Call Me
I: Rodolphus
23rd December, two days before Bellatrix’s wedding
Malfoy Manor, Ravka
“Ow, fuck.” Rodolphus hissed once he, Narcissa and Rabastan left the room. Now no longer under the scrutiny of his father, his soon-to-be in-laws and, worst of all, the Dark Lord and his prized pet, Rodolphus clasped his hand tightly around the stub that was now his pinky finger.
Narcissa glanced over and frowned, clicking her tongue at the blood seeping between his fingers. “Come. The bathroom’s this way.”
Narcissa quickly turned down one of the lavish hallways, all of which looked the same to Rodolphus, and both Lestranges hurried to keep up. Next to him, Rabastan kept his eyes on his feet, gaze only straying when he periodically glanced at Rodolphus’ weeping hand. He picked at the sleeves of his new ebony kefta, fingers frantically searching for a loose thread he wouldn’t find. Rodolphus frowned but couldn’t provide any comfort from the haze of pain clouding his mind.
Narcissa threw open a door and waved them both inside. Rodolphus took the toilet seat and Narcissa crouched before him.
“Give me your hand.” She demanded. It took him a few moments before he was able to release himself from his own deadly grip. Narcissa held up her hands and slowly, the blood began to clot.
“Rabastan,” she said, glancing over at the younger Lestrange, who looked a little pale. “Get me the med kit from under the counter.”
Rabastan, despite his queasy demeanour, was quick to comply. Or, he tried to be quick, but as he reached for the kit, he fumbled with it and his eyes widened.
“Get it together, Lestrange,” Narcissa hissed. “You’re shaken, I get it. None of us want this but the Dark Lord is only a few walls away and if he knows how you’re reacting to this, you’ll be as good as dead.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Rabastan whispered. “I’m not shaking and I didn’t do that purposefully. Something’s wrong.”
“What? What is it?” Rodolphus asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Everything feels backwards. I don’t understand.” Rabastan stared down at his hands, looking as though he didn’t recognize them.
The sight sparked a protective surge in Rodolphus. He wanted to burst down the door to the hall where he knew the Dark Lord was hosting this…event. The Unbreakable Vow, it was called. Where his newest soldiers became official Death Eaters, the - frankly, quite stupid - name of the Dark Lord’s army, the title for those who wished to eradicate all otkazat’sya and believed your status in society was determined by your Grisha rank- the Grisha Hierarchy, which went as follows; Shadow and Sun(if they still existed. But even if they did, Roldolphus believed they’re be the Dark Lord’s number one priority) Summoners, Heartrenders, the rest of the Summoners in no particular order, Durasts, Healers, Alkemi and, finally, Tailors.
During the Unbreakable Vow, each Death Eater was given a black kefta, the design and colour of the embroidery altered to fit whichever rank you were, a mask you could personalize anyway you wished and a tattoo- the Dark Mark. Inked into every Death Eater’s left forearm was a snake with the head of a skull.
The ceremony was brutal. It always was and would always be. The ink was no ordinary ink, contaminated in a way that Roldolphus thought everyone had learned from. The Dark Lord had used merzost to make regular, innocent ink dangerous and unpredictable. And he did it in a way where he would be unaffected.
Everyone knew how merzost worked. It did not give without taking something in return, changing things indefinitely. When the Dark Lord casted his spell, it took nothing because he himself would not be using it. Instead, those who were given the tattoo suffered. Hence Rodolphus’ missing finger and the sudden streaks of black in Narcissa’s stark hair.
The Dark Mark had several other uses, aside it being an easy way to distinguish friend from foe. For one, no amount of Healing would fade the ink. It would forever stain your skin. Secondly, if one were to touch the Mark with the intent to summon, the Dark Lord would appear and everyone who bore the Mark would feel when and where.
As Narcissa said, the Dark Lord and his ideals didn’t appeal to either Lestrange brother but they didn’t have much choice. Their father had already joined, as had the Blacks, whom they were about to marry into. Or, well, Bellatrix was marrying into the Lestranges but same difference. And where Reinhard went, Rodolphus and Rabastan were expected to follow.
Rodolphus and Rabastan weren’t new to putting on a show. You didn’t grow up as they had, as the Blacks had, as the Malfoys had, without learning how to school your expression, how to appeal to those with more power than you, how not to make yourself a target.
But, despite this, Rodolphus was Rabastan’s older brother. He knew things. He saw things. He could read Rabastan like an open book, even if he was flashing a charming smile and laughing along with those advocating for slavery and mass genocide. He saw the way Rabastan had never held a drink longer than necessary for fear of it shaking. He saw the little glimpses of hesitation. He could practically smell the fear that had seeped from Rabastan as he held his sleeve high.
