Kingdom of Salvation

There was a point that you could reach when nothing seemed it could ever get any worse.

There were a few things that could be done once reaching that point. You could put yourself out of your misery, though that seemed a mite melodramatic. You could try to turn things around, but that had a big chance of making you into even more of a failure. Or you could just decide to go with the flow and embrace the chaotic mess that had somehow become your life.

Rabastan Lestrange decided that the last option was the one that he wanted to pursue.

He had had a long time to wax poetic about his life and muse on his personal philosophy, and he had decided that he really wasn't interested in doing either of those things. Thinking about his life only depressed him, and philosophy was just wasn't his strong suit. Give him a Muggle to torture or a house to destroy and he was happy as a duck in the rain, but trying to pinpoint the things he only knew by instinct and naming them just didn't strike his fancy as a fun way to spend his incarceration.

He had scratched a lot of dirty doodles on the walls of his cell. That is, when he wasn't sobbing and wailing and huddled in a pathetic, small blob of shamed wizard in the far corner of the cell.

He just hadn't had the breaks in life that his brother Rodolphus had. Rodolphus had ended up married to one of the gorgeous Black sisters. The one who was most involved in the Death Eaters and who knew how to inflict the most pain on people, even. He had tried asking her out, many years before, but she had only had eyes for Rodolphus.

When he was feeling kind to himself, he told himself that it was because Rodolphus was the elder brother and therefore she stood to profit more from a marriage to him than from a marriage to Rabastan. When he wasn't feeling kind to himself, he could admit that Bellatrix was well out of his league and that he had been a fool for trying. Either way, the outcome was the same. He was alone and his brother was not.

It was a damn good thing that Rodolphus had been locked away too or else his bitterness might have been too great to ignore.

Things had been going steadily downhill for him since the Dark Lord's fall years ago. He'd been arrested, he'd gone to Azkaban, he'd been released only to play second fiddle to the supposedly bigger and badder Death Eaters and a Gryffindor had somehow wormed his way into the Dark Lord's innermost circle. Rabastan was no fool, no matter what anyone said. He knew that there just weren't that many opportunities for advancement in the Death Eater squad, and that he was not in the running for anything.

So he looked around, watched what was happening and began to wonder something for the very first time.

Why had he been one of the lucky few to escape from Azkaban?

At the time he had assumed that all the Death Eaters who were still sane had been liberated, but he had come to realize that there were a good number of men still entombed in those cold stone walls. He thought maybe that his brother was the reason he had been included, but Rodolphus had been treating him differently since they had reunited. Maybe the years had been harsher on Rodolphus, or maybe Rabastan was just the stronger brother. Azkaban hadn't damaged him that badly, after all.

Except for those terrible spider-like memories that were always creeping in the back of his mind, leaving a delicate web of fear permanently lacing his mind. Except for the formless nightmares that woke him, shivering and sweating, during the night. Except for the absence of joy in any of his waking hours. Except for the dread.

But at least he wasn't a walking bundle of nerves like his brother.

However, his brother wasn't the one at the teetering edge of a moral breakdown. Rodolphus was just as cruel and uncaring as he had ever been. Bellatrix, Rabastan wasn't so sure about, but she was a better actor than he was. But his brother actually still believed. He believed with his heart and what was left of his soul, and for that Rabastan was envious.

There was no going back to his innocence, and he had no desire to. He could not change what he had done, and what had happened to him. But the future- the future was changeable. And there were times when he thought that he might want to change.

Then the thoughts of what failure would entail would slide to the forefront of his mind, and he decided that what he did really didn't bother him that much. He would remain as he was, and he wouldn't risk trying to change. It wasn't worth it.

"Rabastan!"

He looked up, startled. The shout echoed off the stone walls that always reminded him too much of his imprisonment, and rang in his ears. Rodolphus stood in the doorway, grinning like a fool.

"What?" Rabastan said, his crankiness evident in his tone. He had barely slept the night before due to lingering terrible dreams of Azkaban, and now he was trying to finish the final draft of the letter they were sending to the families of the current prisoners. For some unknown reason, the Dark Lord didn't like to reuse threatening notes. He unfortunately also didn't like writing threatening notes, so that job fell to whoever didn't look busy with torturing and brutalizing the captives.

"It's your turn," Rodolphus said.

"I forfeit my turn. Let your wife have another go," Rabastan replied. Torture just wasn't very fun anymore. Screams no longer excited him, they gave him a headache. Blood made his stomach curdle and the smell of fear was now just shit and vomit released from shameful bodies.

"You haven't been participating much at all lately," Rodolphus said, "and I'm not the only one to have noticed."

"So?" Rabastan said. "More fun for the rest of you." Amazingly enough, he held back the sarcasm that wanted to taint the words.

"You haven't been the same since we escaped from Azkaban," Rodolphus said, giving him a peculiar look. "You're not the brother I remember, Rabastan. He loved life. You simply exist."

