Rabastan could not remember a time in his life when things had been simple. It seemed to him that the black and white view of the world his peers took when they were younger had never been something he had been allowed to believe in. His life had always been grey area, a series of weighing options for that of greatest gain at least risk to himself, or his family, or his reputation. He had long ago given up wishing for a simpler way of living, for whether or not he liked the fact his life was a series of calculations and bending of morals, that was reality, and it would be foolish to think it could ever be different. Hoping for more, hoping for an alternative, would simply set him up for disappointment. Apparently however Moira had not realized this, or perhaps had never had life teach her the lesson the hard way, or perhaps she simply clung to more hope than Rabastan ever had, and let said hope blind her sense of logic. He watched her sink down into the chair with a feeling of foreboding, knowing, instinctively, that her tears would lead them down a route where neither would be able to reach a satisfactory conclusion. It had happened before, and would happen again, all because his arm had met the Dark Lord's brand before he had met her.

"You have to stop. Please? For me? I can't watch you die…I can't do it."

She was wrong in her assumption he did not want to stop, however Rabastan doubted he could ever convince her of that. In the black and white world he surely had to want to continue in the Dark Lord's service in order not to leave it. However he was no longer nineteen, and what then had been distasteful was beginning to become disgusting. There had to be more pragmatic, more effective methods of achieving their goals than the torture of children, however apparently he was in the minority with such a view, Merlin his own brother and sister-in-law appeared to positively relish in the Dark Lord's methods and he knew they were not alone in enjoying the feel of blood upon their purer than thou hands.

"Stopping is a more certain means of ensuring my death, we both know that," He reached over and took her hand, unsure whether it was worth pursuing the argument when he knew he would never convince her it was genuinely in their best interests that he continued in service to the Dark Lord. Not that he was entirely sympathetic to her supposed plight, she had known what he was before they were married after all, could have ended their engagement as soon as she had seen the mark upon his arm. She hadn't, and though it may have been fueled by arrogance that seemed to be innate in him, he doubted she would leave him over the issue now. She had had her chance when it cause little scandal and little hardship for either of them, she hadn't taken it, "Leaving His service isn't an option, I wouldn't live out the week if I did, nor would you."

Of course it could be argued joining the ranks of the Death Eaters hadn't exactly been an option either. He was a Lestrange son, his father had shared a common room with the Dark Lord, had served him from his earliest days, and it was only to be expected that his two sons would do likewise. To refuse would mean disownment at best, but more than likely being put on a target list, a marked blood traitor, a hindrance to the cause. Hindrances were rarely allowed to remain such for very long.

"I'll just have to be more careful."

It hardly seemed like a particularly reassuring solution, how after all was one supposed to be careful when they did not know what they were supposed to be being careful about? However it was the best he could offer her, the only thing he could offer her, for he certainly could not give her what she wished for. All Rabastan could hope was that sooner rather than later they would win, and he could return to living for solely himself and his wife, without the added burden of spending his nights trying to change society for the supposed better.

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