Chapter 17: Chapter 17
The silence in Rabastan’s sleek kitchen stretched, thick as the carbonara sauce now coating perfectly al dente spaghetti. Cassie stared into her wine glass, the deep red reflecting the city lights beyond the windows like shards of fallen night. The rich, savoury aroma of pancetta and parmesan couldn't quite mask the phantom scent of ozone and rage clinging to her skin, nor the deep, persistent ache Tom’s possession had left behind.
Rabastan slid a heaped plate towards her. "Eat, sweetheart," he ordered, his voice devoid of its usual mocking lilt. "Bella swears it cures existential dread. Or a hangover. Same difference, really." He grabbed his own plate, leaning back against the counter, forking a large bite.
Cassie picked up her fork, the weight unfamiliar. The first taste was startlingly good – creamy, salty, sharp with pepper. It grounded her, pulling her back into the absurd normalcy of Rabastan LeStrange cooking pasta after rescuing her from Tom Riddle’s desk. A choked laugh escaped her. "Didn't peg you for a domestic god, Rab."
He shrugged, chewing. "Nonna LeStrange’s ghost would haunt me if I disgraced the family recipe. Besides," he added, swirling the wine in his glass, "what else was there to do? Duel for dominance? Recite Dark Arts theory? Tedious." He gestured vaguely towards the living area with his fork. "We were raised to be ornaments. Useless, pretty things in gilded cages. Exhibit A: Rodolphus. Perfect posture, perfect manners, perfectly hollow." His eyes, dark and surprisingly sharp, met hers. "You know the drill. Pureblood heir boot camp. Dancing lessons before we could walk properly. Etiquette tutors drilling ‘noblesse oblige’ into our skulls whilst the family accounts bled dry and the portraits sneered."
Cassie pushed spaghetti around her plate. "Sirius tried to burn down the gilded cage. Ended up just rattling the bars a lot. Left me rattling in the wreckage." She took a savage bite. "At least he let me breathe. Let me get dirty. Even if ‘dirty’ sometimes meant surviving on takeaway and dodging Ministry snitches."
Rabastan snorted. "Sirius Black. The rebel without a cause except pissing off Walburga. Classic." He refilled her wine glass without asking. "My cage was velvet-lined, but the lock was just as strong. Roddy bought into it all. The blood purity crap. The sacred twenty-eight bollocks. Marrying Bella? That was the ultimate family triumph." He mimed a toast with his fork. "The perfect alliance. Two magnificent, vicious birds in one gilded aviary. Shame they mostly just peck each other’s eyes out." He took a long drink. "You ever feel it? The weight of it? Like the whole fucking bloodline is perched on your shoulders, whispering about disappointment?"
"Every damn day," Cassie whispered, the wine loosening something tight in her chest. "Like the Black madness is a stain I can’t scrub off. Like it’s just… waiting. Sirius saw it in me. Tried to laugh it off. ‘Spunk, Cassie, just spunk!’" She mimicked his rough bark. "But sometimes… sometimes it feels like more. Like a curse simmering under the skin. A hunger." She met his gaze, unflinching. "You?"
Rabastan’s playful mask slipped completely. For a moment, he looked startlingly young, haunted. He stared into his wine. "Roddy channels it into righteous fury. Bella… well, Bella embraced it like a lover." He looked up, his eyes shadowed. "Me? I just… burn. Burn it all down. Cause chaos. Feel something other than the suffocating weight of being a fucking LeStrange." He gestured vaguely towards the Ministry. "Why d’you think I follow him? Riddle doesn’t give a shit about blood purity unless it’s useful. He offers… fire. Direction for the burn. A way to shatter the cage completely." He drained his glass. "Stupid, maybe."
"Desperate," Cassie corrected softly. She pushed her half-finished plate away. The shared confession hung heavy in the lemon-scented air. The city lights outside seemed colder now.
Rabastan pushed off the counter. He didn’t speak. He just closed the distance in two strides. His hands, usually rough or mocking, were unexpectedly gentle as they cupped her face. His thumbs brushed away tears she hadn’t even realized were falling. The stark vulnerability in his eyes mirrored her own.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, the word rough, unfamiliar. Not a tease. An anchor.
He kissed her. Not like Tom’s violent claiming, nor like Lucius’s calculated possession. It was startlingly soft. A tentative brush of lips, tasting of wine and regret and shared, fucked-up history. A question, not a demand.
Cassie froze for a heartbeat. Then, a dam broke. The exhaustion, the fury, the bone-deep loneliness of walking her treacherous path – it surged up, choking her. A ragged sob tore from her throat. She didn’t pull away. She leaned into him, her hands fisting in the soft cotton of his rolled-up sleeves, clinging like driftwood in a storm. The tears came harder, hot and silent, soaking into his shirt.