Rabastan was, rightfully, absolutely terrified and there was nothing Rodolphus could do about it, even with the cause only a few rooms down the hall.
“Don’t touch anything more,” Narcissa said, grabbing the kit. She flicked it open, searching for the medical tape and gauze strips. “Not until we can figure out what happened to you.”
Rabastan obeyed, watching intently as Narcissa loosely bandaged Roldolphus’ hand, careful not to cut off the circulation. When she was done, she turned his hand over, fingers tracing over his radial pulse point. Soon, Roldolphus felt the pulsing pain dim to something almost ignorable and he smiled. “Thanks.”
She hummed in response, then glanced at Rabastan. “Do you have a pen on you?”
He brightened and produced one from his pocket.
“Good. What about a piece of paper?”
Rabastan made a face. “I don’t carry that around with me, no.”
Rodolphus dug through his own pocket and set a crumpled up piece of napkin on the countertop. “Bellatrix gave me this earlier.”
Rabastan leaned over and read the rough, torn lettering sketched to its surface. “Oh that’s very…graphic.”
Narcissa snorted. “That’s Bellatrix for you.”
Rabastan dragged the napkin towards himself. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Write.”
“But what though?”
“Anything, it doesn’t matter.”
Rabastan gripped the pen awkwardly and scrunched up his nose is discontent. “This feels wrong.”
“I thought it might,” she said. “Switch hands.”
Rabastan looked at her in suspicion. “Why? I’m right handed.”
“You might not be anymore.”
Rabastan’s face dropped and pressed the pen into his left hand. Swallowing thickly, Rabastan leaned over the counter and wrote his name. Devastation flickered through his eyes before he swapped hands again, like he had to double check that he was, in fact, now left handed. His shoulders drooped, a small, wounded sound escaping his lips.
“Bas, let me see.” Rodolphus said and Rabastan complied, pushing the napkin across the counter.
Rodolphus barely needed a moment to peer at it before he was looking back up at Rabastan with sad eyes. It was obvious, painfully so. Both sets of lettering were janky but the one written by Rabastan’s left hand was actually legible while the other resembled the handwriting of a three-year-old.
“I’m going to have to relearn everything.” Rabastan said and his voice cracked halfway through.
Narcissa stood up and Rodolphus gritted his teeth as the pain surged back. Narcissa gripped Rabastan’s shoulders and forced him to look at her. “Look, Lestrange. Yes, it sucks and it’ll be an annoying pain in the ass but what if the Dark Lord sees you like this? He’ll think you’re weak, which is nearly as bad as being the enemy. He will punish you for it. Do not let him see. You have, at most, twenty minutes before you head home. You can do twenty minutes. You have to.”
Rodolphus stood, draping an arm over his brother’s shoulders and pulling him in. “And I’ll be there.”
Rabastan nodded, letting out a weighted breath. “Twenty minutes. I can do twenty minutes.”
Hours later, once he was back home and the pain in this thumb had dulled a bit, Rodolphus heard a knock on his bedroom door.
He got up from his desk, where he had been working on a Fjerdan assignment set for him by Slughorn to complete over the brake. He swung the door open to reveal Rabastan, hands wrapped around himself and eyes dangerously watery.
Rodolphus’ eyes widened in alarm. “Bas? What’s wrong?”
Rabastan blinked and a tear spilled over a dripped down his cheek. He sniffled and tried to brush it away but once the dam had opened, the waterfalls were unable to be stopped. Rodolphus quickly dragged him inside and shut the door.
“Talk to me, Bas.”
“I don’t want to do this, Phus.”
The reply was quiet, nearly drowned in the sob Rabastan let out. Rodolphus made a fussing noise, dragging him into a hug and feeling Rabastan’s shoulders shake with the force of his cries.
One of Rodolphus’ hands dipped into Rabastan’s hair, pulling through the curls while he whispered soft assurances into his ear. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’ll be okay, Bas. We’ll be okay. We always are, yeah?”
“I don’t think we will be this time, Phus,” Rabastan managed between sniffles. His eyelashes were coated with teardrops as he blinked up at him. “Something about this time is different.”
Deep down, Rodolphus knew Rabastan was right. The Dark Lord wouldn’t be conquered as easily as their previous problems, especially considering he was willing to dabble in merzost to get shit done.
