan could detect a genuine curiosity beneath the surface.
Antonin, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. “Oh, come on, Rab. You can tell your bestest best mates about your married life. Especially,” he shuddered dramatically, “after when Lucius and his hulking bodyguards practically turned us into human shields. All those deranged pureblood fanatics trying to hex the bride. I swear, I’m still picking jinxes out of my robes.” The memory of that chaotic day, when disgruntled pureblood families had attempted to express their disapproval of the union through a barrage of hexes and jinxes, was still vividly, and unpleasantly, fresh. They had indeed acted as meat shields, and their robes still bore the scars.
Eamon, ever the gossip, perked up. “So, Petunia Evans, eh Rabi? You know, when I heard that name, I could have sworn there was an Evans when we were at Hogwarts. What was her name again? Oh yeah… Lily Evans!Red hair, that mudblood crowd?” He snapped his fingers as if the name had just sprung to mind.
Evan’s eyes widened, a spark of recognition in their depths. “Wait a minute… Lily Evans? James Potter’s muddled lover? Engaged now, isn’t she? Potter’s besotted with her. Now that you mention it… Evans… Evans…” He trailed off, pondering. “They do both have the same last name.”
Rabastan sighed, the inevitable revelation hanging in the air. “Yes, they do have the same last name it’s because they are sisters.”
The room fell silent. So silent, in fact, that the faint, almost imperceptible sound of something metallic clattering onto the stone floor could be heard. It was Evan’s silver quill, which he had apparently been absentmindedly twirling between his fingers.
Evan’s jaw hung slightly ajar. “I’m sorry. Wait a minute. Wait a bloody minute. Lily Evans’ sister? Petunia Evans? The one she’s been calling a horse-faced girl and ugly duckling?”
Eamon, ever the opportunist, snatched the small silver telescope from his pocket and extended it, aiming it towards the garden below. He focused on Petunia, his breath hitching slightly as the image sharpened. “What do you mean ‘ugly’? Look at her! Just look at her. She is far more… appealing than that mudblood that used to follow you around like a lost puppy, Rabi, trying to get your attention.” He lowered the telescope, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Though, you know, she did have a certain… fire in her eyes. But Petunia…” He shook his head, clearly at a loss for words.
Evan snatched the telescope from Eamon, practically shoving him aside. He peered through it, his initial shock morphing into something akin to awe. “No way. I refuse to believe that this… gorgeous, intelligent Muggle, the one who discovered arsenic in our homes and cured us with Muggle medicine, is related to that insufferable mudblood Evans’ sister!” He lowered the telescope, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is… this is insane.”
Rabastan sighed again, running a hand through his dark hair. “Yes, boys, I’m one hundred percent sure because she told me on our first morning together. Amidst the… polite pleasantries of our forced acquaintance.”
Evan burst into laughter, a loud, incredulous sound. “Oh, Rabi! A few months ago, when we encountered Lily Evans and her mudblood friends, you told her you would rather date her Muggle sister than her! You actually said that! And now look at the irony! She is your wife! All thanks to that spineless fool, Cornelius Fudge!” He slapped Rabastan on the back, his laughter echoing through the room. “Merlin’s beard, this is rich!”
Antonin, finally snapping out of his Hawaii-induced stupor, focused his gaze on Rabastan. “Wait, does Fudge even know that they are sisters?”
Rabastan shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. He merely wanted a Muggle to taint the Lestrange bloodline. A political stunt. But, as you can see,” he gestured vaguely towards the garden window, where Petunia was now laughing at something Narcissa had said, her face radiant, “our dear Minister inadvertently gave me a diamond instead of the dull stone he expected. And the discovery of the arsenic in our blood… that’s going to shake Dumbledore and the Ministry to their foundations. After we’re done with this tiresome blood feud with those blood traitors who tried to kill us, of course.”
Eamon, ever the pragmatist, tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What about her sister? Lily? I’m sure she saw her picture in the Daily Prophet on your wedding day. She must have seen her and recognized her.”
Rabastan shook his head. “No, she didn’t recognize her. Petunia had acromegaly before the wedding. St. Mungo’s revealed her diagnosis and treated her. And as you can see,” he gestured again to the garden, a hint of pride in his voice, “this is her true face.”