Rabastan didn’t flinch. He simply held her. One arm wrapped firmly around her waist, anchoring her trembling body against his. The other hand cradled the back of her head, fingers tangling gently in her hair. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, his breath warm on her scalp. He didn’t shush her. Didn’t offer empty platitudes. He just held her, solid and silent, as she shattered against him. The only sounds were her muffled sobs and the faint hum of the city far below, indifferent to the wreckage of two damaged souls finding a moment of unexpected, desperate shelter in each other’s chaos. The untouched carbonara cooled on the counter, forgotten. The weight of their cursed blood felt, for this fractured moment, shared. Lighter.
The tears dried, leaving salty tracks on Cassie’s cheeks and Rabastan’s shirt. His hand remained at the nape of her neck, solid, real. The overwhelming pressure in her chest had cracked open, leaving something raw and frighteningly open in its wake. She traced the line of his jaw with trembling fingers.
"Rab," she whispered, her voice scraped thin.
"Yeah," he murmured back, his breath warm against her temple. His other hand slid down her spine, pulling her impossibly closer against the hard planes of his body.
What followed wasn't gentle seduction, not some tender exploration. It was a collision. A desperate seeking of warmth, of proof they were still breathing, still capable of feeling something besides the crushing weight of their names and the shadows clinging to them. Clothes became inconvenient barriers, discarded with frantic urgency on the cool marble floor beside the forgotten pasta. Skin met skin, sweat-slick and urgent. There was nothing polished or pureblood-perfect about it. Just hunger. Heat. A shared, ragged gasp as he lifted her onto the counter's edge, cold marble shocking against her back. His mouth found hers again, demanding, consuming, swallowing her sharp cry as their bodies finally aligned.
It wasn't pretty. It was teeth and nails and the desperate scrape of need. A frantic dance fuelled by shared desperation, the lingering ozone tang of Tom replaced by the salt-sweat smell of each other. He moved in her with a fierce, grounding rhythm that chased away the ghostly fingers of memory. She arched against him, meeting each thrust, nails scoring down his shoulders, anchoring herself in the visceral, messy reality of now. Sounds were bitten-off gasps, low groans vibrating against skin, the slick slide of their bodies. It was oblivion. It was sanctuary found in the storm’s violent eye. A claiming, yes, but mutual. Necessary. They shattered together, a cry tearing from her throat that held no fear, only pure, unadulterated release, followed by his own guttural sound against her collarbone. The silence afterwards was thick, punctuated only by their ragged breathing, the frantic pounding of their hearts slowly settling into a heavy, exhausted thud against each other. He stayed buried deep inside her for long moments, forehead pressed to hers, the connection a grounding wire against the chaos.
Later, tangled in the rumpled sheets of Rabastan’s ridiculously large bed (Egyptian cotton, naturally), Cassie watched dawn bleed grey light around the heavy curtains. The frantic energy had burned out, replaced by a strange, hollow calm. Rabastan slept beside her, sprawled on his stomach, one arm possessively draped over her waist. The lines of tension usually etched around his eyes were smoothed in sleep, making him look younger. Vulnerable. She carefully disentangled herself, the cool air hitting her sweat-damp skin. Padding naked to the sleek, modern desk in the corner, she found parchment, ink, a simple eagle-feather quill. The silence was profound. She dipped the quill.
Sirius, she wrote, the ink flowing dark.
I’m gone. Don’t look for me. Tell Kreacher… tell him I won the bet about his mother’s gravy boat. Stay safe. Try not to get arrested before lunch.
Avoid Azkaban. For me.
C.
The next parchment felt heavier.
Lucius,
Consider this fond farewell. Your taste was impeccable, your ambition… predictable. Look after Narcissa. Truly. Live well. Just not with me.
Don’t waste curses looking. You won’t find.
C.
The final piece of parchment crackled with latent energy even untouched. She hesitated, the quill poised. Then she wrote, her script sharper, darker.
Tom,
I know what you see when you look out. The rot. The weakness. I saw it too. But burning it all down… what grows in the ashes?
Is it worth it? Is the world you crave truly better? Or just… yours?
Be the wizard you could have been. Not the monster you are. Be smarter. Be kinder. Be a god they worship, not flee.
Don’t burn it all. Please.
C.
She didn’t sign it fully. He’d know. She folded each letter precisely, sealing Sirius’s with a casual tap of her finger, Lucius’s with a faint shimmer of restrained magic, Tom’s with a complex, warding knot of ink that pulsed once, darkly, then subsided. Leaving them stacked neatly on the polished desk surface felt like leaving pieces of her old skin behind.