Everything was backwards, flipped upside down. He was following a madman, he’d be married to a woman he hated in two days time, he was missing a pinkie finger, his brother was left handed and both of them had merzost infecting their skin.
No, this time was not like anything else at all.
II: Sirius
24th December, one day until Bellatrix’s wedding
12 Grimmauld Place, Ravka
Things were weird within the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, which is truly saying something.
It’s no surprise that the air would be tense, with the wedding being tomorrow. It was set for noon in the 12 Grimmauld Place courtyard while the reception would be held inside. Aunt Druella had practically moved in, micromanaging every single detail she could think of, fighting with Reinhard every step of the way, and disrupting Sirius’ sleep when she blasted what she called ‘calming songs’ well into the night. Sirius watched his mother slowly descended to lower and lower levels of anger until he thought she was going to kick her sister-in-law out. Uncle Cygnus barely gave two shits about what the wedding looked like as long as Bellatrix became a Lestrange by the end of it and Orion kept stealing from the alcohol stash purchased for the occasion. Bellatrix, Narcissa and the Lestrange brothers have been over nearly as much as their parents, which made things slightly more bearable. Narcissa and Rabastan almost always disappeared to find Regulus the moment they showed up but sometimes, Rabastan hung around while Rodolphus was put through fitting after fitting, laughing along with Sirius at the misery Rodolphus never bothered to hide. Bellatrix had her own dressings that Sirius couldn’t(not that he wanted to) sit in on but her outraged shrieks could be heard through the walls.
All that being said, this was not what had Sirius on edge. After all screaming ceased and the caterers, the bakers, the dressmakers, the seamstresses and everyone else that had been hired left, Grimmauld Place fell deathly silent, though that wasn’t out of the ordinary either.
What was abnormal, though, were the people who slipped inside after the sun had gone to sleep. What was abnormal was the hushed conversations that happened in the dim light of the kitchen, conversations Sirius heard murmurs of but never anything more with Kearcher patrolling the halls. What was abnormal was the massive fucking scar across Walburga’s face and Orion’s excessive drinking.
It was driving Sirius mad. No matter how much he thought, how much he snooped, he couldn’t figure out a single fucking thing. The most reliable theory he’d thought up was that his parents were in a secret dance group that was too ashamed to meet in broad daylight. And even he knew it was absolute bullshit.
Much as it had these past few days, Sirius' brain ran circles trying to slot the pieces of the puzzel together as he walked the halls of Grimmauld Place, planning to head for the field not too far from the courtyard.
"Why would he come Druella?" Walburga demanded in a hushed whisper. "He has much better things to do than sit around at a wedding ceremony."
"I'm just saying, it might not be the worst idea to send him an invite, as a precaution," Aunt Druella hissed back. "What if he gets offended?"
"Why would he be offended if he misses the wedding?"
"You know Bellatrix is one of his favourites."
"Oh, yes, please do brag about your daughter's special treatment. We'd all love to hear it. Again."
"You're just jealous you don't have a son who can compete with her, Walburga."
"It's at times like these that make me despise the fact my family stopped sending Ebony possible tamers. If I had been her soul's equal, I would've bathed you in flames years ago."
"Let's be honest, that dragon would've torn you apart before you could even offer kinship, just as she had with everyone else the Blacks sent."
"Not everyone."
"Yes, yes, the great Alya Black was the only known person to ever calm Ebony's anger, we know. You never fail to bring it up some way or another."
"Druella-"
The kitchen fell silent as Sirius stepped in. Walburga, who'd been angrily leaned over the counter to scowl in Aunt Druella's face, snapped into perfect posture, glancing over at the doorway. The glare was almost instantaneous and Sirius had to fight a smile. Aunt Druella sat in one of the island barstools, Uncle Cygnus in the one next to her. Orion was leaned against the entryway to the dining room, using the wall for support. Dangled between the fingers of one hand was, unsurprisingly, a bottle of kvas and in the other, he lazily twirled his favourite dagger.
"Sirius," Walburga snapped. "You should know better then to sneak up on people, especially in the presence of company."
Sirius tilted his head, feining confusion. "I was under the impression that I needed to be silent unless told otherwise, less I 'annoy people with my grating voice.'"
Walburga grit her teeth and Sirius saw movement in the corner of his eye. He took a generous step backwards as his father's dagger came sailing through the air he had been previously been occupying, burying itself deep into the wall.
"Loose the attitude." Orion grumbled, voice slightly echoed as he spoke into his bottle before filling his cheeks so full it took multiple swallows to drain the alcohol.