Evan let out another whoop of laughter, clutching his stomach. “Merlin’s beard, Marilyn’s beard! Imagine what her sister will feel when she finds out that you are now her brother-in-law! The irony! The glorious, delicious irony!”
Eamon was practically bouncing with excitement, his rumour-monger instincts fully engaged. “This is gold, Rabi! Pure gold! We have to be here when Lily Evans, the ‘heroine of the light’, finds out her sister is on the ‘dark side’! We have to see her face!” He rubbed his hands together with glee, already envisioning the dramatic confrontation. “This is going to be better than any Quidditch final! Better than any political scandal! This, Rabi, this is legendary!”
Antonin, however, brought a note of caution to the gleeful excitement. "But still… can she handle the massacre of those blood traitors? Would she even have the stomach for it? Or will both sisters end up fighting each other? Have you even thought about that, Rab?"
Then Evan, ever pragmatic, added, "Especially with your sweet, lovely sister-in-law, Bellatrix Lestrange, around. She’s going to make damn sure Petunia partakes in this blood feud whether she likes it or not.”
Rabastan finally turned away from the window, his gaze hardening, losing its frustrated edge and gaining a chilling resolve. He looked at his friends, his former comrades, and a flicker of genuine camaraderie warmed his cold eyes. "Yes, she will," he said, his voice low and steady. "However, I know full well that my wife is a strong woman. Be it Muggle or witch, you've all seen her at our wedding day. How she… handled Black and Potter." A dark satisfaction coloured his tone. "She'll be alright. And as for her sister… well, I could tell even from our brief encounter that they didn't have a particularly… close sibling relationship. Petunia won't think twice about hurting the Gryffindor princess."
Eamon was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes gleaming with malicious anticipation. “Oh, this is going to be scandalous! Just imagine, two sisters, fighting on opposite sides! Ah, it’s delicious!”
Rabastan, knowing full well about the Parkinson family’s particular talent for harboring and spreading rumors, slapped Eamon hard on the back of the head. “Ow! Rabi! Why did you do that for?” Eamon whined, rubbing the back of his neck.
Rabastan’s voice was low and sharp, dangerous. “Keep this information to yourself, you imbecile. If this gets out before we’re done with the blood feud, Dumbledore and his cronies will be banging on our door.”
Evan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please, Rab. You’re worried about Dumbledore? You should be more worried about Lily Evans finding out and barging in here to save her sister.”
Rabastan shrugged, a flicker of arrogance in his dark eyes. “And what’s she going to do about it? Barge into Malfoy Manor with all her Gryffindor bravery to save her sister? Please.” He grabbed Eamon by the collar, his grip tightening. “And remember, Eamon, not a peep about my wife. Are we clear?”
Eamon chuckled nervously, nodding rapidly. “Oh, don’t worry, Rabi. Your secret is safe with me… until that day comes when both sisters are at each other’s throats.”
Antonin clapped his hands together, a weary peacemaker. “Enough bickering, you lot. Let’s go see Lucius. I heard he got his hands on some excellent firewhiskey.”
Unseen, unheard by the trio, Severus Snape stood hidden in the shadows of the corridor, having overheard every word. His thin lips parted slightly, a soft gasp escaping. “Merlin’s beard… Petunia?” He couldn’t quite process it. The ruthless Madam Lestrange, whom he… respected, in his own twisted way, actually Petunia? His Tunney? The horse-faced girl from Cokeworth? But then, a slow, almost imperceptible smile spread across his face, a flicker of something akin to triumph in his dark eyes. “Well, then, Tunney,” he murmured, turning and melting back into the shadows. “You truly outshined Lily.” And with that, he walked away, leaving the Manor and its secrets behind him, for now.
Severus Snape slipped further into the cool shadows of the corridor, pressing himself against the ornate tapestry depicting the Malfoy lineage. He could still hear the muffled laughter and boisterous voices of Rabastan and his cronies retreating in the direction of Lucius’s study, undoubtedly drawn by the promise of firewhiskey. His own heart hammered against his ribs, a discordant rhythm against the Manor's opulent stillness. Petunia Evans, or rather, Petunia Lestrange. The name tasted like ash and something else… something unexpected, almost… intriguing.