Rabastan resisted the urge to glare sullenly at the parchment on the table before him. He was not an insolent child, and he was not a rebellious teenager being reprimanded. He was a grown man, and it was his business if he was miserable or not.

"No," was all he said.

"Either your heart is in this or you're out. And you know the only way out," Rodolphus said.

"My heart's in it," Rabastan lied with all his heart. "It was just rough, and I'm trying to get used to things again."

Rodolphus nodded. "The Dark Lord has been lenient on you. Your weakness hasn't caused his ire yet, but his leniency will not last forever."

Rabastan thought that the Dark Lord probably didn't even remember who he was, other than another cloaked face at the meetings. He then thought about how he never would have thought such a cynical thing about his supposed Lord and master fifteen years ago. God, he'd been young.

Rodolphus said, "Come on. Bella's waiting."

Rabastan stood, hoping that he didn't look reluctant. When had he become such a pansy? He was supposed to be in his element, but instead he was second guessing and dreading every action that lead him further along the path of darkness. And now he was to go further into the dark hallways and tunnels that formed the lair of the beast, and do unspeakable things to innocents. He wasn't supposed to care, damn it. He'd sold his soul and now he wanted to revel in all the wickedness the world had to offer, but instead he kept feeling the twinges of guilt and reluctance.

It just wasn't right.

He did it anyway. He followed his brother. He had always followed his brother into folly and mischief. He thought that he always would. When they'd been kids, Rodolphus had been responsible for more of his punishments than he really cared to remember. He'd been younger, and would end up getting the blame shoved onto him so that Rodolphus could save his own skin, but he had never really mastered the skill of framing his brother for their mischief as well.

Then, when they'd been students at Hogwarts, Rabastan had somehow ended up as part of his brother's gang of Slytherins. The Lestranges hadn't been the most important or affluent members of the group, but they hadn't been the whipping boys either.

They hadn't become the whipping boys until they had joined up with the Death Eaters. The Death Eaters had seemed like an exclusive political club, only open to those of pureblood, power and influence, intelligence and wit.

Rabastan's illusions had all been shattered that very first night.

The Death Eaters were of pure enough blood that was for sure. Nothing else had lived up to his expectations. Some of the other members were dumb as rocks. Even he, who was admittedly not the sharpest tack in the box, was annoyed by them. But the violence and the glory had influenced and won him over, and he soon became so wrapped up in the world that he didn't even acknowledge that this wasn't what he had signed up for anymore.

Then, as the first blood soaked and sex filled weeks of his initiation passed, he began to realize that his family's rank in the wizarding society did not secure him a high rank in the Death Eater's ranks. He had fallen from the pampered aristocrat to the whipping boy, but was lavished with enough gifts of flesh and mind that he didn't really mind.

He hated that he minded now.

Had the years in Azkaban caused his new attitude changes? Had the slow decay of all the happiness and enjoyment of things caused the hollowness and apathy he now felt? Maybe he would never regain his personality, or his ability to enjoy life. He had done terrible things over his time as a Death Eater. He had enjoyed them.

Like blood running down an anonymous Muggle's face in lieu of tears as he hexed her.

Like the look on poor Regulus Black's face as the green flash of the Killing Curse hit him.

Like the tears on Frank Longbottom's face as his screams turned to pleas and finally jibberish.

Like the fear naked on Alice Longbottom's face as she glanced over at her crying son.

Those had been some of the most mind-blowing highs he had experienced. He had gotten off on the screams, cherished the artful way that a corpse fell after its life was extinguished with a few short syllables, and had been in love with the look of fear.

He almost stopped short as Alice Longbottom's image hovered in his mind, her fear fading away and leaving only a small, pitying smile in its place. She shook her head, and picked up the crying baby. She kissed its head, and the baby stopped crying.

She had made its anguish better. She had kissed it and made it better.

She could do the same for him.

She could absolve him. If he was forgiven, then just maybe this damnable guilt would fade away and he could return to some semblance of a life.

"Rabastan!" Bellatrix's voice was shrill and impatient.

"What's wrong with you?" His brother seemed concerned.

"I'm fine," he said slowly. There was a naked girl chained to the wall. Her pale flesh was not marred by blood, only red welts. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't look fine," Bellatrix said. "Maybe you should go back upstairs." There was a leather strap in her hands. Her lips were the crimson of blood welling out of a fresh wound. Her eyelids looked like bruises.

"I haven't been sleeping well," he said.

"None of us have," Rodolphus said. "It stays with you."

"It does," Rabastan agreed. He looked at the girl, and felt no pity for her. He was going to free himself from his hell. Let her find her own way into the light. He turned and left the room.

Several hours later, he found himself staring at a sign that read "Spell Damage." He had walked straight into St. Mungo's, and no one had screamed, "Azkaban escapee!"

