The Key - Meda

An answer or revelation did not immediately offer itself up from the parchment. This vexed him--mostly due to the lingering headache that seemed intent on staying with him for the foreseeable future. The mild, irritating pain had been his companion now for weeks. Time did not ease the annoyance of it. It made his temper shorter...and his patience falter, as well. He needed a dosing of Euphoria...but he would not be able to brew anymore. He had months of stock already--but he would need to teach another to prepare the potion as he liked it, which his and Bellatrix's special modifications. He required the extra punch his variety offered. It was what kept him sane.

The knock at his door prefaced the utterance of his name by a voice familiar now--his brother's wife. The Black that should have been his... Rabastan placed down his reading and fished out of a vial from his pocket. "Come in, Andromeda," he answered, before taking a small sip of the yellow elixir--just enough to take the edge off. He rarely over indulged these last few weeks. It was too much of a waste of his delightful potion to glutton oneself upon it when physically ill.

Rabastan was most curious what drew Andromeda to his wing of the castle. He kept to himself mostly and the rest seemed to do the same. A part of him believed that they wished him gone from the home, but would not say it. He would leave in time, whenever he took a wife--then he would go. But until then, it was good to be with Rodolphus. Especially dealing with this sickness...solidarity among the family was important.

He stoppered the vial and tucked it back into his robes, giving The Lady Lestrange his attention as she entered into his domain. This study was clearly a necromancer's lair--tools of his trade were lain about, the most ancient artifacts of his art grandly displayed on the walls. Tucked into one corner was a full potionology station--the cauldron cold and gathering dust. That space had always been well used while he had possessed magic. He was always brewing joy or death over there...Whatever his need was at the time.

Rabastan was changed by this mysterious illness. Though his body seemed to be moving towards healthy... he had no cough, no fever, but still no magic. Most noticeably absent aside from that was the late Black sister. Bellatrix had tormented him for years. Her voice ringing in his ear, drawing him into paralysis to commune with her. She did this no longer. He had let himself miss doses of the elixir that kept him grounded to reality and deliberately slipped into his paralyzed state a few times on purpose intentionally seeking her. She was not there. She had abandoned him now that he was no necromancer. He could not bring her back. He could not give her the pleasure of vicarious torture. He could do nothing for the late Black bwitch and she had abandoned him.

Another beauty of the Blacks was at his door now. The one that should have been his, but was like everything else in life and therefore instead his brother's. Was it lingering jealousy over their father's praise that brought such thoughts to Rabastan's mind? Perhaps...perhaps it was just the way a younger brother always looks at that which is held by their older sibling. A mind soured by hand-me-downs and countless comparisons made by others between the first and second son of a family.

Rabastan was loyal to Rodolphus, of course. He followed him as willingly as any of the marked now. But there was and had always been jealousy. It was never the elder's fault. Rodolphus had taken care of Rabastan as he could. He had taught him to control magic without a wand--to be a master of himself. Though the elder Lestrange had always been better at the last bit than Rabastan. Rab was far too emotional to truly reign over his own mind always. He had always felt more--been more curious--more experimental than his brother.

That was why he studied at Lufkin--why he delved so deeply into Psychology and Necromancy. He had a need to understand and unravel mysteries. He needed to occupy his hands and his mind. Much good that was doing him now. None of his learning or experimenting had prepared him for this sickness. He had no answers--and felt less equipped to answer the multitude of questions that swirled over and through him continually now. He wondered as Andromeda entered, if she had any more answers than he...

The witch posed him a friendly simple question and he frowned at engaging in small talk. Surely, she had not come here just to check on him. He had been more than capable of it for years--being quite the life of the party back in the day. But now, he wanted deeply communications. He wanted dark secrets unearthed, mysterious topics explored, and had little want to stay within the confines of what made for polite, safe conversation.

Still, Rabastan was not going to show Andromeda rudeness or aggression."My body is much improved. Part of me is still absent, but you know this, Andromeda. And you? Are you feeling well?" He gave a brief pause as he shifted to look at her more closely. Studying her, he continued: "Know I do have interest in your state of being, but I must say that I cannot imagine you sought me out to exchange pleasantries. What has brought you so far into my wing of the castle?" Rabastan was curious...and perhaps hopeful that the woman would have an insight that might spur off a conversation that could push them closer to the answer to this epidemic.

The shock of the sickness was still fresh. It had been only a few weeks since he had fallen ill--and since his magic had began to falter. It was gone now. A part of him was gone and he was like a war veteran fumbling with a phantom limb. Rabastan had not forgotten who he was. He had not forgotten the way he had always lived---a life heavily dependent on magic. He could barely even wrap his head around the concept of his magic being gone. He wavered from rage to confusion as he tried to process this new reality.

It helped to read. It helped to search for answers. But he did not have much faith in the idea that he was going to find them. His ability to have hope was not strong. Not when the headaches would come and destroy his focus. Not when the fever would spike and he would shiver despite the fire raging in the fireplace and the many blankets wrapped around him. He had never really dealt with much sickness. Even in Azkaban, he had not really been physically ill often. He had had his magic to protect him, to heal him--and he had learned to master that.

Now it was gone... And he ached for it. He knew he was not the only one feeling that loss. Andromeda confirmed as much when he asked after her well-being. Her words earned a sad, knowing smile from the Lestrange as he gave the slightest nod of his head. "Indeed, it is like a limb or sense lost." He had wondered if losing magic like this was like losing sight or hearing in an accident long after birth. It was surely just as trying to adjust to life without magic as it was for someone trying to make way their way without the ability to see.

The witch declared she had come to seek the expertise of a necromancer. Rabastan gestured to the seat nearest him and delivered a reply with a wry smile: "Well, I am still one of those. Sit. I'm happy to lend the knowledge of my mastery." And he was. He enjoyed sharing his knowledge more than he even realized. He had sought out an educated, well-read whore to take as his mistress instead of someone just eager and docile. He wanted to be surrounded by those with whom he could converse meaningfully. He had gone without that too long in Azkaban. He needed it. He needed it to get back the parts of him at prison had stolen.

The wizard listened to the suppositions that Andromeda laid out for him. It did feel much like an attack. The speed with which the virus spread, it's efficacy. It all felt too deliberate and efficient to be natural. Sure, the Black Plague was one of the most devastating pandemics in human history, but it was over years. This sickness had hit well over half the magical population of the United Kingdom and in less than a month. That wasn't natural.

"I wholly agree that it all seems very orchestrated. I had never gave much thought to the possibility that magic could die within you before your own death. But that seems to be exactly what has happened. It floundered and weakened, like a spark being extinguished." He had seen and experienced that himself--the way that in the early days of his sickness, his magical capabilities would flicker. They would wax and wane. It felt at times like his body was fighting to keep its abilities, but in the end, he had been defeated and a part of him was gone. "I've been searching through all of this," he gestured to the rolls of ancient scrolls and piles of tomes and parchment that occupied much of his desk. "For information on the stage of Death where the loss of magic occurs. There was a necromancer in the 14th century who was obsessed with the idea of Death coming in stages. But their experiments were rudimentary and savage--and the writings on it are in Old Slavonic, which annoys." He was fluent in Russian and Old Slavonic was it's predecessor. So, he was not unfamiliar with the language. He could read it. He could even speak it well enough, but the nuances were easily forgotten. It took great focus to read in the old tongue, what could have been quickly devoured if written in the new.