He replayed the conversation in his mind, each snippet echoing with a different shade of disbelief. Lily’s sister. The girl with the horsey face and perpetual scowl, the girl Lily had always dismissed as dull and envious. He remembered Tuney from Cokeworth, a thin, sharp-elbowed shadow lurking at the edges of Lily’s radiant light. He remembered the bitter words, the resentful glances, the simmering jealousy that had always seemed to cling to Petunia like the smell of coal smoke.
And now… this Petunia, described as gorgeous, intelligent, curing wizards with Muggle medicine, and wife to Rabastan Lestrange. It was a ludicrous, impossible transformation. He pictured the Petunia of his youth, the one who had sneered at magic and whispered cruelties about Lily’s “freakishness,” and then tried to superimpose the image of the woman Rabastan had described – confident, sharp-witted, even capable of torture. The two images refused to coalesce smoothly; they were jarring, discordant, yet undeniably linked by the same surname, the same Evans blood.
A strange curl of… what was it? Satisfaction? Yes, a dark, prickly satisfaction began to unfurl in his chest. Lily, the golden girl, the Gryffindor princess, the one everyone fawned over and predicted greatness for. And Petunia, the forgotten, the overlooked, the one always relegated to the background noise of Lily’s life. Now, Petunia was married to a Lestrange, ensconced in Malfoy Manor, a part of the very circles that Lily and her insufferable Potter and Black despised. It was a perverse kind of justice, a twisted, ironic turn of fate that made his lips twitch into a reluctant, almost predatory smile.
He thought back to his own awkward encounters with Petunia in Cokeworth. She had always been wary of him, suspicious of his quiet intensity and his friendship with Lily. He remembered the way she’d look at him, a mixture of disdain and something akin to fear in her eyes. He had never truly seen her, not beyond her role as Lily’s resentful sister. He had been too consumed by his own obsession with Lily, too blinded by her brilliance, to notice the simmering potential, the sharp edges that now, in retrospect, seemed so obvious.
“Tuney, you truly outshined Lily.” The words resonated in his mind, a quiet, almost whispered vindication. It wasn't just about Petunia's looks, it was about her position, her power now. She was not merely outshining Lily in beauty, as Eamon had crudely stated. She had, in a way, surpassed her in influence, in danger, in a certain kind of dark glamour. Lily was a hero of the light, predictable, virtuous, lauded and protected. Petunia was… something else entirely. Something unexpected, something potentially far more dangerous and compelling.
He considered his options. Should he inform Dumbledore? The old man would undoubtedly see this as a grave threat, another piece in Voldemort’s lingering game. He would see Petunia as a vulnerability, a potential pawn for the Dark Lord to exploit through her connection to Lily. Dumbledore would likely want to “rescue” her, to extract her from the Lestranges’ clutches and bring her back to the “light.” The thought made Severus’s lip curl in distaste. Rescue Petunia? For what? To return her to the shadows of Lily’s life? To subject her to Dumbledore’s well-meaning but ultimately suffocating control?
No. He would do nothing. Not yet, at least. He would observe. He would watch Petunia, this unexpected Madame Lestrange, and see what she would do with this new, dangerous life she had been thrust into. He had spent years watching Lily, dissecting her every move, yearning for her attention, her affection. Perhaps it was time to turn his gaze towards the sister, the one he had so readily dismissed.
He straightened up, a new, unsettling curiosity stirring within him. He had been so wrong about so many things, most of all about Lily. Perhaps he had been equally, if not more, wrong about Petunia. He moved silently towards the grand staircase, his mind already turning over possibilities, scenarios, the delicious, dangerous potential that this revelation held. He needed to know more about this Petunia Lestrange, to understand the woman she had become. And perhaps, just perhaps, this unexpected twist of fate could be… useful. To him, to the Dark families, to… everyone involved.
As he descended the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the garden through the tall windows. The women were still there, bathed in the golden afternoon light. He could see Narcissa’s elegant silhouette, Yahra’s animated gestures, Claire’s quiet composure. And there, in the center, was Petunia. He couldn’t see her face clearly from this distance, but he could sense a different kind of presence about her, a subtle shift in bearing he hadn’t noticed before. She was no longer just a muggle wife forced into a wizarding world. She was a Lestrange now, and that name, that association, had already begun to reshape her, to imbue her with a power he was only beginning to comprehend. He would be watching, very closely. And for the first time in a long time, Severus Snape felt a flicker of genuine, albeit unsettling, anticipation. This was going to be… interesting.