Rabastan stirred as she slid back into bed, his arm automatically pulling her back against the heat of his body. "Done?" His voice was sleep-rough.
"Yeah," she breathed, fitting herself against his chest. "Done."
"Good." He kissed the top of her head. "Get dressed. Five minutes." He was already moving, all business, the brief vulnerability of sleep vanished. He threw clothes at her – simple black trousers, a soft grey jumper that smelled faintly of cedar and him. He moved with efficient, focused speed, stuffing essentials into two nondescript leather rucksacks: wands, a handful of galleons, folded Muggle currency, a few vials of potions clinking softly. No robes. No trappings of the world they were leaving.
He pulled a small, worn leather pouch from a hidden drawer. Inside lay a chipped, slightly lopsided ceramic espresso cup. "Portkey," he stated, holding it out. "Activates when we both touch it. Destination’s set." His eyes met hers, dark and serious, utterly devoid of their usual mocking glint. "Last chance to change your mind, Black."
Cassie looked at the chipped cup, then back at his face, the flat where Tom’s fingers had bruised her hip throbbing faintly. She picked up her rucksack, slinging it over one shoulder. "Ready."
Her fingers brushed the cold ceramic. His covered hers a second later. A familiar, sickening hook yanked hard behind her navel. The opulent London apartment dissolved in a blur of colour and sound, swirling wind pulling at their clothes. The scent of old parchment, ozone, and carbonara vanished, replaced abruptly by the overwhelming, sun-warmed assault of citrus blossoms, rich earth, and the salty tang of the sea. The hook released. They stumbled slightly on uneven, sun-baked cobblestones. Cassie blinked against the sudden, brilliant Mediterranean light. White-washed buildings tumbled down a hillside towards impossibly blue water. The air vibrated with the buzz of insects and distant, unintelligible chatter. Rabastan steadied her, his grip firm on her elbow. He took a deep breath, squinting against the glare. "Right then," he said, the ghost of his old smirk touching his lips. "Welcome to nowhere important. Let's find a cafe. I need an espresso. A real one." He slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her forward into the sun-drenched, unfamiliar street. Away. Towards silence. Towards the unknown. Towards somewhere else.
The espresso cup sat between them on the rickety iron table, chipped rim catching the relentless Greek sun. Rabastan tapped it absently with a finger, the ceramic clicking softly against the metal. Eleven years of Mediterranean salt air had bleached his hair almost white at the temples, etched fine lines beside his eyes from squinting against the glare, not from scheming. Cassie watched him, her own face softer now, less sharp angles, more sun-warmed planes, though her eyes still held that watchful, assessing glint. The twins’ laughter echoed from the pebbled beach below the cliffside taverna, mingling with the rhythmic shush of the Aegean.
"Still works," Rabastan murmured, not looking up from the cup. His voice was rougher than it used to be, weathered like driftwood. He slid it towards her across the sticky tabletop. "Proof against time, apparently. Unlike decent plumbing." He gestured vaguely towards the taverna’s single, dubious bathroom.
Cassie snorted, tracing the familiar chip with her thumb. It felt warm, alive almost. "Only thing Kreacher packed properly. Besides your ego." She pushed it back. "Put it away. Theo needs new scales for Potions, remember? And Lyra insists on that ridiculous moving-star chart." She stood, brushing crumbs from her linen trousers. "Diagon Alley awaits. Brace yourself."
Rabastan pocketed the cup, its familiar weight a small anchor. "Braced," he grunted, standing. He shaded his eyes, spotting the twins scrambling over sun-bleached rocks below. "Oi! Dragons! Time to brave civilisation!" His shout was effortlessly loud, cutting through the sea breeze. Two dark-haired heads snapped up, identical grins splitting faces already flushed with sun and sea spray. They scrambled towards the steep path, arguing good-naturedly about who saw the bigger octopus.
The hook behind the navel was just as sickening eleven years on. The sudden swap of blinding sun and salt air for the humid, cloying press of Diagon Alley’s late-August crowds hit Cassie like a physical blow. Noise assaulted them – hawkers shouting, owls hooting, the clatter of carts, the high-pitched chatter of excited children. The twins, Theo and Lyra, instantly clutched Rabastan’s hands, wide eyes taking in the chaotic spectacle they only visited once a year. Lyra wrinkled her nose. "It smells weird, Dad. Like burnt sugar and… old socks?"