Sirius knew he couldn't care less. All he wanted was an excuse to play with his favourite toy and Sirius just so happened to be the perfect target.
"Get out." Walburga said sharply.
"Gladly." Sirius stepped around his mother, feeling the eyes of his parents, aunt and uncle trailing him as he threw open the back door and left the house.
The temperature dropped, sending skittering shivers snaking up his arms under his sleeves. He blew out a breath, watching it cloud in front of him, and began to walk.
Sirius didn't have a plan. He didn't know how long he planned to stay out here, how far he was going to walk, whether or not he was going to do anything other than walking. He just- walked. Taking the stoned path until in faded into frosted grass. Surprisingly, it hadn't snowed yet, aside from flurries that evaporated the second they hit the ground. Sirius hoped the first heavy snowfall of the season happened during the wedding. He could imagine it, Bellatrix in her overextravagant gown weighed down precipitation, her hair drooping as it grew wet. He let out a snort.
"What's so funny?"
Sirius whipped around, mouth dropping open. He blinked rapidly, trying to tell if his mind was deceiving him. Was it possible to miss a person enough to hallucinate them? But no, his eyes saw only truths. Here, in Ravka, stood James Potter in all his glory, wrapped in a furred coat and his ever present compass dangling around his neck. His glasses fogged with every breath and his heartbeat was still that slightly concerning, sporadic pace.
Before James could even smile, Sirius was sprinting to cross the last bit of distance between them and launching himself at him. They were both slammed to the ground with the force of it but neither man was worried about the bruises that were sure to form later. They were a mess of limbs, legs wound around torsos and arms gripping whatever they could reach. James laughed, pressing his face into Sirius' hair and sniffing. Any other time and Sirius might've made fun of him for it but he was just as bad, tucking his face in James' neck to overwhelm himself in the scent of eucalyptus.
"You're here, you're here," Sirius said, pulling back just enough to grasp James' shoulders and stare at him, taking in every detail of his face. "I see Captaincy hasn't changed you."
James grinned. "Nope. Still the same old me. Being Captain isn't too much different from being a crewmate, turns out. I still do jobs, I still take night shifts, I still eat the same rations at the same time as everyone else. Only now I'm the one assigning jobs, too. And, I guess charting our course would be different but I was already doing that before I became Captain."
Sirius hummed. "Is Moony helping you out lots?"
James snorted. "Still obsessed with Moony, eh? You haven't changed much either, at least on the inside. The outside...you're more confident in yourself and your hair is longer."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You've seen me for all of a minute and have already analyzed me?"
"It's what I do best."
Sirius shrugged. "Fair enough. How's life been treating you since our last letters?"
"More of the same," James said with a sigh. "Molly had her birthday, though. She's nineteen now."
Sirius gave a longing groan, rolling dramatically out of James' embraced and clutching his heart. "Oh, to be nineteen. I'd run away. My family can't stop me then, can they?" James shook his head. "Great. I'd go far, far away. Away from this Saintsforsaken, awful house."
"One more year, Sirius. One more year and you'll be eighteen and you'll be free."
"Nah. I'd stay another year and a half. Can't leave Reggie all by himself, can I?" Sirius sighed sadly. "I can't wait for him. I will."
James opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then shook his head.
"What?" Sirius asked with a raised eyebrow.
"It's nothing, forget it."
"Clearly it's not nothing if you thought it worthy to say in the first place. Spill, James."
"No, it's fine. It was something stupid-"
"James."
"You'd leave if you had to, right?" James blurted and Sirius blinked. "Like, if you had no other choice?"
"Well, yeah, of course. As much as I'd hate it, I'm not ready to die just yet. Not sure where I'd go, though."
"With me!" James exclaimed, punching Sirius in the shoulder. "Y'know, like we'd always dreamed about?"
"How am I supposed to contact you though? Sure, you can get places fast with the Golden Snitch but I can't really send you an emergency message by post when you're out in Novyi Zem or some shit."
A mischievous spark glinted in James' eye.
Sirius sat up, a thrum of anticipation pulsating with every beat of his heart. "What is it?"
James copied his position before dipping a hand into his pocket to produce something wrapped in rustic cloth. "I may have bought something."
Sirius reached out, hands hesitating as they hovered just over the package. "Can I?"
James quickly nodded and Sirius pulled the small bundle into his lap. He carefully unwound the fabric and soon, two pocket-size mirrors sat in his cupped palms.
Sirius gave James a bland look. "Really? Mirrors? How is this supposed to help? Sending light signals across the world?"
