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Rabastan Lestrange had not spent nearly as much time in Azkaban as had been predicted by those who visited his trial. It had been proven, under the use of veritaserum, that he had become a Death Eater by choice, after all. He had not been forced, and the Wizengamot did acknowledge that. But they also acknowledged, that he had been imperioed during a lot of the crimes he had allegedly committed. That had also been proven under the use of the truth elixir.
During the trial Rabastan did not raise his eyes to the Wizengamot or even the spectators once.
Then the Wizengamot had given him a sentence of just five more years in prison.
No matter how calm he tried to be, he was visibly stunned at the news, his eyes widening and his mouth hanging slightly agape before he could gather his countenance.
The Wizengamot explained it away with him already having spent time in prison for crimes he had not committed. Of course, he would not complain about this, unlike several of the members of public who tried to get his sentence lengthened, in fact he would do almost anything to not go back to Azkaban. Even without the Dementors it was a dreadful place and he had spent large chunks of his life in there already. He did not need another stay there.
After five years Rabastan Lestrange got to leave the prison island. His hair had grown out, a beard adorned his face, and Rabastan was befallen with a sudden feeling of acute loss.
What was he supposed to do now, after all? Where would he work? Where would he sleep? How would he get enough money for food if he found no work?
He could not even begin to imagine someone would actually hire him.
The clearing of one of the guard’s throats made him straighten automatically. Right, first actually getting off the island, then he could sink back into his existential crises.
Rabastan was dropped off in a tiny flat, where the first thing he noticed was a pile of leaflets on the table next to the bed.
When the guards had finally left him alone, after throwing him a final dark look, he had sat down on the tiny bed that took up most of the space in the living room and grabbed the leaflets from the table.
A short letter from the “Rehabilitation Committee” from Azkaban, telling him that he’d had this flat for getting back on his feet for the next 12-weeks, maybe longer if he struggled to find employment.
His eyebrows climbed up on his forehead. When he read the next paragraph, that spoke about job opportunities for those recently having finished a prison sentence of any kind, he was quite stunned indeed.
Rabastan turned the page and there the offers were. It weren’t many options, but there at least were options at all.
After coming back into the wizarding world and having a start that was better than he had hoped, he soon realised not everyone was as forgiving as the leaflets in his flat had led him to believe. The only person who had not sent him out was Hermione sodding Granger.
He did not want to work with Granger. He really didn’t. He had once, long ago in the Ministry of Magic, even tried to kill her, and now every time he saw her – which was mostly by accident – he thought of how he had tried to murder her.
That was not the worst thing he had ever done of course, but the fact that she was so willing to forgive him for his attempt on her life – he had tried bringing it up, she had just shrugged it off – while being one of the few people who even tolerated, maybe even welcomed, his presence after the war, just did not sit right with him.
Of course, he had still ended up working at Granger’s bookshop.
On some days he really thought he could handle her. He was usually wrong when he thought that though.
Even after several months of working together he could still not quite meet her eyes.
“Rabastan?” She had asked one day, almost half a year after her willingness to work with a criminal in her shop, if it got said criminal back on track, and his acceptance that he did not have much of a choice in his workplace.
“Yes?” He did not turn in her direction though, but instead kept stacking boxes.
“Why do you hate me so?”
Rabastan stilled. Then he turned around.
“I don’t hate you,” he said very slowly, as though she might need longer to process his words.
“You can’t even look me in my eyes when you say that,” she huffed.
Slowly he raised his storm-grey eyes to her chocolate-brown ones.
“I don’t hate you. You should hate me.”
She sighed before answering. “I forgive you, Rabastan. I have long ago forgiven you.”
“You don’t even know whether I was cursed or actually wanted to kill you,” he argued.
“Indeed, I don’t know that. And I don’t care. You’re not that person anymore. I forgive you.” She smiled at him, a careful and slow smile.
“But, why?” He sounded genuinely confused.
Hermione’s eyes flickered away for a second, then back to him.
“I didn’t do it for you, if I am honest. I did it for myself. Why do I have to torture myself with the past that is long over and can’t be changed? Also”, she now looked quite shy “it would make this quite awkward.”
That was all the warning he got before Hermione closed the distance between them and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
Rabastan was frozen to the spotfor a second.
Hermione was almost out of the door by the time he opened his mouth to ask, “would you go to dinner with me?”
Now her smile almost widened to a grin.
“I thought you’d never ask, Rabastan. Yes.”