Purposeful Visit - Anya

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.

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.

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.

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.