He entered the corridor, and began to peer into the various. He couldn't tell where Alice was. He began to simply enter wards at random. He finally got lucky as he unlocked the Janus Thickey ward and saw a familiar face at the end of the ward.

She still looked the same. Hell had come and gone for him, but her round face was as pleasant as always. Her eyes were different, though. Both more innocent than he remembered, and utterly destroyed. He had helped do that.

"Alice?" He didn't know if she would take kindly to his presumption of calling her by her first name. He hoped she didn't mind.

She turned her head towards him slowly, and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

"I'm Rabastan Lestrange. Do you remember me?" She didn't say a word. "We knew of each other back at Hogwarts. I was there that last night. Do you remember anything about that?"

She still didn't speak. He wondered if she even had the ability to anymore, but then shook his doubt away. If he could stand upright and talk after spending fourteen years under the constant glare of Dementors, then she could talk after spending a few hours being subjected to the Cruciatus Curse.

"I just wanted to tell you... say to you, that I'm sorry." He was proud that his voice didn't crack. "I was there that night, and I helped torture you. I laughed while you feared for your life, and thought your fear for your son's safety was pathetic. I helped break you. I'm sorry."

The words felt so hollow as they echoed through the sterile white room. The homey touches around the beds weren't enough to disguise the room for anything but a hospital, and the crisp white sheets covering Alice looked more clinical than inviting.

The entire time he had been serving his prison sentence, she had lain in this bed. While he stared at the terrible dank walls of his cell, she had stared at the cold, impersonal white walls of her ward. They both slept on beds not their own. They both were covered their shivering bodies with blankets bought in bulk for discount rates. They ate gruel and didn't hope for any better. Their minds had both undergone trauma and anguish. He had escaped. She was still here.

"I don't really know what else to say," he said.

A blond man was screaming about autographs and fans. He didn't look familiar. The man in the nearest bed looked familiar, and he realized he was looking into the slack, empty face of Frank Longbottom. He didn't apologize to him.

Alice was still sitting on her bed, looking serene. His confession hadn't breached the walls of madness that had been fortified around her mind. He wanted to scream at her, and shake her shoulders and force her to respond. He sank to the floor, and leaned against the wall. Everything was so glaringly clean. He wasn't used to the white clinical glare. Where were his grey stone walls?

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Alice looked down at him. She looked confused.

"I'm disgusting," he continued. "God, the things I did. The things I loved doing. You weren't the worst."

She reached into her robe pocket.

"I deserve nothing. I don't deserve forgiveness," he said. He was crying now, and he hated the feeling of weakness it gave him. "Why couldn't things have been different? Why couldn't I have wanted things to be different then?"

She pulled a piece of Droobles Blowing Gun out of the pocket. She unwrapped it in slow, careful motions. She struggled not to rip the wrapper.

"I don't know what to do, Alice. I tried to ignore this, but I failed. I always fail." Rabastan's shoulders shook with sobs he tried to suppress. "You didn't fail, not before Bellatrix and my brother and that kid and I got there. You were strong and you didn't break for the longest time. You were the strong one, and I was the one holding the wand."

She stuck the bright pink glob of gum into her mouth, and chewed. She carefully smoothed the wrapper, erasing the creases.

"I don't deserve anything, Alice. I don't even deserve death."

Alice held out the wrapper to him. He held back. She shouldn't be giving him anything. She had worked so hard to make it perfect and straight. He couldn't take it from her.

"No, Alice. Keep it," he said.

She just looked at him with those huge sad eyes, and held out the gum wrapper. The blond man began to scream again, this time just long, horribly wavering notes that sounded like horror. There was nothing to be afraid of here. This was Alice's world.

Rabastan slowly reached up and took the gum wrapper. He stared at it, lying in his hand like garbage. Did she understand what she was doing? Did she understand forgiveness?

The screams were louder, now. A female voice joined the terrible cacophony, screaming something about Dementors and criminals and murderers. "Don't let them near the patients," she screamed.

He looked up, past Alice's bed and his savior, and saw the sweeping black cloak of his despair.

He was the criminal and murderer. He was the terrible person. He had been a fool to think no one would recognize him.

The Dementor swooped closer, and reached out to him. He did not recoil against the horrible grey hands. He struggled, trying to twist his head so that he could see Alice. Where was Alice? Why was his world reduced to just that inky black cloak and the face hidden within? He twisted and strained, but could not see anything around the Dementor's hood.

Why wasn't Alice there? Why was she so far away?

He finally stopped struggling and shut his eyes, squeezing them closed so tightly it hurt. His hand clenched around the gum wrapper, and he tried to remember Alice's sweet, empty face. It was already fading as he felt the Dementor's surprisingly gentle kiss.

It pulled at him, though. Then something inside snapped, and all he could feel for long, long seconds was pain and regret.

Where was Alice? Was this what she felt? Was this redemption?

Then he tried to open his eyes, and all there was in the world was darkness.