Rabastan did not believe in owing favours. They left him weak, in debt, and at the mercy of those with some sort of moral or financial leverage. Yet there he was, owing Yaxley ultimately for saving his life, though Rabastan preferred to dwell only on the eighty galleons. If he only owed the other man money then the deal was cut and dried, their business concluded as soon as said money changed hands, however if it was more than money, if it was a blood debt, then there was no end, no clear cut definition to hide behind, and ultimately, worse still, he would be obligated to save Louis Yaxley when quite clearly the world would be a much better place without such a specimen of the human condition. Yet the soft hand on his back was enough to remind him if he had had to choose again between Yaxley's help and taking his chances on his own he would have made the same choice again, for he was not stupid, nor suicidal, and sentimental though it was he did not like the idea of not feeling Moira's skin against his own ever again.

"Rabastan," He leant back against his propped up pillows as Moira moved her hand to his shoulder, "Why does this Louis Yaxley need … eighty galleons?"

He exhaled, slowly, as though he could somehow buy time for himself by expelling increasing amounts of air. After all, he could hardly answer the question truthfully, for it would lead to more questions, or, even worse, assumptions. Rabastan should have known that Moira would never simply go along with such a plan without knowing every how and why, however he never seemed to give up hoping that this time would be the time that she simply accepted things without questioning them. "He…" He what? Did him a favour? Saved his life? Forged Ministry documents and faked a crime? Broke into and entered a private office in the name of collusion and fraud? Yeah, they would all go down like a lead broom, each one faster than the one before, should Rabastan use any of those explanations.

"He ensured no one would ask unwanted questions."

His tone brokered no further questioning, however Rabastan was not foolish enough to assume that would be the end of the matter. Perhaps no one else would ask questions, however his wife was not just anyone, and she already knew far more than the Ministry ever would. He did not for a moment assume that Yaxley would not carry out what he had been instructed to, not because he was necessarily naive, however Rabastan firmly believed that the Dark Lord would not thank Yaxley for letting a fellow Death Eater get caught when he could have prevented it. That and eighty galleons was the sort of money that most definitely talked, particularly when you worked as a bartender in the wizarding world's shadiest establishment.

"There were some," His eyes slipped closed, his brow furrowed slightly as he thought how to phrase it, "Things which needed tied up at the Ministry, and I was in no fit state to go there myself."

Opening his eyes again Rabastan surveyed his wife, trying to ignore the less than impressed expression upon her face. With more effort than was surely good he placed his hand over hers, the pad of his thumb absently tracing across her knuckles. Once, long ago when he had first been married, Rabastan had assumed he could genuinely live a double life and keep Moira entirely out of his dealings with the Dark Lord, however as the years had progressed it had become increasingly clear that everything in his life was slowly starting to intertwine, and that no one strand could be separated from the murk and kept free of the others. His best intentions all amounted to nothing when Moira was summoned to St. Mungo's in the middle of the night or he asked her to pay strange men silly amounts of money, for there was no way he could continue to pretend she was not at all involved. She was, and it sickened him.

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