"Accurate," Rabastan muttered, scanning the throng with the wary vigilance of a man perpetually expecting trouble, even after years of quiet. He steered them towards Flourish and Blotts, a solid wall of bodies parting reluctantly. Cassie followed, her senses prickling, the familiar scents of parchment, ink, and magical ozone triggering a cascade of buried memories – polished marble corridors, the sharp bite of Tom’s anger, the cloying scent of Lucius’s cologne. She kept her gaze forward, focused on the twins’ dark heads bobbing ahead.
"Merlin’s saggy left— Cassie?"
The voice, rough-edged and achingly familiar, cut through the din. Cassie froze. Beside her, Rabastan went utterly still, his grip tightening on the twins’ hands. Slowly, she turned.
Sirius Black stood frozen a few feet away, a stack of books teetering precariously in his arms. He looked older, harder. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, etched by years she hadn’t witnessed. His hair was shorter, greyer, but the stormy grey eyes were the same, wide with disbelief, then a dawning, crushing pain that fractured his features. He looked… broken. Like a vital piece had been violently wrenched out long ago and never replaced. The books slipped from his numb fingers, thudding onto the cobbles unnoticed. "Cass?" His voice was a cracked whisper.
Before she could react, another figure materialised beside Sirius, drawn by the commotion. Lucius Malfoy. Impeccable as ever in charcoal grey robes, his pale hair sleek beneath the hazy sun filtering through the Alley’s crooked buildings. His hand rested possessively on the shoulder of a slender, poised boy of about ten – Draco, unmistakably, with his mother’s cool blonde hair and his father’s sharp chin. Narcissa stood just behind them, her expression one of startled recognition swiftly masked by glacial composure. But Lucius… Lucius didn’t mask anything. His eyes, locked onto Cassie, widened fractionally. Then a spasm crossed his face – raw, unguarded agony. It was visceral, a physical flinch as if struck. His knuckles whitened on Draco’s shoulder, making the boy glance up in confusion. Lucius’s gaze flickered to Rabastan, standing protectively beside Cassie, then down to the twins clinging to Rabastan’s hands. The colour drained completely from his aristocratic face, leaving it bloodless marble. His heart, meticulously armoured for over a decade, visibly hurt in that single, exposed moment.
The twins, sensing the sudden, charged silence, peered around Rabastan. Theo tugged his hand. "Dad? Who are they?"
The word ‘Dad’, clear and casual in Theo’s young voice, seemed to echo in the sudden pocket of stillness. Sirius flinched as if physically struck again. Lucius closed his eyes briefly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
Then the crowd parted again, not from pushing, but from an instinctive yielding. A ripple of deference spread through the Alley. Tom Riddle, Minister of Magic, moved through the throng with the effortless authority of a shark gliding through water. His entourage hovered discreetly behind. He was surveying the scene with detached interest until his gaze landed on the frozen tableau near Flourish and Blotts. His eyes, dark and fathomless, swept over Sirius’s shattered expression, Lucius’s rigid, pale-faced agony, Narcissa’s icy poise. Then they settled on Cassie.
Time didn’t slow. It stopped.
Tom Riddle saw her. Truly saw her. Not the defiant witch he’d cornered against his desk eleven years ago, not a pawn, not a symbol of defiance. He saw the woman standing in the dusty sunlight of Diagon Alley, her hand resting lightly on Rabastan LeStrange’s arm, her gaze steady despite the shock vibrating in the air. He saw the subtle lines time had drawn, the quiet strength in her posture, the fierce protectiveness radiating towards the dark-haired children beside her. He saw the life she’d built. Without him. Away from him.
And in that suspended, crystalline moment, Tom Riddle understood something with devastating, irrevocable clarity. Years of ruthless ambition, the consolidation of absolute power, the intricate web of control he’d woven – it all shrivelled into meaningless noise. The realisation hit him with the force of a Bludger to the chest: he was in love with her. He had been, perhaps for longer than he dared admit, buried under layers of obsession and possession. He loved Cassiopeia Black. The understanding was terrifyingly pure, stripped bare of politics or power plays. It was just her. The sharp wit, the defiant spirit, the fierce loyalty… her.
It took him years. Eleven long, brutal years clawing his way to the pinnacle. And now, seeing her anchored in a life utterly separate from his, seeing the twins who called Rabastan ‘Dad’, Tom knew. It might be too late. The cold certainty of that potential loss, sharper than any Dark curse, pierced the invulnerable shell he’d spent a lifetime forging. His expression didn’t change – the Minister’s mask remained impeccably in place – but his dark eyes, fixed solely on Cassie, held a sudden, terrifying depth of raw, unguarded feeling. A silent, desperate plea flickered in their depths, visible only to her across the crowded space. The ozone scent of his magic spiked faintly in the air around him.