James shook his head with an amused chuckle, taking one of the mirrors for himself. "Watch."
Sirius did as instructed, watching unconvinced as James brought the mirror close to his lips and whispered, "Sirius."
Instantly, the mirror in Sirius' hands began to cloud, filling the reflective glass with grey smoke before it slowly dissipated and James' face was looking back at him instead of his own.
Sirius nearly dropped the mirror in surprise. "What the fuck?"
Ear-shattering ringing echoed throughout the field as a thousand Sirius' repeated those words over and over and over again. Sirius plugged his ears. James cringed before giving his mirror a slight shake and just like that, it returned to a regular mirror and the ringing abruptly cut out.
"What are these?" Sirius asked. "And where the fuck did you find them?"
James grinned. "They're two-way mirrors. Say the other's name into one and it kind of becomes like a live photograph. They're an old myth - or believed to be myth - like Rowena's diadem and Salazar's beast. I bought them off a thief I know who always has quality products, even if he got them through less than legal means."
"This is so fucking cool." Sirius whispered in awe.
"They'll work no matter how much distance is between the users. We won't have to use letters anymore. You just say my name and boom! There I am! And, you can use it to call me if you ever feel like there's a genuine threat on your life. No matter where I am, I will get to you as fast as I can, okay?"
Sirius met James' eyes, which lacked their usual humor. They were firm, determined and most of all, caring.
"Okay."
III: Albus
The Grand Palace, Os Alta
"We can't find any trace of him, moi tsar. I have half a dozen search parties sent out in every direction but Dearborn has just- vanished."
The General stood at the base of the dais, hands clasped firmly behind her back and eyes alight with rage. Not at Dearborn, no. Caradoc Dearborn has been one of Ravka's most loyal soldiers since he was pulled from his home, he'd never brand himself a deserter. He has no where - or no one - to run to, aside from his mothers' home but that was the first place Minerva checked. That, and the very clear evidence of a scuffle in the mote-like ditch around Os Alta, along with the smashed lantern. No, Caradoc Dearborn had been kidnapped during his nightly patrol. No one can find out who, to where and why.
King Albus Dumbledore leaned back on his throne, tapping a gentle rhythm into it's golden armrests. "Unfortunate, truly. I was rather fond of him."
"What do you suggest we do, moi tsar? More search parties? Question the inhabitants near the attack site?"
"No, no, none of that Minerva. If people are going to target our soldiers, it'd be unwise to send out such small groups."
"Then what?"
Albus thought for a moment. "Mr. Dearborn was our only Tailor, which will prove to be quite the hindrance to the Corporalki school curriculum but his place in the army as a soldier will be dealt with as any other would be."
"You wish to simply replace him?"
"Exactly. You understand, Minerva. We can't be showing favoritism to certain soldiers now, can we?"
"But moi tsar, he was our only Tailor-"
"There will be others. There always has been, there always will be."
"Then who do you suggest we have fill Dearborn's position?"
Again, Albus thought for a moment. It was a rather loaded question indeed. He had his suspicions on what happened to Caradoc. A Tailor, the only Tailor of the Second Army, disappearing suddenly, only months after rumors of a second Darkling came to be? A rather odd person to abduct, unless you were planning to use him as nothing more than a servant to bend to your every will.
And, Albus was not blind. He knew which of his Second Army would stay true to him until their dying breath - such as Horace Slughorn, Rubeus Hagrid and Minerva - and which would toss him aside for nothing more than a piece of stale bread. The question was not who to replace Caradoc with, but which of those families in that latter category can he effect the most?
It wasn't a hard choice. Not at all.
"Antonin Dolohov." Albus replied.
Minerva tilted her head. "And who to fill in his patrol along the Fjerdan border? It's far too much land for Narcissa Black to handle herself."
Albus smiled. "Black...you've mentioned that name quite a bit in these past years. Something about a Heartrendering prodigy?"
Minerva's mouth dropped open slightly. "Regulus Black?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"But- moi tsar, he's only fifteen. The regulation age for soldiers to be put in the field is twenty-two."
"And we made an exception for Narcissa, did we not?"
"Yes, we did, but Narcissa was two years under the limit. Regulus is seven."
"And prodigies, don't they excel in the world at far greater speeds than what's considered average?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"Then it's settled. You will cease the search parties searching for Mr. Dearborn and switch Mr. Dolohov from his current position to fill in Mr. Dearborn's patrol while Mr. Black takes over."
Minerva opened her mouth to object.
"That's an order, General."
Minerva gritted her teeth. "Yes, moi tsar."